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

Fahima and Bushir froze in their tracks. It was too late for any of
them to backtrack now.
Three men came around the corner. They were heavyset black men in
African military uniforms.
Bolan could not identify their political origin in the instant that
eyeball recognition was made on both sides.
The three Africans toted AK-47s by slung shoulder straps. The troopers
had evidently been headed toward the room where the father and daughter had
been held. There was purpose in their marching stride.
When they saw Bolan and the others, the three of them registered
identical surprise. They fell away from each other and fought to sling their
weapons around in a race for survival. The movements provoked grunts, a
curse.
The pistol in Bolan's fist chugged a death cough. Hot millimeters of
parabellum lead lanced through space.
The soldier on Bolan's left caught a round that smashed his head
sharply backward against the wall, splashing the wall with bloody brains.
The dead cock slid down the wall into a heap, the AK spilling useless
alongside him.
Of the other two soldiers, the one directly before Bolan was the
immediate threat. The trooper's big hands guided his rifle into a smooth
underhand arc, pulling aim on Bolan.
The Browning had already spat. Twice this time. Two head shots. The
soldier never completed target acquisition. He was kicked instead into
Infinity in a backward halo of exploding head.
Bolan crouched and twisted, one movement, as he swung the kill piece
around and at the lone remaining soldier.
This last soldier had a firm grip on his AK. He too was bringing it
around with commendable speed toward Bolan.
The soldier's movement was halted by a whirling short-bladed knife that
whistled through the air to Bolan's right. It embedded itself to the hilt in
the soldier's throat.
The man gagged frantically, released the rifle, started to grab his
ravaged throat. Blood bubbled from the mouth. The knees buckled. The corpse
collapsed to the floor.
"Allah wa-akbar!" intoned old Bushir.
A ubiquitous Muslim phrase that Bolan recognized. God is great. Yeah.
Bolan understood that.
Fahima's father had pulled the military knife from the equipment belt
of the dead sentry who had been the first to die. Mack Bolan need not have
purchased his.
Bolan flashed an appreciative smile. The old man returned it.
The Executioner led the two Libyans along the hallway toward a doorway
leading outside.
The killing here had only just begun

10

The nightfighter palmed a fresh clip into the Browning. He unscrewed
the low-watt bulb near the door. The hallway bisected the stone building.