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

sweep had progressed far beyond their position, and they were relaxing.
As Bolan watched, one of them lowered his weapon to light a cigarette.
The other man said something, to which the first one laughed and moved
around the front of the jeep to hand over the cigarette. Then he lit another
for himself and the two stood chatting in low tones, their backs to Bolan as
their attention remained focused on the distant sounds of "battle."
That jeep was Bolan's ticket out of Glass Bay, and he meant to have it.
He was calculating the precise range from his position and applying this to
the ballistics characteristics of the Beretta. The firing range would be
approximately thirty yards. The Beretta had been worked-in for a
twenty-five-yard point-blank range, meaning no rise or fall of trajectory
across that distance, and the finely balanced weapon had delivered
consistent two-inch groupings at such a range. The silencer, however,
altered all that - and Bolan needed silence as much as he needed the jeep.
He was mentally calculating the corrections required when his attention
was diverted by a commotion near the house. The Volkswagen had lurched away
from the bungalow area only to be halted at the graveled circle opposite the
carports.
The driver, to Bolan's surprise, was a woman. A big guy in a rumpled
Palm Beach suit had pulled her out of the car and was dragging her back
toward the bungalows.
The two men at the jeep had also swiveled about to watch the little
drama. One of them chuckled and called out, "Atta boy, Vince" - though not
loud enough to be heard across the intervening area.
Bolan pondered this development for a moment. Anything which was out of
the ordinary deserved his attention, and to find a female around a hardsite
at such a time was certainly unusual. Who was she? What was she doing there?
Why was she being prevented from leaving?
He tried to shrug it off, deciding that the woman's presence could have
little bearing on his own problem. As for her problem... well, maybe it was
no more than a marital one. Maybe she was married to one of the Glass Bay
wheels. Or she could be a girl friend, or the local whore-in-residence. At
any rate, Bolan had enough of a problem already.
He pushed the woman from his mind and concentrated on his own problem
in survival. One of his targets had raised a two-way radio to his head and
was speaking into it.
New instructions?
It looked that way. Each of the men dropped his cigarette to the ground
and stepped on it, then they swung around to opposite sides of the jeep and
climbed aboard.
The Beretta was extended and ready to blast, the ballistics corrections
being meticulously programmed through mind, eye and hand.
Bolan was waiting for the driver to stow his Thompson and start the
jeep. The sound of the engine would be a further masking factor in the
attack, and Bolan wanted everything going for him that he could get
The finger squeezed home with the first crank of the engine, the
Beretta recoiled with a soft cough, and the driver pitched forward across
the steering wheel.
The other guy was turned in profile, caught in that microsecond of
stunned realization before reaction sets in, when the Beretta Belle