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

slide to join the first corpse.
In microseconds Bolan sidestepped deeper into the crew's quarters, deep
in the belly of Lenny Jericho's yacht. The third guy, an Arab, had lunged
for a sawed-off Remington 870 pump shotgun that was positioned on the floor
near his chair.
He never made it.
The Beretta sneezed a third time.
A third man died.
Not one of them knew what in hell had come exploding through that door.
Bolan straightened. He saw a wall of personal lockers, another with a
row of bunks.
And he saw one lower bunk, separate from the others, built into the far
bulkhead.
Gliding over the three dead men, he moved over to it and made a cursory
inspection of the bunk.
It was indeed different from the others. Heavy chain shackles that
ended in braces were built in to imprison the occupant by wrists and ankles.
Rough blankets were in twisted disarray, indicating a recent struggle.
Tiny red droplets on the mattress screamed in Bolan's eye. He reached
down and touched the stains with a fingertip.
Blood. Still sticky.
He hustled back into the corridor, to his left now, along the narrow
walkway toward midship.
He slowed his pace when he reached the hatchway that led up to the
deck. Then in silent, ghostlike manner he mounted the hatchway steps. He was
halfway to the companionway when the opening was fully filled with the bulky
form of a crewman toting an ugly FN Model 49.
Bolan pulled off two rounds, head shots. The man was propelled backward
as if pulled by invisible forces. Bolan holstered the Beretta and unlimbered
the mighty AutoMag as he continued on up the steps.
He erupted onto the deck, then wove a brisk zigzag pattern across the
forty feet that separated him from cover at the base of the wheelhouse
superstructure.
The second guard, partner of the late creep with the FN, had not left
his post behind the windows of the wheelhouse. The guard spotted the
black-clad figure in the dawn's early light before Bolan had gone five
paces.
The guard leaned through an open window and opened fire. A NATO round
splintered the planking of the deck where Bolan had been a split-second
earlier.
Bolan halted his course, in the same movement bringing up Big Thunder
on the guard's silhouette on the bridge, and squeezed off a round from a
two-handed target-range stance. The blazing issue of the mini-howitzer
ruptured the guard's skull into a misty pink shower. The guy toppled down
and out of sight.
Silence reclaimed the dawn.
Bolan gained the base of the superstructure. He knew that half his
allotted time had run out since planting the five-minute fuse on the
plastique.
Bolan heard a dull bump on the port side.