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

"Go help fight the fire!" Lavagni barked.
The accountant fled, leaving Quick Tony Lavagni, the terror of the
Atlantic Seaboard, to stand a lone vigil on the waters of Glass Bay.
Yeh. What a hell of a note. Here was Quick Tony, again, with a goddam
contract on Mack the Blitzing Bastard. Mack the Jungle Cat. And in his own
element now.
A tumbling gut just couldn't be wrong. Quick Tony was on a collision
course with his own fate. Yeh. What a hell of a note.

Chapter Two
The crown

Bolan sat casually in the top of a coconut palm at the western rim of
the bay and field-stripped his Beretta, cleaning away the corrosive salt
water he'd picked up during that long swim to shore. He reassembled the
finely-tuned weapon and gave the same careful attention to the spare clips
of ammo, finishing off with a close inspection of the muzzle silencer -
then, satisfied that the Beretta Belle would serve upon demand, he allowed
his mind to ponder the present predicament.
He was in an unfamiliar land, and with only the most general sort of
geographic orientation. He knew that Puerto Rico was bounded on the north by
the Atlantic, and on the other side by the Caribbean. It was the outer -
most island of the West Indies. Hispaniola, the island shared by both Haiti
and the Dominican Republic, lay to the west - also Jamaica and Cuba. The
Bahamas were due north, Venezuela was south. To the east were the Virgin
Islands.
All this he had quickly assimilated from a wall map at the private
airport at Nassau, while the seaplane was being readied for this last leg of
travel. For whatever it was worth, he at least knew approximately where he
was located with respect to the rest of the world - and with respect to the
new super operation which the mob was calling The Caribbean Carousel . It
was small comfort at the moment.
Realistically, here was the situation: he had two full eight-round
clips of ammo, plus six rounds in the service clip. He was literally up a
tree, soaked to the slid with sticky salt water. He was hungry, and he was
just about physically exhausted.
Less than a quarter-mile away, an army of some fifty to seventy-five
guns was methodically sweeping the periphery of the bay in a determined hunt
for his person.
He would very probably die in this jungle. And a grinning Mafioso would
drop his head into a paper sack and deliver it to the grinning old men back
home.
That was the situation.
Except that he was not dead yet.
Okay, he was alive and breathing. And it had not gone all that badly.
He had broken out of the trap at Vegas and crashed the heart of the
Caribbean operation all in one motion. And he was not dead yet.
Bolan raised his head and sighted along the beach toward the flaming
house, trying to orient himself with respect to the birdseye view he had
gained while in the plane. He was west of the house, about a thousand yards.