"Дон Пендлтон. California Hit ("Палач" #11) " - читать интересную книгу автора

picking his way carefully across the disaster zone, and to himself he
muttered, "Brushfire, hell. It's Little World War Three."

* * *

Capo Mafioso Roman DeMarco, at the age of seventy-two was a bit too old
for early morning fireworks - and the testy lines of the usually genial face
plainly showed his displeasure over getting dragged out of a warm bed at
such an uncomfortable hour.
The lights were blazing on all three floors of the ancient mansion atop
Russian Hill, and the place was filling up fast with the family rank and
file as worried faces and angry voices continued to arrive in response to
the urgent summons from Don DeMarco.
The Capo's strong right arm - enforcer Franco Laurentis - had been
among the earliest arrivals. He had come complete with his usual retinue of
hard-eyed, silent torpedoes who seemed to have worked out some method of
communication which was restricted entirely to eye movements and facial
expressions.
Underbosses Vincenzo Ciprio and Thomas Vericci were also present. They
were the demigods of, respectively, the East Bay and the San Francisco
Peninsula - and each had brought several lieutenants and their cadres to the
big house on the hill.
A foot patrol of hardmen had been deployed along the streets
surrounding the house; others cruised the neighborhood in gunmobiles or sat
in solemn stakeouts at various approaches to the family home.
The Northern California arm of La Cosa Nostra was taking no chances
with the wildass bastard in black who had moved his thunder and lightning to
their sacred territories.
The Capo, appropriately clad for the formalities of the night in silk
pajamas and a brocade robe with designs in heavy gold thread, was holding
court in the library and explaining the seriousness of the situation to the
ranking members.
"So this boy has no doubt come here looking for some more expensive
glory," he concluded. "And I guess everybody here knows that we're all in
for a damn lot of trouble. Unless we can get to this boy first and tear his
head off and throw it in the bay."
Thomas Vericci, lord of the peninsular area, nervously cleared his
throat to inquire, "Can we be sure this really was the guy, Don DeMarco? I
mean, what if somebody else just wants to make it look that way? Just to get
us off guard or something, I mean."
"Either way," DeMarco replied patiently, "it's a lot of trouble, and we
don't need any of that."
A small dark man who had been almost hidden in the shadow of the Capo
spoke up with, "I beg your pardon."
"Spit it Out, Matty," the Capo said softly.
"Well there ain't no mistaking in my mind. I saw the guy. I saw him
with these two eyes right here, and I'm telling you it was him. It was Mack
Bolan. He was dressed all in black like a fuckin' - excuse me, Don DeMarco -
like a damn executioner. And the way he walked was like a fuckin' - a damn
cat - you know a panther or something. I mean that was him! I was as close