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

the powerful odor indicated to be fertilizer.
"Right here," said Mack Bolan.
"Here?" She surveyed the stacks of bags, piled to a height of fifteen
feet on pallets.
She guessed there were at least ten wooden pallets up to the back wall.
""Watch." Bolan grabbed a hand-operated dolly, slipped the metal prongs
into the slots of one of the pallets, then dragged the wooden platform back.
Behind it was pitch blackness.
"Generally the smell keeps most people away," Bolan told her as he
started into the entrance.
Inside was wooden bracing separating and supporting walls made up of
hundreds of bags of fertilizer. The stench was staggering.
"It ain't much," Bolan said, "but I call it home."
She sighed wearily. "Can we get to business, Sergeant Grendal?"
Bolan handed the woman the flashlight, then hefted a crowbar and pried
off the lid of a nearby crate. He reached in, pushed aside some packing
material, pulled out a .45 MW submachine gun. He held it at chest level for
a second, smiled, then tossed it across the space at her. She caught it with
one hand, nearly dropped it, regained her grip with both hands and examined
it.
"This is different than the ones we have," she said, fumbling with the
flashlight.
Bolan shrugged. "You might have some of the old M3's. The MW is an
upgraded version. It's a superior weapon."
She looked up from the gun and stared at Bolan in tire fragmented
gloom. "How so?"
He had a feeling she damn well knew the difference, was just testing
him out. "First you'll notice the larger ejection port here. The old
retracting handle's been eliminated. Also, this piece has got a finger hole
for cocking and a larger oil can inside the grip. It's got a stronger cover
spring, a guard added for the magazine catch, a stock plate and magazine
filler added to the stock. She weighs eight pounds but can fire three-fifty
to four-fifty rounds permin was ute at approximately nine hundred and twenty
feet per second. Quite a handful. In the right hands."
"It's nice," she said simply, laying the gun aside on top of a crate."
"Nice? You have a flair for understatement, lady."
"What else do you have?"
"Pretty much what I told you before. Two crates of these M3Als, a
couple of the M1911AI.45 pistols. I can get you grenade launchers within the
week and probably some 7.62mm NATO machine guns by the end of the month."
She shook her head impatiently.
"Let's just talk about what you have right now, Sergeant. Here and
now."
"Well, I do have one particular item you might like." He disappeared
behind two monolithic crate's and came up with what looked like a laser gun
out of some science fiction epic.
She gasped.
"Yeah, I knew you'd feel that way," he nodded, stroking the weapon.
"It's a Heckler and Koch G-11 Caseless assault gun. This smooth exterior is
a very tough plastic with the one scope mount an integral part of the