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

torso into hamburger amid a barely human squealing that ended very abruptly.
Bolan moved in on the remaining three hardguys. In the Terrorist Wars,
it was shoot or be shot as soon as your cover was blown. That fact John
Phoenix knew very well; its implacable message was carved in the flesh of
the campaigns already, now, part of his history.
History spoke again as a blistering fire track spat from the Largo-Star
into the three-man night, turning it into a howling dark hole of damnation
and wet, sticky, glistening desert sand. Bone shards exploded from body
sacks in the trajectory of the Largo-Star's death spew - and the night
became death for three non-notable terror creeps, a night of darkness as
everlasting as would be the kind of war that brings such death. The
Terrorist Wars. The War of Evolution. Here, in this damned desert of
hellfire and moaning death.
Bolan saw a man's open chest bubble in the starlight. Twenty feet away
from him, the soldier had been opened from top to bottom.
He veered away from the killing ground after that. He closed in on the
village from a new direction. A stopwatch in his mind kept track of the
passing seconds. He gave himself seven more minutes to fix this paramilitary
force that had dared penetrate deep into Libya and secrete the sort of cargo
about to be airlifted from the Jericho villa.
The African force here might still try to rush the villa and acquire
Kennedy's purloined cargo for themselves by force. The only way to avoid
such a strategic misfortune would be to deal these troops a decisive blow
now, while they were uncertain, before they had time to move right.
Bolan would chew through all of these double-dealers until he found
Eve.
He would use the tunnel leading from the inn back to what had been
Kennedy's office. There would be no one to guard that route. Not at the inn
end, anyway. Those choppers were going to lift off and "Mike Rideout" wanted
to be on board. Those aircraft and the cargo would be on their way to Lenny
Jericho. And Santos. And Eve.
He reached the back wall of a mud house in the desert on the outskirts
of the village. There would be civilian faces at the front windows of the
house, facing the activity of the remaining soldiers in the central street
and dirt roads. But back here, nothing.
He stayed close to the clay-hard, stonelike building and moved swiftly
around its nearest corner. He was heading along one wall of the house for a
look into the street. Bolan had let the sounds of the troops guide him. He
judged the majority, or possibly all, of the surviving troops to be in a
vicinity not far from this house.
When Bolan reached the corner of the hut that gave onto the narrow mud,
street, he eyeballed the scene at the center of the village where two rutted
roads intercepted. His night vision was attuned to the darkness. He was able
to make a clean head count of the uniformed men who crowded around an
unmarked desert vehicle that matched the truck already destroyed.
Five soldiers stood around the vehicle. The Africans were heatedly
debating among themselves in their own tongue.
The Executioner did not hesitate. He stepped clear of the wall. He
remained in shadow. "Live free or die," he called out to toll their fate. He
triggered a chattering blast from the Largo-Star.