Don Pendleton - Thunder Down Under

“But I don’t think you want to do that. I think you were sitting here, psyching yourself up in an attempt to go through with it. But deep down, I don’t think you truly want to do this.” He pushed the basket a bit farther across the table. “Go on, eat.”

The man looked down at the sandwich, then up at him again, and said something under his breath.

“I didn’t quite catch that,” Bolan replied.

“My name’s Bob,” the young man replied. With a shuddering sigh, he reached for the sandwich and dug in with huge bites, wolfing it down like he was starving.

Only when both of his hands were occupied did Bolan signal to the pair of uniformed Philadelphia police officers who had arrived a minute ago and were standing as inconspicuously as they could at the end of the aisle.

“Bob,” he said, removing a card from his jacket pocket, “you’re going to have to go with these officers now.”

Bob looked up with a start at the police. “What? What do you mean?”

“Listen to me.” Bolan held his gaze again. “You have to surrender your weapon and go with them. When you get the chance—” he held out the card “—call this number on the back. Don’t call a lawyer, don’t call anyone else, just call this number, and the person who answers will take care of things for you. It’s going to be all right.”

“O-okay.” Bob nodded, a smear of po-boy sauce hanging on the corner of his mouth.

“Sir, I’m going to ask you to stand up and put your hands on the table,” one of the officers instructed him.

Bob looked at Bolan, who nodded. “Go ahead. Things will work out, I promise.”

“Sir, we’ll need you to stick around for a few minutes to get a statement,” the second cop said to him.

“Unfortunately, Officers, I have an appointment that requires my attention,” Bolan said as he handed them a similar card. “But if you contact the people at this number, they will be sure to straighten this all out.”

“But we need your name at least,” the cop protested.

“No, you don’t,” the soldier said over his shoulder as he headed for the door. “I’m just a concerned citizen who happened to be in the right place at the right time, that’s all.”

Chapter Four

Twenty-three hours later, Mack Bolan stepped off the Airbus A380 and into the terminal at Melbourne International Airport. He was dressed in navy chinos, a lightweight, tan sport coat and a short-sleeved, button-down shirt. A small carry-on was slung over his shoulder. He claimed his bag at the carousel, cleared customs and headed to the exit area.

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.