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

a weak, pasty face made the effect utterly demonic.
In the center of the table were seven or eight .45 M1911AI handguns
heaped together; also about two dozen clips of ammo. The young corporal
dropped a few flakes of shredded napkin onto the pile of guns and snickered.
"Look, Sarge, it's snowing in Germany." Sergeant Grendal saw what the
corporal was doing and sighed. Suddenly his meaty hand lashed out across the
table and slapped the corporal's cheek in a hard-knuckled backhand.
"What the hell to..." the corporal cried, covering his cheek with both
hands. "What'd you do that for, Sarge?" he whined.
Grendal leaned back into his chair again and tossed another card across
the room. Ten of hearts.
It dropped neatly into his cap. "You're fuckin' with the merchandise,
boy. This ain't no little deal like you're used to makin' with your grunt
buddies. This is big business with big bucks, and I don't want no
shit-kicking punk like you treating it lightly. Get my meaning, boy?" The
corporal stayed sullen, still pressing his hands against a swollen cheek.
Two small drops of blood trickled out of a nostril. He smeared them away
with the back of his hand.
"I didn't mean nothing."
The sergeant's voice was taunting. "You never do, Billy boy. So just
try to sit still and be good like Gary here. Right, Gary?"
The redheaded PFC smiled weakly. "R-right, Sarge," he stammered. Bolan
felt rage throb thickly into his brain.
These "soldiers," especially the bloated Sergeant Grendal, they were
prepared to deal in the death and terror of innocent victims for nothing
more than a handful of paper dollars. Bolan cursed such people even more
than the actual terrorists themselves, because cynical bastards of this ilk
did not even have a phony political slogan to hide behind. Except "me
first". And before his eyes here, they were wearing the uniform of the
United States Army. Mack Bolan was aware that to some soldiers the uniform
was just an outfit you had to wear, nothing more. But to the Executioner and
a few damn good men he knew, the uniform meant a million things more.
Symbolic, in a word. It meant you stood for something good and right and you
were ready to show the world you'd do anything to protect certain important
and selfevident values.
To Bolan it should always be that you could take one look at such a
uniform and know that the man or woman in it had a code of honor and justice
that would not ever be compromised. And the big guy had seen too many of his
buddies spill their guts into the stinking swamps of Indo-China in defense
of their uniform, and what it stood for to let scum like this dishonor it.
That was going to cost them.
Yeah. They were gonna pay that price in full.
Bolan checked his watch again. Fifteen seconds left. He unsnapped the
Beretta and slipped it out of its holster. The solid weight felt, as usual,
appropriate in his hand. Good and right. The muscles in his legs tensed like
coiled snakes as he rocked onto his toes, waiting.
The loudest sound to him now was the thumping of his own heart, so
anxious to act.
As he counted off the final three seconds, he felt the predictable cold
spurt of adrenaline spearing through his stomach.