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

"That's what it's going to take," Laurentis insisted. "I been studying
this boy's footwork. I know how to bag him, but I got to have the troops, I
got to have them."
"I wonder if Roman called Mr. King," Vericci mused.
"I figure he would, yeah, I think so," Laurentis replied.
"We might get some help from that direction."
"We might, yeah," the enforcer agreed. "But we can't count on it. We
got to figure it's our problem and ours alone. That's the way I figure it."
"Okay, go to it," Vericci told him. "Well put out the word, don't
worry. Same telephone setup?"
Laurentis nodded. "The same."
"Okay. We'll put out a net like this town has never seen before. We'll
locate him, Franco. The rest will be up to you and your boys."
"Hell, I can hardly wait," the enforcer said. He pushed himself away
from the table and strode to the door.
Almost as though some sixth sense had telegraphed his movement, the
library door swung open and two of the silk-suited torpedoes met the
enforcer in the open doorway. They fell in behind him, already others were
leading the way across the foyer, and the Bay Area storm troopers made their
impressive exit without a word spoken between them.
The war for San Francisco was now official.
And back in the conference room, a worried and fretful Vincenzo Ciprio
was telling his brother under-boss, "I don't like it, Tommy. I just don't
like it one bit. We just give Crazy Franco more raw power than even Don
DeMarco has had these past years. I don't like it one bit."
"Relax," Vericci said soothingly. "You think I wasn't up on that idea
too? But listen, that crazy bastard has had the old man's ear more and more
these past few months. I worry about that, too. Listen. Maybe we finally
gave Franco enough rope to tangle himself in, eh? Eh?"
Ciprio chewed the idea for a moment, then he smiled, got to his feet,
and took his cadre out of there.
More than one war was brewing in San Francisco.

3
An Honest Shot

She had led him through a maze of back streets and alleyways, picking
her way surely and silently across the abandoned nightclub belt and into
Chinatown.
Bolan had maintained a discreet distance throughout, barely keeping her
in sight and varying his track from one side to the other at erratic
intervals.
They crossed Grant Avenue and descended deeper into the labyrinthine
bowels of the western Chinese section and along a narrow street of
storefronts - a mixed business-residential neighborhood of two and three
story buildings with most of the residential community occupying space above
the business.
It was a fringe district at the edge of the main tourist area, with a
sprinkling of gift shops, restaurants, and bars catering to visiting
Caucasians jumbled in with fantan parlors, shops, and cafes which obviously