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

He responded with economy of movement. He circled the wheelhouse and
cabin and came around a corner on the far side of the superstructure, just
as Leonard Jericho was reaching over to activate the lowering mechanism for
the lifeboat in which he was standing.
The bump was the hull of the lifeboat clunking against the yacht as
Jericho clambered aboard.
Lenny was not alone.
His co-passenger was a heavyset guy, in his fifties, dressed in a
five-hundred-dollar suit that was as out of place as hailstones in these
surroundings.
Bolan quit the safety of cover with no attempt at secrecy. Still
drenched, but silent as a wraith, he approached the lifeboat.
The two men sensed their executioner's presence. They glanced in unison
toward him and their eyes widened.
The guy in the sharkskin suit reacted first.
He was Manny Mandone. Bolan recognized him from his Dixie mop-up.
Right now the Mafia shark was trying to negotiate too many things at
once: turning around in the small boat, trying to maintain his equilibrium,
reaching for his hardware.
The AutoMag belched flame from Bolan's fist, the heavy round tearing
flesh and bone. Manny Mandone toppled over the side of the lifeboat with an
astonished look on his face and a baseball-sized cavity where his heart had
been.
Leonard Jericho did not move except to glance over the side, ever so
briefly, after Mandone. Then he looked back at Mack Bolan.
Bolan recognized him from the intel dossier. Ten years ago, Jericho had
been movie-star handsome. But now that he was assessed to be the third or
fourth richest man in the world, layers of dissipated flab had been added to
the financier's features.
A heartbeat pause.
"Get out of the boat," said Bolan. His voice had the same command of
Jericho's attention as the extended barrel of the AutoMag. The seconds were
running out on the plastique.
Jericho obeyed. He climbed from the lifeboat. A patina of sweat
glistened below his hairline despite the coolness of the early hour.
"I don't know who sent you," Jericho said. "But I can double whatever
you're getting."
"I want Evita Aguilar," growled Bolan.
Jericho blinked. "Evita? She's not here."
"Where is she?"
"Who sent you? I'll triple whatever you've been paid. If you're working
for the Libyans ..."
A noise came from the northeast.
Grimaldi, coming in for the pickup. Right on schedule.
Which meant there were seventy-five seconds remaining before the
plastique blew.
Leonard Jericho did not appreciate that the approaching helicopter was
not his. Victory flashed in his eyes.
Bolan triggered the AutoMag, blowing away Jericho's left ankle,
effectively amputating his foot.