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

Mafia, when the Executioner hunted down the Mob's Caribbean Carousel to the
Glass Bay stronghold of Vince Triesta.
During the flight south for this rescue today, names and scenes of
violence from long-ago action had flashed in Bolan's memory: Quick Tony
Lavagni, Triesta, Riappi, the brutal firefights that had seen their end...
And Eve Aguilar, the beautiful, gutsy, tender woman who had played a
vital role in aiding Bolan destroy the Caribbean plans going down at the
time.
That very special lady held permanent claim to a large part of this
warrior's large heart.
Bolan was aboard the now-doomed floating charnel house off Exuma Cay to
rescue his kind of woman. And to ensure no replay by the hoods who held her.
This was not a rescue mission like with Toby Ranger, who had become
involved once the mission was under way.
This was a mission occasioned by a friend from the very outset.
This was a personal mission with a vengeance.
Bolan was supposed to be on R & R to speed recovery from some badly
ripped-open flesh inflicted by a misinformed rookie in London, England.
Thanks to the doctors in London and back home in Virginia, Mack Bolan a.k.a.
Colonel John Phoenix of the new Terrorist Wars was healing well - too well
to stay at home. Rest and goddamned recreation was out of the question, he
had told Hal Brognola. Forget it. Hear the real world, Hal.
Bolan did not listen to his liaison officer's woeful predictions about
the real world of good health. Instead he listened to bitter news. It was
news played to him hourly by the monitoring computers of his organization.
It was the data that had brought him here to this unhealthy boat. Sufficient
data to launch a search and rescue: self-evident, self-justifying. Like all
bad news about good people, it was a call to action.
Eve's agency had not heard from her in seven days. Too long. Eve had
been sucked into the Jericho operation, her cover probably blown.
Bolan was here to do whatever damage he could to the unfolding Jericho
scam... which, under the circumstances, would be considerable.
They had Eve.
Bolan was not here to give quarter.

2

Three men were sitting around a table playing cards. The air had become
stale and hazy with cigarette and cigar smoke. A naked low-watt bulb cast
the walls and corners of the room in dark shadow.
The men were all armed.
They were all fast.
But they were not fast enough.
Bolan plugged an ugly, scarred Puerto Rican with an even uglier hole
through the head. The shot sent the guy spiraling backward from his chair
into the corner, a hand still wrapped tight around the butt of a
shoulder-rigged .357.
The second guy was big, and fast enough that he managed to fill his
fist with a P-35 Browning hi-power and track it around on Bolan, before
death from the Beretta stopped him cold. He was kicked back in a deadfall