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

He knew the layout of the house from briefings and a tour of the floor
plans. Living quarters upstairs and on the side away from him, shrouded in
the mist; kitchen and dining room, conference rooms and library on the
ground floor front and back.
His destination was the second floor, a balcony supported by a
wrought-iron trellis. Broad French doors shielded a suite of executive
offices.
A command post and nerve center - one that Bolan had traveled more than
two thousand miles to penetrate.
He scanned the grounds around the house, seeking lookouts, finding
none. A last glance for caution's sake, then he made his move, breaking for
the house at a dead run and sliding into shadow against the southern wall.
Again he waited for alarms that never sounded, warning shouts that never
came.
He would have to scale the trellis. It would take his weight, and he
could not afford the noisy luxury of grappling hooks and climbing gear. He
did not intend to wake the sleeping house.
Bolan reached the trellis. The vines scratched his face and hands,
crackling beneath him as he climbed. If a sentry passed below him and heard
the sound of his ascent, he was finished. Dangling on the trellis like a
giant insect, there was little he could do to guard his flank.
Except to get the hell off there and be about his business.
Bolan gained the balcony and paused again, letting pulse and
respiration stabilize. Catlike, he approached the giant French doors, ears
straining to detect any sound of movement from within, any warning of an
ambush.
Nothing.
He was on the numbers now, every heartbeat ticking off the odds against
a safe and silent penetration. Every second wasted increased the danger of
discovery.
Crouching, he withdrew a tiny limpet bug from a pocket of his skinsuit.
No larger than a shirt button, the disk was backed with a powerful adhesive;
fingertip pressure secured it in a corner of the French doors, out of sight
unless the occupants were searching for it. The glass would act as an
amplifier for the microphone, and Bolan would possess a one-way source of
information from the inner sanctum of his target.
But there was more to accomplish yet.
Bending close, he examined the locking mechanism of the windows. No one
expected callers on the second floor, and it was all interior, but maybe...
He selected a flexible jimmy, pausing with the tool in hand, eyes and
fingers searching for the burglar alarm. There wasn't one, and he said a
silent prayer of thanks for the overconfidence of enemies.
Bolan had his jimmy probing for the lock when a door banged open
somewhere down below him. He froze, ears picking up the sound of scuffling
feet and angry voices.
One of the voices sounded female.
The warrior scrubbed his mission in an instant, moving to protect his
flank. As he reached the railing, an engine growled to life behind the
house, revving and drawing closer.
The Nitefinders picked out a pair of figures grappling in the fog