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

maintenance shop, and warehouse of Transworld Import/export, the MI5 front
through which Sir Philip, was transshipping the missile guidance system
prototype. It was a corrugated tin building that stood off by itself beyond
Terminal One, the Heathrow facility reserved for domestic and European
flights operated by U.K. airlines.
Facing away from the terminal were double loading-bay doors on rollers;
opposite was the entrance.
Bolan watched from the shadow of the terminal as Sir Philip Drummond
crossed to the entrance, trailed by Lemon. The Russian mole produced a
key-ring and unlocked the pitted metal entry.
Electric light flared inside the windowless building, then the door
swung shut. Bolan gave them twenty beats before following. The key he had
been provided by MI5 turned noiselessly in the lock. He also came equipped
with a neat little .45 Detonics, the cut-down gun so good for
concealability.
The inside of the hangar was a single cavernous room, except for a line
of offices along one wall. Light showed there behind a frosted glass door.
Close up, Bolan could hear the soft murmur of Sir Philip's voice. Bolan
soundlessly eased the Detonics free of leather, raised it head-high and
slammed the barrel into the frosted glass.
Sir Philip was seated behind a chipped scarred desk, holding a
telephone receiver. He recradled it, looked up at the gun-toting stranger
framed by the jagged shards still clinging to the window frame, and murmured
fatuously.
The MI5 bodyguard was to Bolan's left, his back to the wall, hands
loose at his side, unmoving. He stared at Bolan expressionlessly.
Bolan turned the inside doorknob and came into the office. Glass
crunched underfoot.
Without looking in the bodyguard's direction, Bolan said, "All right,
Lemon, you know what to do." From the corner of his eye, Bolan caught the
flash of gunmetal. He whirled, but Lemon had already dropped to a crouch.
Bolan started a defensive roll.
Lemon shot him in the left shoulder.
Bolan felt the shock of the bullet furrow into his flesh, but seconds
would pass before pain followed.
Only a fraction of the first second was gone when Bolan roared up and
struck the young-blood bodyguard.
Lemon fired again, but Bolan's shoulder shoved into Lemon's arm, and
the slug buried itself in the ceiling as Bolan's full weight pinned the man
in a sprawl against the wall. Lemon tried to get a knee between Bolan's
legs. Bolan twisted clear. This time pain lanced savagely through his
shoulder.
Then his right hand was free. He smashed the barrel of the little
Detonics against the British agent's temple, and the man went down. Bolan
rolled clear. Sir Philip was halfway out of his desk chair. "Don't." Bolan
waved the .45. Sir Philip sat down again. The body on the floor lay
motionless.
Lemon's gun, an Enfield .38 revolver with a two-inch barrel, was still
in his outflung hand.
Bolan plucked it away, stood, tucked it into his belt.