Don Pendleton - Conflict Zone

“Younger?” he anticipated her, half smiling.

“Older,” she replied. “Someone who’s finished living anyway, and doesn’t have a family. Someone who won’t mind being shot or blown to pieces by a pack of murderers.”

“I can’t just cut and run,” Ross said.

“Oh, wait—I know this one. Because it isn’t manly, right? I’ve got a news flash for you, Dad. Even Dirty Harry knew when to quit. A man should know his limitations.”

That made him bristle. “Are you saying I’ve reached mine?”

“That’s right!” she said. “For this place, here and now, I am. There’s nothing in this country worth your life. The money doesn’t matter.”

“You say that because you’ve always had it,” he replied.

“I’ve always had you, too. Ask me which one I’d rather do without.”

“Mandy, this trouble should be settled soon.”

“Oh, sure. And it’s been going on how long, now? Since the sixties? We learn history at Vassar, Dad. I’ve learned that nothing ever changes for the better here.”

“It may surprise you.”

“With your funeral?”

Ross felt his irritation slipping over into anger.

“That’s enough!” he snapped. “You’re on the jet in one hour and out of here, even if Clint has to hog-tie you. Got it?”

“Right, then.” He couldn’t tell if her eyes were glassy with anger or brimming with tears. “Will you at least send Cooper with me?”

“Who?”

“Matt Cooper. Jesus, Dad! The man who saved my life? Does any of this ring a bell?”

“Sorry,” he said. “We weren’t exactly introduced.”

“Whatever. Can he drive me to the airport?”

“Sorry, no. He’s gone already,” Ross told her, fudging it, unsure if that was literally true or not. “His job’s not done, apparently.”

“Apparently? As if you didn’t know.”

“He doesn’t work for me, Princess.”

“I see. He does a good deed every day, and this time he just happened to select Nigeria. Makes perfect sense.”

“He was referred to us, all right? By whom, I couldn’t say. That kind of thing is need-to-know, and it appears I don’t.”

“I swear, Dad, sometimes—”

“If you plan on packing anything, you need to start right now,” he warned. “One hour till your flight. Tick, tock.”

She turned and fairly stormed out of the office, which was bad, in terms of parent-child relations, but a bonus if it got her moving without any further argument. When she was gone, he buzzed Clint Hamer in.

“All ready, boss?” asked K-Tech’s top security consultant in Nigeria.

“We’re getting there. You know the drill, right?”

“Absolutely. Straight out to the airport, wait until she’s airborne, then straight back.”

“And anyone who tries to stop you on the way—”

“Will wish he hadn’t, while he’s bleeding out,” Hamer replied.

“Sounds fair to me,” Jared Ross said.

BOLAN HAD half expected that the loaner car would be a classic from Detroit, but K-Tech had surprised him. He supposed it stood to reason, after all. When they were pumping oil from five continents, why would the corporate brass care whose engine burned the fuel and spewed its waste into the atmosphere?

So, he was looking at a reasonably new and clean Toyota Yaris, four doors and a hatchback, in some kind of silver-gray shade that he thought should be unobtrusive in traffic. It wouldn’t be the fastest car on the road, or much good for ramming, but Bolan wasn’t planning to enter a NASCAR event.

He needed wheels for pure mobility, and possibly to help him stay alive. If the loaner should be damaged in the process, he’d find some way to replace it.

That was life.

Grimaldi, having taken his advice, wasn’t around when Bolan stored most of his hardware in the trunk. A baggy shirt, unbuttoned and untucked, hid the Beretta 93-R in a fast-draw shoulder rig, with spare mags pouched under his right arm. And just to be on the safe side, he held back a couple of Russian-made RGO-78 frag grenades—the “defensive” model, with ball bearings packed around eighty-five grams of TNT, with an effective killing radius of twenty yards.

Bolan was hoping that he wouldn’t need the pistol or grenades for his preliminary meeting with Obinna Umaru, but he knew that banking on a free ride was the quickest way to wind up lying in a gutter or a shallow grave. He would hope for the best, and prepare for the worst.

He had a map of Warri and an hour to kill before their scheduled meeting at a marketplace on the city’s north side. Bolan decided to spend the time touring his new battleground, and checking for tails in the process.

But first, he wanted to check out the car.

No matter where you went, on every continent, auto theft was a problem. Millions of company cars came with LoJack technology or its equivalent, GPS systems that let the home office keep track of all wheels on the road, for whatever reason. Bolan had no reason to believe that Jared Ross would shadow him, but it was best for all concerned—and Bolan, in particular—if his movements in Warri went unobserved.

Once he was safely off the K-Tech lot, Bolan found a place to park and went to work. He used a simple scanner, the size of a cigarette pack, tuned to the standard LoJack frequency of 173.075 megahertz and found the transceiver hidden underneath the padded liner in the trunk. He took it out, pitched it into a nearby vacant lot strewed with rubbish, and then performed a second scan of the Toyota, running through assorted other frequencies that might betray a second homing device.

His ride was clean.

Now all he had to do was to pass the time until his rendezvous, ensuring that he wasn’t followed from the K-Tech property by either friend or foe.

For in the present situation, either one could get him killed.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.