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

from the bodies and the two cars and the approaching sirens.
After passing two more turnoffs, Bolan pulled a left and took them back
to MacArthur, catching MacArthur west toward Persimmon Tree Road, back the
way they had come, toward that walled estate in Potomac, where Eshan
Nazarour was temporarily residing.
He finally took time to give the lady beside him a long, sideways
appraisal. She was hugging her door, watching him warily. He could see in
the passing streetlights that the frightened lines of her face had softened
some, but not entirely.
"Where are we going?" she asked quietly, nervously.
Bolan had the impression that she knew damn well, but he said, "Back
home. Back where you started from."
"Do we... have to?"
"No. This is a free country. I can drop you off anywhere along here, if
you'd like."
She mulled that over for a moment. Then she shook her head. There was
something helpless about her that made Bolan want to reach out and touch
her. To comfort her. But he did not.
"No, that's all right," she said finally, in a weak voice that was
almost like a little girl's. "It wouldn't do any good. I'll go with you."
"Who were those men?"
"I - I don't know. I... don't know."
"Okay, we'll let that one go. Who are you? What's your name?"
He was pretty sure he knew the answer to that. He was remembering the
first thing she'd said to him as he'd come in out of the darkness after
killing all those men: "Did Eshan send you?"
"Don't you know?" she said, staring straight ahead through the
windshield, not even looking at him. "My name is Carol Nazarour. I'm General
Nazarour's wife."
"Who was that man you were meeting? The one they killed?"
"It doesn't matter," came the harsh reply. "None of it matters. None of
it...."
That was, quite obviously, all she intended to say for the duration.
Bolan did not insist. There are times to push and times to lay off. For
right now, the lady needed her space to recover from all that had happened,
all that she had been through. Mack Bolan allowed her that space.
Complications, sure.
A corrupt Iranian general marked for assassination and his beautiful
American wife who was up to her lovely blonde head in kidnapping and sudden
death.
It promised to be one hell of a mission. And only he, because it was a
hit team loose in American streets, was truly qualified to handle it.
Great.
Goddamn great.

4

Mack Bolan had mixed feelings about Washington, D.C., and its environs,
which included Potomac, Maryland. The area had about it a sense of oneness
with history that Bolan had experienced in few other places in the world.