"Дон Пендлтон. Caribbean Kill ("Палач" #10) " - читать интересную книгу автора

in cold seriousness. "It could have," he said.
"Shit, I knew it," Quick Tony said calmly.
"He had a gun at my throat. Told me to set the controls for take-off."
The pilot shrugged. "Anything to make the gentleman happy. I knew he'd never
get it off. I mean, I knew it would be a suicidal attempt. All I wanted was
to hell out of there. But you're right, Mr. Lavagni. He could have pulled a
fast one. I mean, all he had to do was shove in the throttle and jump, that
baby would have lifted out of there with or without him."
Dragone snapped, "Goddammit you should've thought about that!"
"Fuck you," the pilot snapped back, "and don't tell me what to think
with a gun barrel jamming my throat!"
"You guys shut up," Lavagni softly commanded. He walked to the water's
edge and sighted out across the bay as he sifted through the wild array of
thoughts which were chugging across his mind.
If Bolan had in fact been in that plane when it crashed, there would be
one hell of a time trying to prove it - even if they should find an extra
body to account for. Charlie had been certainly right about one thing, for
damn sure - there would be nothing left but ashes, and ashes sometimes could
be pretty damn tough to identify.
But now, take Tony's tumbling gut. And Grimaldi had given support to
what the gut seemed to already know. Mack the Bastard had not come to Glass
Bay just to roast himself in a plane crash. Not that guy, not that hard case
goddamn guy.
Yeh. Quick Tony had tangled with Mack the Bastard already before. And
only by a medical miracle and plenty of trans-Atlantic political clout was
Tony standing there right now remembering it.
Sure. There was only one way to play it. Since he could not prove that
Mack Bolan had crashed with that plane, he would have to assume that he had
not.
Lavagni tried to ignore a little chill that was quivering at his spine.
He rejoined the others, who were standing locked in a stiff silence, and he
quietly announced, "Bolan swam for it. So let's go find him."
Dragone sighed, cast a melancholy eye on the burning house, and asked,
"Where do we start?"
"We start right where he wants us," Lavagni replied heavily. "The guy's
a jungle fighter, Charlie. That's where hell go. I want Paul - and Duke...
get Joe, too. And they better have those maps in their pockets."
"Plug crews," Dragone decided.
"Yeh. And get those boat crews over here, they get a piece of this
too."
"Can I go now?" Grimaldi asked quickly. "I need a drink."
Lavagni ignored the pilot's request. "Jack, you'll know who to contact,
I want a couple of whirly birds out here. I wish I'd kept a couple here,
now. Dammit, why the hell didn't I think of that..."
Dragone was walking away. The Caporegime called after him, "Don't
forget the walky-talkies." To Grimaldi, he snapped, "Well, move it, move
it!"
"Yessir," the pilot said, and hurried off.
Lemke's eyes flashed uncertainly between Lavagni and the retreating
figure of the pilot.