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

going to show them that men are never more in danger than when they believe
themselves secure.
And that they - or rather he, Mack Bolan - would never be more secure
than when in the very greatest danger.
That required some thought. Mack Bolan's kind of thinking.
"Be right back," grunted Bolan to Teckert. "Time for a pitstop."
Bolan ambled off toward a nearby ladder leading down from the parapet.
Teckert said nothing to stop him. He continued gazing out from behind
the Cartouche machine gun at the dark wasteland beyond the villa walls.
Bolan kept his easy pace until he had climbed the ladder to a point out
of Teckert's line of vision. Once he could not be seen, Bolan moved with
speed and economy of movement.
Even in the light-hued desert camo fatigues, Mack Bolan was a wraith in
the darkness as he descended to the base of the wall. He carried the
Browning and, on its strap over his shoulder, the Galil assault rifle.
This corner of the villa was removed from the hubbub in the courtyard.
Bolan found himself in mottled shadows. He melded with the lighter shades,
reversing the tactic he used with his skintight combat blacks. His movements
were of silence and cunning, pure stealth in the pale night.
He strode along the far end of the courtyard, toward what looked like
the main residence.
He turned right at a generator shack that was feeding power to
Jericho's villa.
It would have been a pleasure to plant some plastique in the generator
shed. But Mike Rideout was not in a position to be carrying that kind of
material.
Bolan moved on, angling toward the part-time residence of Leonard
Jericho.
Bolan figured the odds were as good as not that Eve was being held in
this villa outside Bishabia. Therefore an intel probe was required.
He cut into the shadows under a stone arch. He was near a side door to
the private residence. He could see a faint light glowing from a window
along the wall.
Bolan tried the door handle. The door was unlocked, as he had expected
it to be. Security around here came from guns, not locks. What could not be
contained by heavy guard deserved to be trapped into temptation.
Bolan slipped soundlessly into a darkened foyer.
His every sense was alert as if to sniff out a trap. The only light in
the hallway was a rectangle of illumination midway down the corridor, coming
from a half-open door that corresponded with the light Bolan had seen from
the outside.
He closed the door behind him, then unlimbered the Browning hi-power
from its hip holster. Bolan kept to the wall and moved toward the lighted
doorway.
When he was three feet from the doorway, he heard sounds.
A man, a Libyan outfitted in servant's attire, emerged from the room at
a leisurely pace. He was still munching the remnants of a sandwich.
The servant saw Bolan. His eyes and mouth widened in alarm.
Bolan stepped forward and chopped the guy hard with a downward snap of
the Browning's butt. The step and the chop were one and the same movement.