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

presence of sudden death, and a mental mug-file review clicked to a decisive
halt against the name of Quick Tony Lavagni.
Bolan knew, now, the identity of his chief opponent at Glass Bay, and
the revelation gave no cause for a celebration. The crafty old Washington
triggerman had built an impressive box for the Executioner on the French
Riviera, and it had been as much luck as anything that had seen Bolan out of
that trap. Lavagni was nobody's damn fool. He operated like a meat-grinder
with radar control, quietly and efficiently bringing in all the corners of a
battleground and wrapping them around a guy.
At least, though, Bolan had a fair idea of what to expect now, and he
could respond accordingly.
Lavagni would be bringing his boats in to stand just offshore,
appropriately spaced along the beach. He would send flankers around to cover
the open ground at all sides of the small jungle area. Then he would mount a
massive frontal movement, sieving in from the bay, and then... well, it
would be the meat-grinder routine once again.
In France there had been a friendly black face in the enemy camp and
the soft hand of providence in the person of a dazzling French movie actress
to spell the difference for Bolan. Even in Vietnam there had always been the
hope of making it back into home territory, or of making contact with a
friendly force.
Where was home territory now? And where in all the world was a friendly
force?
Bolan knew better than to even ask the question. "Home" was wherever he
could find space to breathe. "Friendly forces" were the ones whom he could
make dead.
So at least he knew where he stood. He was in the center of Lavagni's
meat-grinder, somewhere between home and the dead . The Thompson submachine
gun which he had appropriated from his latest "friend" would make little
difference in any pitched battle with the forces at Glass Bay. There could
be but one final result. Someone would walk away with Bolan's head in a
sack.
The Executioner's combat-conditioned mind began quickly searching for a
higher rationale to the situation. First, what was the enemy thinking?
They were thinking, probably, that Bolan had sniffed the trap at the
last minute, and was intent only upon escape. They had him outnumbered, with
the odds at about 100 to 1, and with one of their best field marshals
leading the chase. And the field of play was very limited. They could afford
to play the meat-grinder game, continually closing the sides of the box
until they had him completely contained.
Secondly, what about Lavagni himself? Bolan knew enough about syndicate
operations to be almost certain that Quick Tony was not the resident
triggerman at Glass Bay. He had been hurried in from the states to arrange
the reception and... yes, he would have brought his own force with him.
Which meant a hasty recruiting job, probably among free-lance rodmen swept
up from the street and jails of some American city.
Uh huh , so here was that larger rationale. The mob was expecting Bolan
to spend his blood in an isolated jungle of America's back yard, against a
ragtag army of mercenaries, while their prized little playground carousel
continued merrily and un-threatened along its profitable course.