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

revulsion of what he was doing, of what he had become.
Puke it up, then. Puke it out of your system, Bolan, and then get back
out there and fight.
He'd done it in Korea. He'd done it several times in Vietnam. And he'd
been doing it quite regularly ever since Vietnam.
Okay. The enemy had not defeated him yet. The righteous wrath of the
law had not defeated him yet. He was damned if he was going to defeat
himself.
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together.
That line from T.S. Eliot flashed across Bolan's struggling
consciousness, and he knew immediately that his inner man had not yet given
up the fight.
Call it a subliminal awareness, or call it the computer-like ability of
the human brain to reason effectively, or call it that inner angel - Bolan
didn't give a damn what anyone called it.
It had provided his answer, and at a time when he needed one the most.
And it was not just an answer to himself. It was an answer, also, to the
enemy.
Bolan was not leaning together with anyone.
He stood alone - and, of course, that was the only way to fight his
kind of war.
The enemy, though - the enemy were the hollow men, the stuffed men,
leaning together.
He would, by God, see how well they could stand alone.

* * *

The warwagon had been stowed away under tight security in a rented
garage a block away, and it was here that Bolan had gone without further
dalliance.
The little Ford Econoline van was outfitted with everything required to
wage war. It was, in fact, a rolling arsenal. Bolan was not only a highly
trained warrior - he was also a master gunsmith and a munitions expert. He
could build weapons, modify them, refine them, and improvise a variety of
deadly combinations - and he knew how to put all of them to their best use.
Bolan was, in the literal sense, a one man army. He alone was the
strategist, the tactician, the logistician; he was G-2, scout, recon patrol,
armorer, medic and warrior.
And it was time to get this war in gear.
Bolan's nights had gone into a surveillance of the China Gardens. But
his days had mostly been spent on the roof of the "drop" - in excellent
binocular command of the DeMarco mansion. He had watched doors, windows and
grounds. He had timed arrivals and departures of visitors and of tradesmen;
he had made careful notes of the placements and routines of the palace
guard; and he had sketched layouts of the probable floor plans for all three
levels of the joint. He knew where and when DeMarco slept; he knew where he
ate, and a couple of times he had even known what.
And now he was going to bust that joint.