Armed Response. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
POWER PLAY
Funded by an American oil company, a rogue general sets out to stage a coup in the drought-stricken Republic of Djibouti. Once the man’s soldiers have forced the region into civil unrest and assassinated the political leaders, he intends to take control and oust America from its only sub-Saharan military base.
That’s the plan. A plan Mack Bolan must put a stop to. Joined by a burned-out CIA agent and an aid worker, Bolan targets the US financier and the mercenaries they’re bringing into the country. Hunted by the police and the army and targeted by assassins, the Executioner won’t stop until the general and his collaborators face their retribution.
A crack rent the air
The unexpected noise came from behind the Executioner. He turned his head quickly to witness the black canopy opening, then checked the altimeter on his right wrist.
The parachute was deploying too early.
An invisible hand grabbed Bolan by his neck and jerked him into an upright position, his head snapping backward. His hands flew automatically to the risers that would enable him to gain some semblance of control in his descent. They weren’t there, and his terminal velocity hadn’t significantly decreased.
Bolan looked up and cursed. The black parachute, all three hundred and seventy square feet of it, had collapsed and become entangled in itself. Bolan plummeted toward the ground.
Completely out of control.
Armed Response
Don Pendleton
Though I walk in the midst of trouble, you preserve my life; you stretch out your hand against the wrath of my enemies, and your right hand delivers me.
—Psalms 138:7
Threaten the innocent, and I will threaten you. Take an innocent life, and I will take yours. Steal what is not yours, I will reclaim it. No place is dark enough to hide from my wrath.
—Mack Bolan
Dedicated to members of the Red Cross, who leave their homes and families at a moment’s notice to assist those who have lost everything
Djibouti City, Djibouti,
Horn of Africa
Air-conditioning.
Peter Douglas stood in the foyer of the Waverley Hotel and breathed deeply, ignoring the chaos around him along with the dust and dirt that stuck to his sweat-stained face. The temperature outside was already at an unbearable level, while the foyer was an oasis of comfort.
Douglas listened to his partner coughing next to him, trying to adjust to the temperature difference as quickly as possible. Yes, air-conditioning had to be one of man’s greatest inventions and he briefly wondered how the hotel kept it running during these troubled times. But only briefly, only out of curiosity. In reality he didn’t want to know and vowed to return to the Waverley as often as possible.
This day, however, it was business and information that brought the two CIA agents to the uptown hotel on the edge of the Plateau de Serpent, the more luxurious end of Djibouti City, if one could say that living in a famine- and drought-stricken region could in any way be luxurious. Douglas took another deep breath, removed his sunglasses and surveyed his surroundings, wondering if his newly assigned partner, Peter Davies, was doing the same. What a joke that was. Somebody at Langley had to have been having a laugh at the time. Peter and Peter, the washed-out, veteran has-been and the rookie. Let’s put them together in the hellhole of the Horn of Africa and see what happens. Assholes.
The hotel foyer was a chaotic jumble of humanity and equipment. Sports bags and other paraphernalia were piled up against the wall as aid workers and journalists milled around, waiting for rides out of the city to the refugee camps. People were shouting at one another and at the staff behind the reception desk, demanding to know where they were supposed to go. Didn’t the staff know who they were?
Douglas