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

of prison."
"I was," the blonde replied softly. But she ignored his question.
"You didn't have to come back here with me," Bolan reminded her
sharply.
The woman sighed. A defeated, beaten sound. "He would have found me,"
she said, looking out through the windshield at the wall. "I've tried
running before. He's always found me and brought me back. Or had me brought
back.'' She seemed to realize for the first time that Bolan had pulled the
car over. "Why did you stop?" she asked, turning to eye him with a new
curiosity.
There was much that Bolan wanted to ask this woman. But there was
little time. Much as his heart went out to Carol Nazarour and all she had
been through, Bolan's top priority tonight was to nullify the Iranian
commando team led by Karim Yazid. Bolan would not forget Mrs. Nazarour or
her obvious plight. He would do what he could for her, tonight and later.
But only after the top priority had been dealt with. For now, he had been
delayed long enough.
He leaned over and unlatched her door, pushing it open for her. "I'm
letting you out so you can break back into prison. Good luck, and keep your
head down."
She didn't budge. "Who are you? I thought you were one of Eshan's
goons."
"That's an interesting word for your husband's business associates."
The blonde made an unladylike sound. "My husband's business associates
are some of the lowest scum walking this earth. Sure, they all wear
expensive suits and are chauffered around in limos, but they're the people
who are robbing their own country blind."
"Oil?"
"Some of them."
"Mafia?"
Her feminine blue eyes were dagger points of ice. She considered that
for a moment. Then she blinked and the spell was broken.
"Maybe. Listen, if you aren't one of my husband's goons, then who in
hell are you?"
"You'll find out soon enough. Now get a move on, lady. We'll talk
later."
She studied him for another moment, then reached over and touched his
wrist with her fingertips. "Thank you for the ride, and for saving my life."
Then she was out of the car. The leather coat and bouncing head of
blonde hair disappeared into the darkness.
Bolan slipped the car into gear and continued on toward the front gate
of the grounds. The skin of his wrist seemed to tingle where Carol Nazarour
had touched him.
A beauty.
A tragic beauty.
She had tossed in her thanks for saving her life almost as an
afterthought, as if she herself had doubted whether that life was really
worth saving.

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