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

Kennedy jogged through the night, listening to the sounds of his own
labored breathing.
The village of Bishabia, and gunfire, receded to lower ground behind
him. He was moving in a zigzag course toward the walls of Leonard Jericho's
villa a quarter mile away. He planned a slip back in via his office window.
He would bluff his way out of this, whatever happened.
Kennedy's main concern was Mike Rideout. Or whatever the guy's real
name was. Kennedy had little doubt that "Rideout" would be hot on his trail,
and closing fast, at this very moment.
Kennedy paused when the ground suddenly angled downward. The village
lights and activity dipped out of sight behind him.
The merc swung around and crouched, listening. He was sure he could
hear very light footfalls gaining on him, rapidly approaching from the
direction of the village.
Kennedy estimated his pursuer to be about one hundred yards away. Time
enough to set a trap.
He unhitched the compact transceiver from his belt. The radio was
Kennedy's contact to Doyle and the other mercs in the villa. Kennedy knew
Doyle would be going berserk trying to raise him on the radio the minute
they heard the uproar from the village and couldn't find Kennedy. There
would be plenty of squawking over the transceiver right now.
Kennedy ran to a nearby ridge in the rock-and-sand terrain. He placed
the transceiver in a shallow surface gully. He flicked a tiny switch,
activating the unit. It started crackling.
Kennedy ran back to his previous position. He bellied out prone. He
swung the Largo-Star machine gun around by its leather strap into firing
posture. Less than fifteen seconds had elapsed since he first paused and
listened for the sounds of Rideout's approach.
He would be waiting when the desert starlight silhouetted Rideout's
approaching form.
"Boss! What the hell's going on? Do you read me? Are you in the
village?" The sounds from the transceiver crackled clearly in the night.
"Come in, goddammit!"
Enough time had passed, thought Kennedy. Where the hell is he?
"Right behind you." A cool voice answered his thoughts. "Drop your gun.
Turn over slowly."
Kennedy swung around onto his back, the Largo-Star blazing.
Mack Bolan had not expected a man like Kennedy to be taken alive. Bolan
tried. But the main thing was Bolan staying alive. He had to find Eve.
He leaped aside in the instant of time it took Kennedy to twist around.
Kennedy's burst slashed across the space occupied by Rideout's voice.
Except that the origin of the voice was moving as fast as a voice could
carry across a still desert night, and had slipped out of target acquisition
even as the words were sinking in.
Bolan had slid in one process from a voice in the dark to a guy who was
out of the picture.
Now Kennedy's execution was fast work. The Galil in Bolan's grip
thundered three times in rapid fire. For good measure. Three heavy slugs
exploded through living matter, rendering it deceased, spinning Kennedy into
a dead man's roll across the ground, leaving a glistening trail of bloodied