"Дон Пендлтон. Renegade Agent ("Палач" #47) " - читать интересную книгу автора

the terrorist brigades, however, there were some who were motivated by
misplaced idealism. However inexcusably wrong-headed their ideas of how they
would run society, however vicious their damfool methods of imposing their
will, Bolan recognized that one in a hundred of these tagmen were dedicated
warriors. They just goddamned put themselves in the cross fire. He would
have to be careful. But for the Frederick, Charons of the world, Bolan felt
no reluctance to curb his blazing powers of attrition whatsoever. He knew
that, to the core of his soldier's heart.
"I've got Hal," Aaron Kurtzman called.
On the opposite wall was mounted an oversized 5by-5 TV screen. It could
be used to display computer-generated graphics, maps, charts, photos, or in
conjunction with the communication system.
On it now, there appeared the imposing, graying figure of Harold
Brognola, twice as big as life, slightly distorted by the screen's
curvature, and looking grim. There had been a time when Bolan and Brognola
had been adversaries-unwillingly so, but adversaries nevertheless. In that
other lifetime of the Executioner, Brognola had been pledged to bring his
head in on a pike, even though he was aware that this man had done more to
hobble the Mafia hyena in a few years than Brognola's Org Crime unit had
done in decades. After the Las Vegas campaign, however, Brognola the
pragmatist took over from Brognola the man, and though cop to the core, he
could no longer pursue such a death hunt. By the latter days of the Mafia
wars, Brognola was lending active support to the blitzing fighter, and it
was he who made the president know that the country needed Mack Bolan in the
new wars against the terror-brokers.
Brognola nodded and said, "Hello, Striker." He paused, pinching at the
bridge of his nose. Bolan could see the weariness in that good face.
"Frederick Charon," Brognola said finally. "It turns out he was only the tip
of an iceberg."
"If you find the tip, you find the iceberg."
"That's right," Brognola grinned wanly. "And this is one iceberg we
ought a blow right out of the water."

2

Bolan's chronometer read 1610:30 when April Rose came into his personal
billet at Stony Man Farm. He was fully awake before she eased open the door;
back in his Vietnam days he had cultivated the facility for combat sleep,
had taught himself to relax and recharge the physical and psychic batteries
while remaining alert to any signal, any danger or approach.
April was standing just inside the doorway, her fine figure silhouetted
by the hallway light.
"We've got a wedge in," she announced.
Bolan nodded grimly and arose from the bed.
Frederick Charon's computer had finally yielded at least some of its
secrets.
"Gadgets and Aaron were working on it most of the day," April told him
as they moved down the corridor. "Gadgets was pulled away an hour ago. Able
Team has been activated." Bolan dug the last cigarette from a crumpled pack.
As commander of the Stony Man Farm cadres, he always felt tension when his