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

right, "enemy" or not. He took no joy from the death of such men. But he
also did not shrink from the call of his duty as he perceived it. He could
respect and still kill the holy warrior of whatever persuasion who sought to
dominate the world as a means of saving it. He did not and could not,
however, find any respect in his warrior's heart for those who
indiscriminately killed and maimed innocents and terrorized populations in
the name of their "holy" cause.
The cause is defamed and the war debased when children are murdered as
deliberate pawns for power, and Bolan has no stomach for those who proxied
their battles onto safe streets against a defenseless "enemy," no matter
what the cause or motivation.
IRA, SLA, PLO or PDQ ( whomever and whatever, these initialized
would-be warriors who dealt only in terror and intimidation of
civil-populaces would find no stir of regret from the likes of a Mack Bolan
should they ever rise into his gunsights; he would give them what they had
bought by their own activities, and their blood would make no stains upon
his soul. The world had changed, yes, and so had Mack Bolan... but not that
much.
Not that much. The enemies of Man were still their own judges and their
own juries-and Bolan was still their Executioner. Some things would never
change.

1

Mack Bolan flattened himself against the dirty brick building and slid
cautiously around the corner. The narrow garbage-strewn alley was
oppressively dark. It smelled of urine and decay. Dank puddles from the
morning's heavy rain still freckled the grimy cobblestones like pools of
black ink.
The puddles nearest the main streets reflected shades of red neon. Each
sign, in various stages of disrepair, was promising something just short of
paradise.
Paradise, sure, Bolan frowned with disgust that was the place where
there was no morning after. But Bolan was not concerned with paradise right
now. More like its opposite.
He held his breath a moment, listening for threatening sounds. There
was nothing too unusual. Just the normal night-life noises of too much drink
and laughter that was too loud. Things that folks did to hide the too little
happiness that goes with life in a dumpy hotel in a sleazy part of
Frankfurt, Germany. Bolan waited for a flurry of headlights to pass by
before sticking his head back around the corner and waving briskly for the
two MP'S to follow.
Seconds later he heard the clomp of heavy combat boots as the MP'S
jogged around the corner, splashing through the murky puddles, M16-AI rifles
clutched in front of them. They came expectantly to Bolan, young faces alive
with determination to do a good job for the mysterious Colonel Phoenix to
whom they had been assigned only a couple of hours before. Both had less
than two years experience in the U.S. Army. But they knew enough to
recognize a real soldier when they saw one. And they saw one in this Colonel
Phoenix. "Yes, sir!" was Corporal Philo Tandy reported, snapping to