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

a security guard uniform that matched the ones of the men outside. The guy
held the door open while another uniformed man wheeled in General Eshan
Nazarour. The man in the wheelchair waved a curt dismissal, and the
bodyguards walked out.
The general swung his wheelchair around in a decisive, abrupt swivel
that brought him face to waist with Bolan.
The man in the wheelchair was in mufti, but he was military right down
to the tips of the spit-polished shoes on his artificial legs. He was
considerably older than his brother, and his face was strong. The general's
hair, which was brushed straight back, was bristly and streaked with iron
gray, and thinning at the top. Unlike his brother, Eshan Nazarour had no
worry lines to mar his countenance. Here was a man, wheelchair-bound or not,
who took life by the throat; he commanded his life and the lives of those
about him, and expected blind obedience. A savage. Right. And the savage was
lord of his jungle.
"Colonel Phoenix," he rasped without introduction, "we will discuss
your business here later - perhaps. First, there is something else to be
dealt with."
"There is security to be dealt with," Bolan replied coldly. "You know
what we're expecting here tonight, General. It's going to be one helluva
ruckus. And it's going to happen any minute. I suggest that one of your men
give me a tour of the house and grounds immediately. I want to have a closer
look at your security. Then we'll talk."
Nazarour wore the frigid, adamant expression of a man whose authority
is rarely questioned. "We will talk now, Colonel," he hissed. "I demand to
know why you were delayed in getting here tonight. And I want to know why
you thought you could smuggle my wife back onto these grounds without my
being aware of it."
Rafsanjani seemed stunned.
It had, yeah, become a very complicated mission.
Very suddenly.
Very unexpectedly.
Very definitely.

5

As Stony Man Farm's liaison with the Pentagon, with CIA headquarters,
and with the White House, Harold Brognola had done his share of worrying
since Mack Bolan's "new war" had commenced three missions ago. There was no
way around it. Worrying just had to be a way of life when yours was a desk
job and it was your best buddy out there in the field taking on the hairiest
missions anybody could throw at him.
This latest task, the one Brognola had dropped in Striker's lap before
the guy's heels had even cooled from his last assignment, was no exception.
A crack paramilitary assassination team: that's what Striker was out
there taking on tonight. These dudes who intended to hit Nazarour were the
absolute best in the business. Their record was proof enough of that. They
had traveled the globe, systematically terminating "with extreme prejudice"
those who had been marked for death by Iran's kangeroo-styled "holy courts."
And now they were reportedly here in Washington, in Bolan's backyard. No