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

groaned in protest at every movement. They sagged from the slightest weight.
The thick oak door was probably more than a hundred years old. It would
not take long for whoever was outside to pick its single-tumbler lock. Any
second now.
Bolan's cold eyes made one final sweep around the room to make sure
everything was in order. The table and chairs had been picked up, the window
reglazed, the blood scrubbed from the walls and floor, the body hauled away.
All disdone secretly, efficiently, by a special squad of General Wilson's
men. The General had thought it was the least he could do. Bolan had agreed
with him.
The U.S. Army was faced with potentially one of its most embarrassing
moments. Bolan felt the hot stale air from the hallway as it rushed in. The
air from the hallway smelled like fried haddock, while the air inside the
room stank of cheap booze. He'd made sure of that. As the footsteps
approached him, Mack Bolan decided he was ready. There were two of them. One
set of footsteps belonged to someone who could afford to lose some weight,
maybe twenty or thirty pounds. No matter how quiet he tried to be, Bolan
could hear him like he was a charging tank. The other set of footsteps
belonged to a woman. Of that he was certain. There was a lightness in the
sound.
Then a shadow washed across his face and Bolan knew she was circling to
face him. He had arranged the old goosenecked lamp in the corner to shine on
his face for effect. He continued to snore like a passed-out drunk, waiting
for them to make their move.
A large hand with huge stubby fingers grabbed his hair, jerked his head
sharply back, and a small knife blade was pressed against his throat. Bolan
felt the cool steel's pressure against his windpipe, but still he kept his
hands hidden under the table.
"What the goddamn..." Bolan spluttered, his eyes blinking open and
shut. His head bent back, he could see the woman standing in front of him,
and the 9mm Firebird automatic in her hand. It was pointing directly at his
forehead.
She was what the fashion houses called "classically" beautiful, except
that she had an unusually deep cleft in her chin. She looked to be barely
twenty-five, but stood calmly erect with the confidence of a much older
person: someone who was used to controlling any situation and getting her
own way. A tough lady. Her hair was long and black, with a sharp widow's
peak that dipped low over her forehead. Bolan recognized her immediately
from the photographs he had seen at Stony Man Farm. Tanya Morganslicht.
She was beautiful, yeah, but she was also one of the two leaders of
West Germany's most notoriously brutal gang of terrorists, the Zwilling
Horde. They were responsible for kneecap shootings, bank robberies, and the
torture and mutilation of the daughter of a wealthy American film star.
Beautiful, sure. Like a coiled cobra.
Bolan's hands twitched anxiously under the table.
Now was his chance to rid the world of one of its worst leeches.
A few silent, controlled breaths brought him under control. Timing was
everything right now, and this was not the time. Not quite yet.
"Sergeant Grendat?" she said in a polite and educated English.
"Yeah? So?" Bolan mumbled.