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

Lavagni shivered and moved on deeper, his eyes seeking an adjustment to
the sudden change of lighting. Then he spotted the hired gunner.
The guy was frozen in an oddly off-balance stance, and he was staring
at a man who seemed to be leaning lazily against a tree trunk.
The Caporegime fiercely whispered, "Come on, you boys get it outta
here! We don't want to..."
Tony's jungle vision was improving, and the look on the gunner's face
cut him short. He moved closer, then lunged suddenly toward the leaning man
in an involuntary reaction to what he saw there.
"What the hell..." he grunted.
"It's Tilly," the gunner croaked.
Yes, Quick Tony could see clearly now, it was indeed Tilly. With eyes
bugging and mouth thrown open in a silent cry. And he was not lounging
against that tree. Hell no, he was tied to it, at the throat, a tough jungle
vine almost buried in the soft flesh and wrapped tightly around the
treetrunk and holding the dead gunner rooted to the spot where death had
descended.
The disturbed condition of the jungle floor at Tilly's feet told the
story in stark terms. In his mind's eye, Lavagni saw the entire thing
re-enacted: a swiftly moving jungle shadow, striking without being seen
even, or heard - and Tilly being whirled about and garroted to that tree
with his throat clamped shut before a breath of air or an outcry could pass.
Yes, Tony could see it all.
He could see something else, also. A wet suit of clothes was plastered
to that tree, behind Tilly's dead body.
Lavagni reached past the corpse to finger the wet fabric.
"Let that be a lesson," he muttered, casting nervous glances into the
trees surrounding them. "This guy is mean as hell. Now get outta here, and
tell Charlie the guy is no doubt wearing his black suit now - or else he's
running around nekkid, and I can't hardly see that."
The gunner had not moved a muscle, nor did he seem to have heard
Lavagni's instructions.
"Well whatta you waiting for?" the boss hissed. "Get going, for Christ
sakes!"
"I don't see Tilly's hardware," the other man replied dispiritedly.
"What was he packing?"
"A chopper."
Lavagni groaned and hurried his shaken freelancer out of there.
Yeh. The bastard had planted the goddam matches, all right. And he was
armed with more than a lousy handgun now, too.
The thing was looking more sour by the minute. Yeh. And for Quick Tony
Lavagni, the contract at Glass Bay was becoming more and more a crown of
thorns.
Nobody who'd never gone against Bolan could really appreciate that.
Nobody.

Chapter Three
Home and the dead

A living shadow quietly watched as the two Mafiosi hurried from the