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

He had miscalculated the guns at Glass Bay. For each obvious one noted
during that hasty landing recon, three and maybe four were now unloading in
a massive and determined effort to abort the "getaway."
The trajectory of that speeding airborne missile must have suddenly
become obvious to all who watched; the gunfire ceased as abruptly as it had
begun and Bolan could see energetic bodies hastily disembarking from the
second-story veranda. All along the beach, men were erupting from places of
concealment and sprinting toward the house.
Hell was winging into paradise, and everybody there seemed to know it.
The men who had raced onto the pier were now stampeding back toward
land, and the grounds surrounding the big house had come alive with frantic
figures lunging about in diffuse patterns of escape.
The plane itself seemed poised motionless in the air, like a football
in a stop-action forward-pass replay on the Game of the Week, with the
plantation house representing the only eligible receiver downfield, and with
the chagrined defenders hoping to God that the pass was going wild but
knowing in their sinking hearts that it was directly on target.
And then the plane hit, slicing in just above the second-story porch
and punching on through into the house with a shattering roar and exploding
flames. Bolan saw airborne bodies, one of them flaming like a chunk of
flying shish kebab, and a shrieking hubbub of panicky voices was wafting
toward him across the still waters.
He watched just long enough to assess the probable results of the hit,
then he sank once again beneath the smooth surface of Bahia de Vidria and
continued his quiet approach to the beach.
His departure from the plane had apparently gone unnoticed. He had seen
a motor launch speeding to the other swimmers, Lemke and Grimaldi; chances
were excellent that not even they had been aware of Bolan's exit. So far,
then, so good. If he could make a landfall with the same good fortune, then
maybe he would be able to climb aboard that Caribbean Carousel and give it
one mad ride.
He had not continued into that trap at Glass Bay for the sheer thrill
of living dangerously. Bolan was living to the point. He had arrived at the
scene of the kill.

* * *

For Quick Tony Lavagni, the flame-leapt scene at Glass Bay was anything
but comforting. It was too much like re-entering an old and familiar
nightmare, that's what it was like, and Quick Tony had that sick feeling at
the pit of his gut.
Not that Lavagni was worried about the damned joint. Vince Triesta was
the head man at Glass Bay. Let Vince worry about the damned real estate.
Tony had, in fact, already set Vince straight about that matter.
"Bullshit," he'd calmly told him. "My boys ain't playing firemen. We
didn't come all the way down here to pick up your broken pieces. Put out
your own goddam fires."
And Vince had gone off raving and waving his arms around. Some guys
never changed. Bullshit. Tony Lavagni had come for Bolan's head. That was
all. And until that churning feeling left his gut, he wasn't about to take