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

They had Eve. No quarter would be given.
Bolan stepped forward and knelt atop the stunned, silently shrieking
man, pinning Jericho's neck to the deck with his leg. He grabbed a handful
of Jericho's hair and banged the back of the guy's head down hard to get
some more of his attention.
"I want Evita. Tell me where she is."
The financier gasped for air. The pain of his shredded ankle was numbed
by breathtaking shock. Blood pulsed from the wound, swilling around bone
shards to form a widening puddle on the deck.
"Evita was taken from here... an hour ago..."
"Where to?"
"I swear to God I don't know! Santos... took her. Libya? Business
finished here... Thatcher was aboard last night... paid and gone..."
Time was running out. But this man was talking. Too much.
"You're not Jericho."
"Let me live, please, I beg you!"
"I'm here to collect dues from Jericho."
"I'm not Jericho, you're right... you said it yourself."
Surprise.
Jack Grimaldi was hovering at two o'clock off the Traveler's port bow.
The bubble-front of the Hughes 500-D chopper reflected the rays of a new
Bahamas day. A secured rope ladder dropped from the copter's side door.
Fourteen seconds to detonation.
Bolan could not allow the talkative Jericho imposter to die here. He
was invaluable now for the information he could give about the boss
cannibal. And about Eve, which is where Bolan came in.
The guy was losing plenty of blood. A tourniquet in the chopper, a
quick airlift to medical help, and he would be fine for some hard questions.
Suddenly the guy went for broke and rolled his dice one last time. A
Colt .38 snubnose was in his fist, yanked from concealment and zeroing in on
Bolan.
Eleven seconds.
The Executioner darted to the right. The AutoMag and the guy's .38
fired as one. The wounded man's slug went wild. Bolan's did not.
Ten seconds.
Whoever the impostor really was, his meat was nailed to the boat's deck
by a .44 headbuster that had ended his life forever.
His stupidly untaught-out course of action had confirmed for sure that
he was not Lenny Jericho.
Bolan leathered Big Thunder and sidestepped the latest dead man. Timing
was everything now.
He climbed the railing of the Traveler's side and dived. It was a dive
that expertly knifed the glassy waters of Exuma Cay to propel him down deep.
The underwater concussion from the exploding yacht was painful, like
being hit by a steel door. But it lacked the shrapnel of hot yacht pieces
and hurtling ice picks of fire that would have deafened and torn him if his
dive had been shallow and he had surfaced one second prematurely.
He broke surface as debris from the disintegrated Traveler sizzled in
the water about him.
A blown-out hulk was all that remained of Lenny Jericho's yacht and