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

resettled into the second alignment and another hi-impact missile sizzled
along the doomsday course. It splattered in just above the mouth and sent
the guy sprawling onto the ground, the Thompson still cradled in his arms.
The Executioner waited cautiously for some sign of a reaction from the
hardsite. Receiving none, he stepped out of the vegetative cover and
strolled unhurriedly to the jeep.
The engine was idling in neutral. Bolan went first to the man on the
ground and dragged him around to the blind side. There was no recognizing
that face. Most of it was missing. He was wearing a new sports shirt with a
sale tag still attached and clean white denim slacks. Bolan removed the
clothing and put it on over his skinsuit, and the fit was good enough for
the moment.
Next he pulled the driver out and rolled him to the ground beside the
other man. The Parabellum bone-crusher from the Beretta had penetrated at
the base of the skull and angled up for an exit through a slightly enlarged
eye socket There was not much blood up front, and the departing trajectory
of the bullet had cleared the jeep's windshield. Bolan tore the guy's shirt
off and used it to sponge up the blood spatterings, then he retrieved the
fallen Thompson from the roadway and added it to the growing arsenal in the
rear seat.
The crew at the house were going on about their tiring chores as he
wheeled the jeep into the soft run for the asphalt road. One of them paused
to wipe the sweat from his brow as the jeep eased past.
"Trade you jobs, slick," he called over.
"Get laid," the Executioner called back, and went on into the traffic
circle at the carports.
He was just about all the way home now, and already the air was
smelling sweeter. Then his eye caught the abandoned VW, and a disturbing
little tic began working at his deeper consciousness. He shrugged it away
and continued around the circle, avoiding the VW, and pulled onto the
blacktop.
Then he swore harshly to himself, swung on around the carports, and
pulled to a halt between the bungalows.
Dammit, the woman could be in as large a mess as he was. He couldn't
just...
A man's angered tones were coming from the end bungalow. Bolan refueled
the Beretta and returned her to the sideleather, then he left the jeep
idling between the buildings and went on foot to the front.
A guy in wet, charcoal-smudged clothing stood on the porch. He gave
Bolan a sour look and said, "Ay man."
The guy was no freelancer. He was a Mafia hard-man and clearly in a
nasty mood.
"Ay," Bolan growled back. "Vince in there?"
"He's busy," the guy said, moving into a tense confrontation at the
doorway.
Bolan had no time for games, and he was feeling a bit nasty himself. He
replied. "I see," as the Beretta leapt clear and pumped a quiet one up the
guy's nose.
Bolan pushed the falling body into the house and stepped across it. The
man in the rumpled Palm Beach was standing over a couch and lighting a