"Дон Пендлтон. The Libya Connection ("Палач" #48) " - читать интересную книгу автора

1

It was almost dawn.
The 125-foot yacht, ghostly silent, rode the calm surface of Exuma Cay,
230 nautical miles southeast of Miami. The smoothness of the water was like
dark glass.
It did not look to be a scene just minutes short of shattering into
hellfire and destruction.
But it was.
The big man broke the water's surface fifteen feet below the "pleasure
craft's" stern.
He moved soundlessly from stern to bow, then wrapped hands and ankles
around the heavy chain of the boat's anchor line. The dripping of the water
was the first sound he had made.
Bolan moved as one with the darkness. He hoisted himself upward,
rapidly.
The nightscorcher was outfitted for a hard, fast hit. At his right hip
rode the formidable .44 AutoMag, "Big Thunder." Beneath his left arm was the
9mm Beretta Brigadier equipped with a silencer of Bolan's own design. Both
weapons were protected by snap-sealed waterproof holsters. Hardpunch
munitions rode dry in the waterproof pouch at his left hip. The slit pockets
of his blacksuit carried garrotes and small knives. The suit, designed to
Bolan's specifications, was skintight, nothing to get snagged or impede
movement.
He dropped, catlike, onto the boat's deck.
The predawn stillness appeared undisturbed.
Bolan fisted the Beretta Belle. He eased into a crouch, scanning the
deck to encompass all that might lurk there.
Thirty feet separated him from a companionway that led below deck. Just
beyond the open hatch was the gray slab of a helicopter landing pad, twenty
feet by fifteen feet. Beyond that, the deck stretched to the main cabin and
the bridge. A radar dish, turning endlessly, was dimly visible there.
Bolan could make out the forms of two men standing watch behind the
windows of the wheelhouse. He saw the pinpoint glow of a cigarette.
He sprinted low and fast toward the hatchway. His black shoes were
designed to make no sound, wet or dry. He reached the hatchway and
disappeared into it.
Aboard this yacht there was a Puerto Rican agent, and she was known to
Mack Bolan.
Known and respected.
And loved.
Bolan moved with the swift advantage of prior intel to a below-deck
companionway that led to the fuel tanks. He paused briefly beside the tanks
and unsnapped the waterproof pouch at his left hip, withdrawing a
plastic-wrapped clump of plastique explosive that he wedged in between the
tanks and the hull. He inserted a timer fuse, set the detonation cap for
five minutes, then continued on into the companionway, toward the sound of
murmuring voices.
Masculine, relaxed sounds.