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

headlights. Bolan dropped back another few car lengths to compensate and
held steady. No need to be on top of them, as long as they were in sight.
He reached behind him and grabbed the Uzi. The weapon was equipped with
an enlarged, extra-capacity magazine, fastened at a right angle for speed
and quick reload. Bolan knew that when he engaged these men, he would need
to move fast, with maximum hard punch. The Uzi, with its relatively moderate
rate of fire and its accuracy in open spaces, was perfect for the job. The
odds would still be stacked; the lady's safety was still on the line
(whoever the hell she was). But there would be no dicking around when Bolan
took on these four - whoever the hell they were. None at all.
Both cars were moving smoothly in and out of the sparse traffic now,
continuing east on MacArthur. With the Uzi nestled beside his right hip,
Bolan next snatched up the small UHF radio transceiver attached to his belt,
which kept him in contact with home base.
Stony Man Farm, the 160-acre nerve center of Mack Bolan/John Phoenix's
"new war," was a mere ninety miles to the south, in Virginia's Blue Ridge
country. As usual, there was a team sitting back there at this very moment,
doing overtime on this mission. A beauty named April Rose and a damn good
buddy and head fed named Hal Brognola, waiting to assist or supply backup at
the sending of an S.O.S.
Bolan did not feel the necessity of bringing in reinforcements, but
Stony Man had to be told. They could relay word to those awaiting Bolan in
the house back within those walled-in grounds - to the people Bolan had been
on his way to protect. At least the estate had its own security force, which
had served adequately - up until now. They would have to hold on a bit
longer.
Before Bolan could make contact, however, the car up ahead accelerated
with a sudden, unexpected burst of speed and skidded into a sharp right,
zooming off the highway and out of sight amid a cluster of tall white oak.
Bolan dropped the radio and threw caution to the wind, sending the
Corvette speeding in pursuit, wheeling onto the narrow blacktop road only
seconds behind the first car.
A sign went zipping by to his right: Chesapeake & Ohio Canal National
Park. Lock 17 Parking Lot.
The road curved and dipped up ahead. The Malibu's taillights were
nowhere in sight. Bolan decreased his speed slightly, but continued on. So
they were leading him toward the old canal and the Potomac River a few yards
beyond. The river, with its strong undertow, would be ideal for disposal of
an unwanted body. But the Malibu's destination was not to be that obvious.
The narrow, seven-mile-long park was deserted at this hour and there were
plenty of spots for an ambush.
They were waiting for him at the base of the first rise, just beyond a
short underpass that cut beneath a stretch of old railroad track that ran
along the canal's bank. They must have spotted him along that stretch of
MacArthur, despite his precautions. Now they were parked at the point where
the road widened for a parking lot. They obviously intended to zap the
Corvette as it came out through the underpass. But they had not taken into
account the glint of moonlight off the Malibu's chrome. Or the fact that
their target was approaching from high ground. Or the capabilities of the
man behind the Vette's wheel. Now it was too late.