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

Freelancers. Quick Tony had again gotten stuck with a bunch of goddam
freelance streetcorner rod-men. So okay, fuck it. He'd known that Charlie
Dragone was in town, also probably two or three other experienced hands were
around, enough to build a force on.
"I want an open ticket," he'd told the commissioner. "I want authority
to tap any boy around here that I like. And I want it clearly understood
with Vince Triesta who'll be running the show at Glass Bay."
"Don't worry, Tony, we're putting out the word. He's all yours, baby."
Yeah. All Tony's. As quick as that. And Quick Tony had left Miami less
than two hours later, and with a pretty good force after all, considering
the sudden notice plus the fact that he was a long way from home turf. And
it was not until he had settled into the cushions of the chartered jetliner
that the full implications of the thing crashed into his mind.
God, he could come out of this contract wearing the crown of the Lower
Atlantic Seaboard, boss of all that moved and breathed between Jersey and
Jacksonville. Arnie Farmer's crown was still floating around, awaiting a
suitable head to descend upon. And Quick Tony Lavagni had suddenly decided
that his very own head was both suitable and deserving. And why not? He had
been a loyal and hard working family man for going onto a quarter of a
century now. His only serious failure had been that business in France...
and, hell, Bolan had disgraced better triggermen than Tony Lavagni.
Maybe, he'd decided, this was the Commissione's reasoning: give Tony
another shot at the bastard, let him redeem himself. Yeh. And surely the guy
who could come up with Bolan's skull would be worthy of something extra
special for his own head. Something like, say, the Lower Atlantic Seaboard.
Yeh. And Quick Tony had begun to dream of empire.
So what the hell, the thing had started going sour right at the start.
No time for the setup at Glass Bay, and Bolan's goddam grandstand play, the
bastard. So what kind of a nut should believe that Bolan would be a
pushover? The guy hadn't won anything yet... the thing had only started, not
ended... and Quick Tony was now satisfied that he had found the place where
his quarry had come ashore.
He was kneeling in the finely packed sand near the waterline and
running a visual triangulation between the house, which was about a half a
mile downshore, and the encroachment of jungle flora, less than twenty feet
away. The shoreline jogged slightly at that point, creating a shallow
indentation which would be invisible from the house.
Sure, it all fit. "This is where, all right," Lavagnl announced to
chief gunner Charlie Dragone. He lifted an arm and sighted across the bay.
"Yeah, and it was a hell of a long swim, nearly a mile I'd say. He could've
cut that in half, but he was looking for cover, not comfort. And looka
here..." The Mafia chieftain was running the palm of his hand along the
sand. "Still wet right here. We can't be more than a few minutes behind him.
I bet that goddam guy swum underwater the whole way. Now... that can only
mean..."
The voice trailed away and Lavagni stared speculatively across the
small width of beach.
Dragone rose nervously to his feet, standing in a half-crouch with both
hands on his hips and gazed back toward the house. Smoke was still pouring
out back there. Now and then a tongue of flame would lick clear of the