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

"We have never met him," said Fahima. "He is with an oil company. A Mr.
Conrad. An American. A solicitor in Benghazi. He also owns the villa."
"His real name is Jericho," grunted Bolan under his breath. "Has he
used this escape route often?"
"Once. Khaddafi's troops were in the area, searching for him." At the
word Khaddafi, the old man began prattling angrily. "My family was
dispossessed during the land reform," explained Fahima. "We are willing to
help Mr. Conrad against a common enemy."
"You must trust me," said Bolan. "I'm getting you and your father out
of this place. There's going to be killing here tonight. Do you know where
Kennedy has gone?"
"He is in the building above. They closed the inn two days ago. We can
hear them sometimes. I heard footsteps earlier tonight."
"Where in your inn would be a good place for a secret meeting?"
The girl thought for a moment. "One of two places. There is a dining
room away from the lobby, as you approach from the corridor outside. And
there is a private room on the floor above that."
"How many men does Kennedy have with him?"
"Only one, I believe. A guard on the door." She pointed at the door
opposite to where Bolan had entered. It was massive, most likely of imported
oak. Beyond it would be a route into the inn above.
"One last question," whispered Bolan. "Did Kennedy bring a woman with
him?"
Fahima shook her head. "No woman. No one. Only the one you call
Kennedy, and the man outside."
Bolan started toward the door.
"Let's go," he muttered to the man and his daughter. "Keep low. Do as I
say. When you see a chance, run for the nearest cover."
Fahima studied him with soulful, unblinking eyes.
"I understand," she said. She had a surprisingly gentle voice. "You are
a brave man for helping us."
The Executioner yanked the heavy door open with one hand, gripping his
Browning hi-power in the other.
The Bolan Effect had arrived.
Fahima Dohmi watched the big American as he prepared to dispatch to
oblivion the sentry in the corridor, who stood with his back to the doorway.
Fahima thought that she had never seen a man move with such grace and
determination as the big American. He radiated animal ferocity and strength
worthy of a son of the desert.
She had watched as he pulled the door recklessly open.
Now she saw the sentry spin around, reaching for a side arm.
She saw the American warrior grab the sentry around the throat with his
forearm before the guard could complete his turn.
A quick snap punch to the temple with a raised pistol and the man
slumped to the floor, his skull cracked. She saw blood dribble from one ear.
The big man led the way out of the room, stepping across the corpse
that blocked the doorway.
Like a son of the desert, she thought again.
Bolan heard movement from around a corner in the hallway. He motioned a
halt.