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

Bolan was rolling in a sideways fling, wide and wild to his left. He
heard bullets chunking into the dirt where he had been moments before.
He came out of the roll, sighted at the man to his left and squeezed
the trigger. The guy jackknifed with an ugly grunt and pitched to the
ground. Bolan had heard clearly the thwack-suck as the heavy round
splattered through living matter. That soldier was dead.
The remaining man of the group tossed a fast trio of parting shots and
started to turn.
Bolan heard a gasping noise to his right. He concentrated immediately
on taking out the soldier who was two paces from gaining cover at the corner
of the building.
The assault rifle thumped once, twice more. The target was twisted
around and slammed into the corner of the building he had been trying to
hide behind. His corpse slumped slowly to the ground. Bolan had heard those
hits, too. The guy was dead.
The night was responding with a hum of activity. The babble of awakened
villagers merged with something else.
Bolan heard two separate engines gunning to life. He heard voices
raised in alarm. He heard the sound of men mobilizing.
Bolan hurried to where Fahima knelt beside the body of her father.
Bushir had caught one high in the chest. The old man had not been quite
agile enough. He was sprawled onto his back with a gaping, pulpy hole above
his heart that still pumped blood. His legs extended straight, his arms were
flung out. He looked like a man crucified. He was dead.
Fahima was wringing her father's hand. She was in anguish, wailing in
Arabic.
Bolan stooped, placed an arm around the young woman, and gently yet
forcefully guided her to her feet.
"Fahima. Listen to me. You must run. Get away from here."
"My father!" she cried. Her features were twisted. "He's all I have...
They've killed him..."
He slapped her gently, but sharply.
She snapped to attention, hysteria forgotten.
"You can come back," he pressed. "But stay now and you'll be killed.
Get away from here, Fahima. It's me they want. I'll engage them. You go.
Now!"
He did not wait for her response. He turned and stalked back toward the
rear entrance of the inn. He held the Galil with a finger on the trigger,
his eyes constantly probing.
He heard soft words, carried on the night wind. Fahima's woman-child
voice:
"Thank you, American. May Allah protect you."
He sensed Fahima moving off along the stone wall of the building, away
from her father's body. Away from the killing ground.
Bolan regained the doorway that he and the others had just left. He
hustled swiftly into the hallway that cut through the building. The
Executioner hurried on soundless feet.
The merc terrorists over at Jericho's villa had undoubtedly heard the
sounds of weapon fire out here in the bleak nowhere.
How would they respond?