Outback Assault. Don Pendleton
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Название: Outback Assault
Автор: Don Pendleton
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Приключения: прочее
isbn: 9781472085191
isbn:
Violence against violence, to preserve life, she thought. If she fell, then the gangsters and their hired thugs would kill other members of the tribe to keep them silent about the activities on their stolen land. She certainly did not want to die, but she also knew living would be made hollow if she let down her grandfather.
Wangara tucked her chin down against her chest and continued through the bus terminal, weaving in time with the crowd around her. Someone on the periphery of the group jerked his attention toward her, the sudden movement focusing Wangara like a laser on him. It was a young Asian man, wearing black sunglasses and a battered leather jacket too large for his slight frame, but with enough drape to hide a pair of sawed-off shotguns under its folds. She returned to staring at the floor, walking quickly to keep pace with the other tourists.
The young Chinese man tried to push through the throng of departing bus riders, but Wangara was out the door and turning down the street. There was another Asian man outside, this one wearing an overly large jacket, except in denim. He reached under his lapel, watching her through his impenetrable shades. Wangara fought not to run, not to look at the gunman out of the corner of her eye.
Acknowledgment of her hunters would give them the advantage. They were holding back, not quite sure if she was the prey they were seeking. If she bolted, or even if she glared at them too long to study them, they would be certain and act quickly to either restrain her or just pull their guns and fill her with holes.
Wangara kept to the main street. The gangsters would be hesitant to act in the open, with so many witnesses around. The reason she was being hunted was to keep the triad’s scheme from being discovered. The blatant, public assassination of a young woman on the run from her Aboriginal tribal lands would draw attention like a lightning rod.
The man with the denim jacket pulled out a cell phone and spoke into it. He turned it toward her, and Wangara knew she couldn’t suddenly look away, despite the fact that she knew he was using the cell’s camera attachment. She only hoped that the usually blurry distance shots would make her identification difficult, especially since the young mob tough was only able to catch an angled profile.
It wasn’t much, but she was grateful for any advantage she had. The weight of the rocks in the bag on her shoulder gave her more reassurance, but nothing would last forever. Sooner or later, the man in the jean jacket would move in to make a final identification, and Wangara would have to fight or die.
She hoped that her grandfather was right about the lone crusader.
THE EXECUTIONER STOOD in the doorway of Red’s Sporting Supply, his eyes adjusting to the light.
“Plastic surgery again?”
Bolan scanned the small sporting goods store and saw an older man with a rust-colored crew cut and a nose that had been mashed flat in countless fights. Dark, hard eyes glared out from under a beetle brow as he evaluated the newcomer.
Bolan nodded.
“You’re paranoid, Wade,” Red said. “Come in the back.”
“Sure,” Bolan replied, adopting Wade’s speech patterns, but speaking softly.
“What’d you do to your throat?” the arms supplier asked.
“Had the surgeon give it a few scrapes,” Bolan explained. “Change my voice just enough. Figured a new face isn’t any good without an altered voice.”
“Like I said, Wade. Paranoid.”
Bolan smiled. “I’m still alive.”
Red laughed as they entered the back room. There was a door and from the other side, Bolan could hear muffled pops coming through a basement stairwell entrance. Signs on the windows out front had mentioned a public range, firearms rentals, as well as a storage fee for personally owned weapons. “I’ve got a bag ready for you, based on what you texted me.”
Bolan nodded and walked over to the gym bag with the All Blacks logo on the side. He unzipped it, looking at a pair of pistol rugs and a short rifle case.
“The rifle’s been broken down, but if you want to look at it, I’ll let you check it out on the range,” Red said. He tossed Bolan a pair of ear protectors and some shooting glasses.
Bolan donned them and took the bag to the basement range.
“Won’t be able to sight in at a distance,” Red said, following him down, wearing his own ear and eye protection.
“I know how to zero based on close range,” Bolan replied as he opened the case. He assembled the weapon, recognizing it as a VEPR. Considering that the VEPR was a reengineered RPK machine gun, itself a derivative of the AK-47, the Executioner knew it would be a good, tough rifle, immune to any hostile environment he’d drag it through. He looked at the magazine and saw that it was chambered for .300 Winchester Magnum rounds. The rifle’s reinforced receiver could handle the extra-powerful cartridge. Whereas the AK itself had been made from stamped steel, the VEPR was made of stronger metal, with a stronger bolt, designed for firing prolonged bursts from extended light-machine-gun-sized magazines. On single shot, it would handle the .300 Magnum rounds just fine. The wooden AK furniture had been replaced by desert camouflage reinforced fiberglass. He attached a scope and test fired. With the rifle set to a “point-blank” of 200 yards, at a mere 25 yards he knew how high the first shot should hit. The test impact was within millimeters of Bolan’s estimation, and he reset the scope.
The balance was almost perfect, though the shoulder stock was a little short for his long arms. It would do, he thought, and looked to Red.
“If you’re going to pretend to be Wade, you should be a little more finicky,” the store owner said.
Bolan tensed.
“Don’t worry. You’re still a paying customer, but you should realize, Eugene contacted me,” Red stated.
“So why aren’t you worried about me?” Bolan asked, using his normal voice.
Red pointed to the bag. “Because if you were going to try to kill me, there’s enough weaponry in there to take me and my boys out.”
Bolan was aware that the other two shooters on the line had stopped firing and were glancing at him.
“You could have given me dummy ammunition,” Bolan stated. “Or sealed off the rounds in separate containers, like you did with the rifle.”
“The magazines for the pistols are empty,” Red explained. “But even so, you’ve got a pair of good working knives in there. If you’re good enough to take down Wade in hand-to-hand, the revolver in my pocket wouldn’t be worth much against you.” The black-market dealer pulled a small Smith & Wesson Centennial from his pocket and set it on a counter.
“You’re right. I am a paying customer. And the only reason I’d mix it up with you and your boys would be if you made a move against me,” Bolan stated honestly.
“Face-to-face, СКАЧАТЬ