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

As he hurried down the hallway and approached the stairs leading up to
the main room, Bolan ran a quick review of what he had seen here so far.
Kennedy has ideas of his own. He's got a market for the cargo he's
supposed to be guarding. The buyers are here tonight. The computation lacked
one answer: Where is Eve?
Bolan heard raised voices as he approached the stairs to the main room.
He paused and listened.
Kennedy was shouting.
"You can't do this, goddammit! We had a deal, you black bastards!"
"Watch your tongue, Mr. Kennedy." A heavily accented African voice;
silky but with cold steel in it. "I do not know what is happening outside.
But I suggest we leave here at once."
"You're damn right we'll leave here," snarled Kennedy. "And I'm taking
my money with me." Then, over his shoulder, he called out: "Hymie - get in
here fast!"
Bolan figured Kennedy was calling to the merc who had been guarding
Fahima and Bushir. Bolan was about to respond when a door across the hallway
burst open and two more African soldiers leveled AK-47s at the Executioner.
Bolan fell to one knee, pumped off two fast rounds from the Galil but
not fast enough to stop one of the soldiers firing his own fast round.
But accurate enough to nail both black troopers with head hits that
sent them toppling back into the room in a deadfalling tangle.
Bolan mounted the steps two at a time. He entered the inn's main room,
Galil searching for targets.
There were four men in the dining room. A bodyguard, in the same
uniform as the men outside; two chunky blacks who looked uncomfortable in
their Italian suits. And Kennedy.
The gunfire from the corridor had interrupted their confrontation. All
four men spun their attention to the doorway Bolan had burst through.
The bodyguard was already pulling up his rifle.
Bolan took the bodyguard first.
The Galil bucked death as Bolan squeezed the trigger. The bodyguard was
tagged out with a rupturing throat hit that tossed him tumbling back to the
floor, taking a table and two chairs with him on the way down.
Someone blew out the candle on the table where the principals of the
meeting had been sitting. The room was pitched into darkness. There was a
scuffling of movement. Mad and fast.
Bolan sidestepped away from where he had stood, went into a deep
crouch. He heard a door opening on the other side of the large room.
He fired two rounds at where he determined the sound was. He heard a
groan of pain, desperate in the dark.
Bolan dodged again. A handgun opened up from the far corner of the
room. He heard the hiss of a bullet slice past him.
Bolan fired to the right of the pistol shot. He darted sideways himself
a microsecond after triggering the round. He was not rewarded with the sound
of a hit. Bolan's opponent knew how to handle a fire-fight in the dark, too.
Bolan's target was constantly moving. On the offensive.
Two heartbeats. The open doorway was now visible, a deep gray. And
empty. Another pistol shot slammed through the darkness. Another tongue of
dirty flame across the room.