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

attention. His trim blond hair peeked out from under his white MP helmet. He
was very large and very young. "What next, sir?"
"Justias we planned it, Corporal," Bolan said, standing tall before
them in his skin-tight black nightsuit. The .44 AutoMag was strapped to his
hip. The 9mm Beretta Brigadier, with sound suppressor screwed tightly in
place, rode snugly in the snap-draw holster under Bolan's left arm.
Extra clips were tucked away within easy reach.
Should he need them.
He hoped he wouldn't. Just a quick round-up operation. In and out with
nobody hurt, that was the plan. Plans, of course, like people, have a way of
unraveling on their own.
It had been a tough probe right from the start, with no time for the
usual precautions. Mack did'nt like rushing in like some comicbook soldier,
a grenade in each hand and a submachine gun clenched between his teeth.
Hell, he had hardly had time to change his fatigues from the Warco
wipeout in the Everglades when Hal Brognola and April Rose cornered him
during a quiet dinner at Stony Man Farm.
Brognola had addressed him as Striker, and Bolan immediately knew
something foul was in the wind.
At the mention of his code name, his fresh four-inch wound earned in
Algeria smarted as if in alert.
Information had come directly from the Defense Intelligence Agency, but
not nearly as specific as Stony Man Farm would have liked except for the
timetable. Specifically, it was a now-or-never operation. April and Hal had
shown him photographs and filled him in on the few details they knew. Too
damn few, and Bolan had complained about it at the time.
But in this business, damn few was sometimes all you got.
So it had to be enough. And this time it was.
Certainly enough to send him packing, still chewing his porterhouse
steak as Jack Grimaldi joined him to jet them both to Frankfurt. To stop a
"business" meeting that must never take place.
Not if Mack Bolan could help it.
Bolan looked at the two anxious MP'S assigned to him and grimaced.
Corporal Philo Tandy was a baby-faced hulk from Tennessee who towered over
Bolan like a cement wall. He had told Colonel Phoenix that he still dreamed
of parlaying a Creek Bend High School MVP football trophy into an NFL
half-back career, after he had paid his dues to Uncle Sam.
Not dumb, Bolan knew, just a mite inexperienced in the ways of the
world outside Creek Bend, Tennessee. Not so his partner. Corporal Isaac
Cleveland was a skinny, soft-spoken black man from Miami who had taken the
trouble to learn German while stationed overseas and was now studying
Russian. He was apparently not the kind of man to waste an opportunity: if
he stayed in the army, Bolan realized, he would probably end up a general.
And considering the mess that Bolan had been sent over to straighten out,
the army could use a few more officers like Isaac Cleveland.
Okay, maybe they were not the toughest or most experienced MP'S in the
world, but they were the best General Wilson could come up with on such
short notice. The general had huffed about security clearances for almost
twenty minutes before Bolan had stopped him with a few choice words of his
own.