Frontier Fury. Don Pendleton
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Название: Frontier Fury
Автор: Don Pendleton
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Приключения: прочее
isbn: 9781472085061
isbn:
He strode across the flat top of the APC and caught the soldiers as they tried to organize—four men armed with Kalashnikovs, two of them with bloodstains showing on their desert-camo uniforms.
Their blood, or someone else’s?
Bolan didn’t care.
His AKMS raked the four men from left to right, then back again, making them dance as bullets ripped through flesh and fabric, dropping them before they could return fire. Bolan waited for another moment, covering the exit hatch. When no one else emerged, he readied himself for the nine-foot drop, prepared to check out the interior. Just as he flexed his knees to jump, he heard a scraping sound behind him.
One of the shell-shocked soldiers had been strong and smart enough to flank him. Now, unless Bolan could spin and drop at the same time, fire from the hip and nail the man who meant to kill him—
Halfway through his turn, Bolan flinched at the report of a Kalashnikov on autofire. Already braced to take the bullets that he knew were coming, the big American blinked, surprised to see his would-be slayer sprawled across the APC’s gun turret, facedown in a spreading pool of blood.
“He’s dead, I think,” Gorshani called up to him from the ground.
“I’d say you’re right,” Bolan replied. “Now, let’s get out of here.”
4
Mount Khakwani, North-West Frontier Province
The messenger’s name was Harata Bhutani. At thirty-four, he was the youngest man permitted access to the leaders of al Qaeda in hiding. All of the command staff’s other aides were ten or twelve years older—and, of course, they all were men.
Akram Ben Abd al-Bari would not trust a woman—even his own mother, were she living—with the knowledge of his whereabouts, much less his current plans. To him and those around him, granting any power to a woman reeked of sacrilege.
Bhutani drove his battered motorcycle up a narrow, winding mountain road that was, at least in theory, wide enough for a small sedan. He didn’t like to think about what might occur if two cars traveling in opposite directions met each other on the road. There was no room to pass, much less to turn around, and driving in reverse, he thought, would have been tantamount to suicide.
It’s not my problem, he consoled himself. Bhutani did not own a car and never would. He had a driver’s license, chiefly for delivery of martyrs to the towns where they would detonate the vests of high explosives hidden underneath their robes. On such occasions the car was always provided by his masters, and then discarded after it had served its purpose.
The small bike that he rode now, with its imported Chinese engine, cost 37,000 rupees in a showroom—about 575 U.S. dollars. Bhutani had only paid roughly half of that, considering its age, but it had served him well.
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