Havana Five. Don Pendleton
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Название: Havana Five
Автор: Don Pendleton
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Морские приключения
Серия: Gold Eagle Superbolan
isbn: 9781472086204
isbn:
The Executioner un-leathered his Beretta 93-R as he burst into the hallway, snap-aimed the pistol at the leader while on the move and squeezed off a double tap. The subsonic cartridges emitted a report not much louder than a discreet cough. The first round drilled through the leader’s side and spun him to face Bolan’s direction; the second blew a hole in his forehead and knocked him off his feet.
The remaining gunmen turned with surprise on their faces. They hadn’t expected to cover their flanks, assuming any trouble from that direction would have been handled by their scout. It was a fatal assumption for both. While the gunners had their pistols drawn they were not accustomed to the skilled resistance Bolan offered. The Executioner sighted and triggered a single shot that took one man through the throat. A bloody spray washed the wall to the man’s right. The second tried to zigzag for some type of cover but to no avail in such narrow confines and under such keen marksmanship. Bolan caught the guy with two rounds to the chest. The slugs slammed the man’s corpse against the wall with enough force to damage the plaster.
Movement to his right caused Bolan to track on the front door and two men in rumpled slacks, filthy suit shirts and shoeless feet dashed from the room. Bolan knew them immediately by their dossier pictures.
“Stein! Crosse! Let’s move!” Bolan called.
He gestured for them to come along and the two men didn’t hesitate in rushing to follow him.
“How the hell did you find us?” Crosse asked as he sidled up next to Bolan and struggled to keep up with the Executioner’s purposeful strides.
Bolan didn’t reply, instead keeping focused on their next task, which was escape. He led them to the stairwell, but as he pushed through the door he heard the door below open and the slap of boots on the stairs. Bolan pushed back and closed the door—so much for taking the stairs. Stein and Crosse started to protest at the sudden change of direction, but Bolan didn’t bother to stop and argue with them.
“This can wait,” the soldier replied flatly. “Now, you want to play twenty questions and die or would you like to get out of here alive?”
They stared at him dumbfounded, and Bolan continued down the hallway. The stairwell had been on the front end of motel, which meant there had to be some type of back entrance. Whoever was coming up those steps in force—and Bolan had every reason to think it was the cops springing their trap—might have all sides covered. That was okay, though, because Mack Bolan had a couple surprises of his own.
LESS THAN FIVE MINUTES after Rafael Encizo observed three heavies and their boss enter the motel, trouble erupted.
Encizo hadn’t been real big on Bolan’s plan, but he didn’t try to argue. This was Bolan’s show and they were under strict orders to do exactly as he said. Not that Encizo would have it any other way. Bolan had been at this game longer than just about all of them, and he trusted the man implicitly.
So Encizo waited and watched as the four men disappeared inside the motel. He didn’t have long to wait as Cuban police showed up a few minutes later. The commandant had taken the bait and sprung a trap—just as the Executioner predicted—but the earlier arrival of the as yet unidentified parties might introduce a complication into Bolan’s plan. Either way it didn’t much matter. He had his orders to follow as soon as the Cuban police made entry.
Encizo yanked a big cigar from the seat next to him, lit it, then cranked the radio full-blast and put the Oldsmobile in gear. He swung out onto the otherwise deserted lane and cruised slowly past the line of police vehicles parked in front of the motel. A pair of Cuban cops left to watch the front entrance swung their attention toward him as he passed. Encizo tossed them a salute—just another man out in his slum-mobile looking for a distraction—but the cops didn’t acknowledge him. By the time they passed into view of his side mirror, Encizo could see they had returned their attention to the motel.
He rounded the corner at the end of the block and stopped as soon as he was out of sight. Grimaldi slapped some coins on the table of the café, then vaulted a velvet rope cordoning the café from the sidewalk, dashed across the road and jumped into the passenger seat.
“Need a lift, sailor?” Encizo asked.
“Yeah, but just become I’m easy doesn’t mean I’m cheap,” Grimaldi joked.
Encizo smiled. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
The Cuban took off with a squeal of tires and headed to the narrow alley at the back of the motel. This wouldn’t be quite the subtle exit they’d hoped for but neither of these men was a stranger to the quick getaway. If all went as planned, the Executioner would have two DIA agents in tow, bringing them one step closer to the goal.
Encizo cranked hard on the wheel and swerved into the alley. The vehicle fishtailed a bit on the gravel but Encizo maintained total control. He brought the vehicle to a skidding halt at the back door of the motel, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake that threatened to choke them both out.
“Come on, Sarge,” Grimaldi muttered. “We’re running out of time….”
“Uh-oh,” Encizo cut in.
Grimaldi looked sharply at him. “What?”
Encizo didn’t reply, instead pointing directly ahead of them. Through the haze of dust Grimaldi saw a number of police cruisers turn into the alleyway from an entrance at the other end.
BOLAN IGNORED THE PROTESTS of Stein and Crosse who continued to demand answers where he had no time to give them. The Executioner gritted his teeth. He had conducted many a rescue mission, and he couldn’t remember playing nursemaid to a bigger pair of whiners than these two.
Locating the stairwell, he descended three at a time and stopped once to check the progress of his charges. Bolan watched with mild amusement as the pair stumble-bummed their way down the steps like a comedy team duo. When they caught up to him, Bolan continued the remainder of the way and stopped short at the rear exit. A heavy chain with a padlock secured the door.
“What the fu—?” Crosse began.
“That violates the fire code!” Stein sputtered.
Bolan looked at the pair disbelievingly. “Well, maybe we should stop at the front desk and complain.”
The sound of the second-floor door opening could barely be heard above the rush of footfalls coming toward the rear hallway running the length of the building. A quartet of Cuban officers raced around the corner at the far end. Bolan fired several warning shots above their heads, causing them to scatter for cover, then drove the butt of the pistol against the padlock several times to break it. Bolan disengaged the chain and pushed open the door, then waved the DIA agents through.
As Stein and Crosse passed, Bolan looked back to see the sentry he’d knocked out staggering down the steps, a machine pistol in his grip. The Executioner didn’t know where the guy had managed to get such a weapon on short notice, but he didn’t have to guess how he planned to use it from his expression. Even as the Cuban police fired on him, Bolan thumbed the Beretta to 3-shot mode and squeezed the trigger. A trio of 9 mm Parabellum slugs punched through the submachine gunner’s chest and lifted him off his feet. His back struck the wall and he left a bloody streak against it before he tumbled down the steps. Bolan was out the door before СКАЧАТЬ