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

Then Kennedy stooped and pressed the floorboard. The wall slid open.
The head merc stepped briskly into a secret passage. The sliding panel
closed shut behind him.
Now what was this?
Bolan straightened from his crouch. He tried the window. It was latched
shut.
He used his elbow to tap it with just enough strength to crack the
glass, not enough to shatter it. He pressed his fingertips along the crack
in the glass. It gave way and fell onto the sill inside, with nothing more
than a soft, dull thud.
Bolan reached in with his free hand and swiftly unlatched the window.
He pushed the window up, then swung his leg up and over the window ledge,
fanning the interior with his eyes and pistol.
It was not a trap.
The office was empty.
Bolan strode without hesitation toward the bare niche in the wall.
The Executioner was going after Kennedy, who would take him to Eve
Aguilar.
Before it was too late.

9

Bolan pressed the floorboard.
The wall panel slid open - powered by some soundless automatic
mechanism - exactly as it had for Kennedy.
Bolan's pistol was raised and ready for anything that might come out at
him. He moved into the opening. He was one and a half minutes behind
Kennedy. The panel slid back into place behind him.
He was enveloped in silence.
Low-watt light bulbs were evenly spaced down the angled ceiling of a
narrow stairway. At the bottom, the stairway fed into a corridor that
bisected the house from Bolan's left to right.
He eased down the stairs toward the shadows at its base. The air was
dead and cold. It penetrated his bones. He could hear nothing.
The man he was tracking seemed to be long gone. Seemed to be.
When he reached the second-from-the-bottom stair, Bolan paused again,
his pistol up. He stole a look around the corner of the stone wall.
He could see no beginning nor end to the tunnel that stretched away in
either direction.
More light bulbs had been installed here, but long distances apart so
that patches of stygian gloom gave the passageway an eerie, menacing
reality.
Bolan slid around the corner and kept low. He started off down the
tunnel to his right.
A cool but barely discernible draft brushed the hairs on his arms. It
originated from far up ahead.
He held the slung Galil assault rifle in close against his body to
prevent noise from the weapon bouncing against him.
The curved stone ceiling of the passage barely accommodated his 6'3"
height. After several hundred yards, the tunnel made a sharp incline. Deeper