"Дон Пендлтон. Blood Sport ("Палач" #46) " - читать интересную книгу автора

as deadly. Some say deadlier."
"The assignment has changed," Bolan said simply.
"I guess," confirmed Hal Brognola. "Originally we expected you only to
stop the arms sale, thus crippling the Zwilling Horde as much as we were
able to at the time. But now the ante has gone up. We have to find out why
they, kidnapped those sports people so many days ago, and we must free them
if at all possible. But whether that is possible or not, you have to stop
whatever the Zwilling Horde is planning. Stop them for good, Striker."
"There's only one way to get that far," he said casually.
"I know."
"Means I'll be out of contact for a while. Don't know how long."
"Am aware," muttered Brognola.
"I'll have to get going," Bolan concluded in a low voice. "Company's
coming in a couple hours.
"Anything you need, guy?"
"Just your good wishes, Hal."
"All the way to hell," Brognola growled.
Bolan laughed softly, then broke the connection.
"Good wishes," April Rose whispered into the empty line. Brognola
nodded silently. The hellrains were due to fall once more, in Europe,
tortured continent of oppression and endless centuries of war. Mack was in
the pits of the earth again, back where hell reigned triumphant over failed
politics and broken economies and badly divided societies. Back to where
hell was real-daily, and endlessly. Back to where fie had to be, if the
torrential terrors of our modern times were to be stemmed before the murky
tide drowned reason again, as it had over there in the two big ones this
century already.
Back to where things were supposedly so civilized.
Like hell.
Sophisticated weapons were being stolen from the U.S. Army in Germany.
Some of these weapons were in the hands of terrorists. And now kidnappers.
Evil creatures out to make an international reputation for themselves at the
expense of thousands of lives, and at the expense of the reputation of the
United States Army stationed overseas. Bolan would trace this rampaging
wrong to its wretched source. And then there would truly be hell to pay.
In the shape of the Executioner.

3

Mack Bolan sat hunched over the scarred folding table, his eyes closed,
his lips puffing loosely in a half-snore. The .44 AutoMag lay flung on the
table with its clip empty and removed, the 240-gram bullets scattered across
the tabletop like toppled toy soldiers. Next to his resting forehead was a
cluster of empty brown bottles of Grolsch Dunkel Bier. A floorboard creaked
outside his hotel door.
Bolan's hands, hidden beneath the table, tightened in anticipation. He
snored a little louder.
A faint scratching noise at his door.
Come right in, yeah. The water's fine.
In a building this old, it was hard to move silently. The floorboards