"Дон Пендлтон. Doomsday Disciples ("Палач" #49) " - читать интересную книгу автора

This was a handgun designed for one purpose only: to take down the
largest, toughest, most ferocious big game in the world.
And in Bolan's world view, the largest, toughest, most dangerous big
game was not wild animals.
Canvas pouches at his waist carried extra magazines for both handguns,
and the slit pockets of his tight-fitting blacksuit concealed the usual
strangling gear, stilettos, other tools of the trade. Hands and face were
blackened with combat cosmetics.
Satisfied, he had slipped on the TH70 Nitefinder goggles, moving the
rubber frames into place, adjusting the headband for comfort. Instantly the
darkness lifted, brightening into crimson-tinged twilight. Around him, the
rolling countryside became an eerie Martian landscape; the drifting fog
reminded him of blood flowing into murky water.
Bolan took the wall in one fluid motion, landing in a crouch. His every
sense was alert, probing the night, seeking evidence of enemy activity.
Despite the seeming absence of security precautions, he took nothing for
granted. He had not survived in his profession by taking chances.
There was something - a muffled sound, the suggestion of movement - at
the farthest edge of sight. Bolan froze, eyes narrowing behind the
Nitefinder lenses, scouring the darkness. His right hand fastened on the
holstered Brigadier, chosen now for silence.
The movement was repeated, accompanied by muted sound. Voices. He saw a
pair of human shapes drifting in and out of focus in the fog. Two sentries,
making their rounds together, were coming his way.
Bolan moved, trusting the fog and darkness as he left the roving
sentinels behind, and merged with a stand of trees. He waited there and
watched them pass by at twenty feet, close enough to take them both with the
Beretta. For Belle, too, was a magnificent piece, dead right for the right
occasion.
The warrior let them go.
His mission was a soft probe and penetration, strictly on the safe
side. Any premature exposure, any contact with the enemy could jeopardize
his mission - and his life.
The Executioner was seeking information, confirmation. The weapons he
carried were a form of life insurance. If his planning was successful, they
would not be needed.
The big man in black was optimistic, but he was also realistic. He knew
the kind of "accidents" that could occur, turning his soft probe deadly hard
within the space of a heartbeat. And he was ready. At least as ready as a
soldier living on the edge could ever be.
The sentries disappeared, and Bolan moved swiftly in the opposite
direction. His destination was the manor house, set well back from the
highway in the center of the grounds. Allowing for the fog and possibility
of other sentries, he marked a mental ETA at ten minutes, maximum. The
numbers were falling, and he had no time to waste.
Bolan made it in eight, approaching the house from its southern flank.
The house was a massive, rambling structure, vaguely Victorian in
style. Most of the lights were out, darkness and fog conspiring to impart a
haunted look. Bolan half expected swooping bats and howling wolves to make
the scene complete.