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

exotic locales this time. No jumping on board a jet for some foreign trouble
spot. It was all going down less than one hundred miles up the pike in
sedate, upper-class Potomac.
Yet it could be the toughest mission of Bolan's new career if this hit
team was even half as good as their record indicated, and Brognola had to
acknowledge inwardly, glumly, that they were that good. Bolan was out there
tonight - a bone-weary man still drained from his previous mission, which
had concluded only hours ago - and he was going up against a disciplined
unit, each man of which would be Bolan's equal in combat training and
skills.
Fourteen of the bastards! And they would not be bone weary. Bet on
that: they would not be tired. They would be open for business. There was no
telling how or when they would strike. Each previous hit had been different,
under different circumstances, with no discernible M.O.
Yeah. Tonight Potomac would see one shit of a firefight. Of that, Hal
Brognola was certain.
Damn Nazarour! A good man was out there risking his life because of
that Iranian jackal. How had Nazarour been allowed into the country in the
first place? Or rather, whose palms had been greased? When this thing was
over and he had a few spare seconds to breathe, Brognola promised himself
that he would find out. Sure, there was a good reason for Striker to be out
there tonight. A damn good reason, the way things stood now. This hit team
had to be stopped.
Brognola fired the cigar jutting from the corner of his mouth. He
glanced at his watch. Ten-fifty-nine. The team was going to hit within the
next seven and a half hours. Before dawn. That was the one thing the
previous hits did have in common: Karim Yazid and his men preferred night
work.
April walked into the room, interrupting Brognola's thoughts. She was
carrying two cups of coffee.
She handed one to Hal. "Nothing new out of Tehran," she reported.
"Except positive confirmation from an additional source that the attempt is
scheduled for tonight. Yazid's team caught a flight to Paris out of Tehran
yesterday morning, just as our first source reported."
Brognola grunted. "And at Paris they separated, picked up their phony
ids, and caught separate flights into the States, to rendezvous somewhere in
the D.C. area - It's easy to backtrack after the fact."
"You're really upset, Hal," April said. "What is it? Bad news?"
"I don't know." Hal was scowling at the phone in front of him. "I got a
call from Abbas Rafsanjani ten minutes ago. As of then, Striker hadn't shown
up at Potomac yet."
"He must've run into something between here and there." April's voice
was carefully emotionless, concealing the ache that had begun to gnaw at
her.
"I hope it's some sort of a lead," said Brognola, not looking at April.
"It can't be the enemy. Tehran has no pipeline into Stony Man. To waylay
him, they'd have to know where Striker was coming from. They don't know
that. And we didn't get the mission data ourselves until two hours ago."
"Mack's all right," said April quietly, firmly. "He'll be at Nazarour's
shortly. Obviously something has slowed him up, and he hasn't been able to