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

cigar. He saw the dead bodyguard and the tall man with the Beretta and death
itself, with one sweep of the eyes. The hand with the match froze and the
guy took a dancing step backwards.
In a voice of clearest ice, Bolan told him, "I want the woman."
"Take her," the Glass Bay boss urged.
She looked Puerto Rican and very pretty maybe twenty-five, simply
dressed in a short skirt and cotton blouse. She was sprawled on the couch in
a manner suggesting that she had been thrown or knocked there. The blouse
was torn down the front, partially exposing an interesting chest, and she'd
taken a couple of hard belts across the face.
The girl was crying and breathing hard, and mad as hell.
Bolan knew the guy, by mugshots and reputation only. It was Vince
Triesta, a nickel and dime hood who'd made it big in drugs and girls in the
Detroit area some years back. Before that he'd been involved in every rotten
thing from shylocking to contract killing. He had, in fact, become endeared
to the syndicate brass by murdering his ex-wife and her brother when they
were preparing to testify before a Michigan crime commission. It had been
nothing but roses for Triesta ever since... until this very moment.
And certainly he realized that his time had come. "Take her!" he
repeated shrilly. "I don't know her and I don't know you. You're Tony's
problem, not mine. Take the broad and blow, and let's call it even."
"Not quite," Bolan told him, and he caressed the Beretta's nerve center
once very lightly, and things were suddenly evened for Vince Triesta.
Bolan pulled the shaken girl to her feet and gently shoved her toward
the door. "Let's go," he said. "Vamos ."
He preceded her to the porch and led the way to the jeep, and it was
obvious that she was beginning to understand the situation as she scrambled
onto the rear deck and curled herself into a little ball on the floorboards.
He told her, "That's the idea - bueno ," and sent the jeep in a tight
loop of the bungalow and onto the blacktop.
A guy lolling at the east gate picked up his shotgun and walked to the
center of the road as the jeep approached.
Bolan slowed almost to a halt, then he stomped the accelerator and
gunned ahead at the last moment. The guy was caught off-guard in the path of
the charging vehicle. The impact flung him onto the hood and carried him
along for a few feet before spinning him off into the bushes at the side of
the road.
Then they were free and clear and climbing a gentle rise onto the
coastal road. The girl came out of her curl and climbed into the seat beside
Bolan.
"Thank you," she said shakily.
"You speak English," Bolan observed. "Great."
She gave him a ragged smile as she replied, "I speak it once too often
in the wrong place. It is my downfall. He would have killed me."
"Triesta, eh?"
"Yes, Triesta. He overhears me on telephone, in the little office. I
think I am dead for sure. Except for you, I am."
Bolan was unwinding taut nerves and giving the woman a closer
inspection. The eyes were wide-spaced, luminous, intelligent - almost
contradicting the blatant sensuality of the rest of her.