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

sand in his wake.
Bolan shoulder-slung his own rifle and picked up the dead man's chopper
and an extra ammo clip. Then he hotfooted to the spot where Kennedy's
transceiver was still crackling.
Doyle's voice.
"Does anyone read me? Is anyone there?"
Bolan depressed the transmitting button, then started out of there.
"Yeah, yeah," he growled irritably. "Hold on to your shirt!" He was
already jogging away from Kennedy's body as he spoke to Doyle. "I'm all
right."
He was approximating Kennedy's speech pattern.
He counted on the airwaves and tension of the moment to do the rest. It
did.
"Top, what the hell's going on down there?" came Doyle's voice. "Are
you in the village? Do you need backup?"
"Negative. Get ready to lift off. Ten minutes from now, whether I'm
back or not. The pilots have the coordinates?"
"I gave 'em the same ones you gave me. Whadaya mean, if you're not
back?"
"I'll catch up," snarled Bolan. "Don't disobey orders. I have something
for Mr. Jericho."
Which was true enough, figured Bolan. He arced around, back toward the
village at a steady gallop, hoping like hell that ten minutes would be
enough time.
Bolan could not make out the type of markings of the truck that had
been sent out of the village to investigate his shots. His hearing told him
it was a heavy-duty personnel carrier.
The machine was speeding in his direction, bumping across the rough
ground.
No headlights.
That confirmed it for Bolan.
The bulky shape of the truck emerged from the gloom, along a route
predicted by the Executioner who was crouched off to the side and out of the
truck's way. He could discern four men riding in the back of the truck. The
vehicle was crashing along at fifty or more miles per.
Bolan opened fire with the newly acquired Largo Star. He directed his
initial stream of fire at the front cab of the racing truck. He could not
see clearly into the cab. He didn't need to.
He heard shattering glass.
A scream.
He kept on firing. The lightweight machine gun stuttered in his fists,
illuminating the desert night with its muzzle flashes.
The truck veered too sharply. The vehicle seemed to hang suspended in
time and space for several moments in a sickening two-wheel tilt.
Shouts from the falling men in the back.
The lurching vehicle lost its battle with gravity. It flipped onto its
side. Momentum still pushed the truck through the rock and sand in a
grinding for ward plow.
Bolan closed in. He discerned a guy's body trapped between the vehicle
and hard dirt as the truck skidded along, mashing that particular attacker's