"Дон Пендлтон. The Libya Connection ("Палач" #48) " - читать интересную книгу автора

Bolan made the scene even before the jeep had rolled to a stop. The
heavily guarded copter would be carrying whatever cargo it was that
Jericho's forces had lifted from the States. The other two Huey gun-ships
would guard the cargo when word came down to rendezvous at a trade-off point
with Jericho and Colonel Shahkhia.
The jeep stopped at the front of a flight of marble steps. The
opulent-looking steps led up to the entrance of the villa itself.
A man stood waiting, hands on hips, halfway up the wide steps. He was
dressed in lightweight fatigues. He had watched the jeep approach. When the
vehicle halted, the guy came down the rest of the way with an almost
arrogant stride.
This would be Kennedy. Blond-haired, boyish good looks did not fool
Bolan. The guy's eyes told the story: the eyes of a killer.
Kennedy carried a 9mm Browning hi-power in a cross-draw position at his
left hip. Like those mercs Bolan could see who were not toting Galils,
Kennedy also carried a Largo-Star submachine gun strapped over his shoulder.
Bolan knew the Largo as a Spanish copy of the German MP-40, or
"Schmeisser." The weapon, referred to by Konzaki back at Stony Man Farm as
the Z-45, is fully automatic with a cyclic rate of fire of 550 rounds per
minute and a muzzle velocity of some 1,500 fps. Hot stuff.
Kennedy looked at Doyle as Bolan climbed from the jeep.
"Was he wired?"
"Now, he was clean," reported the driver. "No tails. He's all yours."
"Check out the north wall with Bruner," Kennedy told the driver. "We'll
be getting word to pull out any minute now."
Doyle nodded, wheeled the jeep out of sight.
A sweating Kennedy eyeballed Bolan. Bolan eye-balled the honcho right
back. Even the long-term pain in his left shoulder from his last overseas
mission would not deflect Bolan from meeting iron with iron, which was the
way of his new terrorist wars.
"Where the hell you been, Rideout? We could been pulled out by now."
"Then I guess I'd have made ten grand the easy way," grunted Bolan in
response. "The airlines tied me up. Got here fast as I could."
"I don't like this crap, not knowing who's supposed to be working for
me," spat the head cock. "You could be any-damn-body. How do I know you're
Mike Rideout?"
"You don't," said Bolan. "So you call it."
Kennedy paused several heartbeats to decide. Few men who ever stood eye
to eye with Mack Bolan carried more than a confused and invariably false
impression of what the anti-terrorist avenger actually looked like. But
there was one detail that never escaped the living memory of a Bolan
encounter. And that was the coldly purposeful eyes of the combatman. The
Bolan gaze was actually composed of many diverse qualities and could switch
from cold death to warm compassion in a flick - or could contain both at one
moment. This was not one of those moments. Now it was all cold death. Bolan
had the guy psyched and when Kennedy's decision came, Bolan knew that "Mike
Rideout" was in.
"Get yourself to the armory in the garage over there," growled the
merc. "Arm yourself and suit up. Then go to the southeast corner of this
place. You'll find a guy named Teckert. Tell him I sent you as backup."