"Дон Пендлтон. The Iranian Hit ("Палач" #42) " - читать интересную книгу автора

places where men could gather and talk of freedom and peace and plans for a
better future without yesterday's mistakes. America was one of those places,
and it had to remain so. If not for Eshan Nazarour, then for his countrymen
who were more honorable than he, who cared about their Iran and dreamed and,
yes, plotted for a day when freedom - real freedom - would ring in that torn
land.
And not just the Iranian exiles, but those from Afghanistan and
anywhere else in the world where the flame of freedom had been extinguished.
These men, good and true, had to be reassured that America was safe and open
to them. That their dreams and plans for a better world could be nurtured in
safety. That they could seek asylum here from those merchants of terror and
violence who saw fit to ignore all conventions and rules of diplomacy or
morality.
No, Bolan had no love for cannibals of Nazarour's type. Bolan was glad
the guy was getting booted out of the country on his tail. He deserved no
less. But if protecting Eshan Nazarour for the coming few hours and
protecting the values and rights that made this country great were one and
the same thing, then, yes, Bolan was ready to take on whatever the Iranian
hit force could throw at him, and return it in kind.
There was far more at stake here than the life of one corrupt
ex-military man.
Bolan had been thinking about that as he'd approached Nazarour's
temporary residence in Potomac.
That was when he spotted the woman.
That was when the complications began....

3

He found the blonde standing near a clump of bushes about ten feet to
the left of the Malibu. She was staring wide-eyed at what was left of the
four men who had tried to abduct her. Her arms were wrapped tightly around
her body as if fighting off a terrible chill. Moonlight cut through the bare
branches overhead, illuminating the lovely face framed with silver blonde
hair. The face was still stretched taut with fear. Bolan saw her lips drawn
tight in a near hysterical grimace. She saw Bolan then, and her expression
fluctuated between confusion and even more fear.
"It's all right," Bolan said quietly as he moved past her toward the
carnage around the Malibu. "You're okay now."
It was not necessary to check the bodies of the four men who had waited
for him in ambush. The rapidly spreading pools of blood on the moonlit
pavement beneath them gave mute testimony to their fate. They would terrify
no more women. They would kill no more men.
The corpse of their final victim, the man the blonde had been on her
way to meet, was scrunched up on the floor of the back seat.
Bolan turned and approached the woman. She kept stepping back as he
came toward her, until a tree stopped her.
"W-who are you?" she asked in a quavery whisper. "Did Eshan send you?"
"My name is Phoenix," said Bolan. His ears picked up the sound of
rapidly approaching sirens from at least two directions on MacArthur. "We'd
better get out of here. Or do you want to wait for the police?"