Читать книгу Deep Recon - Don Pendleton - Страница 10

After getting a few hours’ sleep on Maxwell’s living-room couch, Bolan went to the kitchen to make himself some coffee. Maxwell was nowhere to be found, which the Executioner found both annoying and a relief. The former because he wanted to ask her about Delgado.

He set the coffeemaker to provide him with a full pot. As it gurgled, he looked out the front window to see that the Mustang was gone. Bolan assumed that Maxwell had taken it to the auto body shop.

Once the coffee had stopped brewing, Bolan poured himself a cup and went back into the living room. Laying out each of his weapons on the coffee table, he carefully and meticulously cleaned each one, inside and out. He had separate cleaning kits for the SIG-Sauer, the Desert Eagle and the RRA rifle.

He cleaned the Desert Eagle first, reassembling it before moving on to the SIG-Sauer. Poor maintenance was a common cause of misfires, and the Executioner’s life had been saved more than once by his opponents being too stupid to clean their weaponry properly.

He had just finished cleaning the RRA rifle when he heard a car pull into the driveway, one that didn’t have the distinctive purr of the ’65 Mustang. Rather it sounded like an Oldsmobile with a muffler problem.

When the noise stopped and the bungalow’s door opened, Bolan saw that it was indeed an Olds, one that looked like it was brand-new when disco was born—only about ten years younger than the Mustang, but in considerably worse shape.

“Oh, good, you’re up,” Maxwell said. She had changed out of the T-shirt and sweats she’d had on earlier, and was now wearing a black tank top and hot pink shorts, as well as the same holster and weapon she’d had when he first arrived. Her breasts were bouncing about in the tank top in a manner that she probably hoped would be as alluring as the white T-shirt she’d worn earlier. But Bolan was just as uninterested now as he was before his nap—he had more important things to occupy his mind.

Looking at the coffee and the disassembled rifle, she added dryly, “Make yourself at home.”

“Thanks,” Bolan said in a like tone. He grabbed the charging handle and the bolt carrier in order to start reassembling the rifle. “What do you know about someone named Delgado who works for Lee?” he asked.

“Danny Delgado,” Maxwell said without hesitating. “He’s Lee’s right-hand guy. Every time Lee has a meeting of any kind, Delgado stays behind after it breaks up for last-minute instructions.”

Faraday, who’d just come into the room, added, “That’s why everybody’s got their noses right up Danny’s ass.”

“Where can I find him?” Bolan asked as he swung the rifle shut, the take-down pin sliding into its proper place.

Maxwell shrugged. “Don’t know. I never got that close. I only met the man once or twice. What I know about him’s by rep only. Johnny probably knew more. Why?”

“Last night, your pal Kenny V got himself shot in the chest by a freelance assassin who derives most of his income from the CIA.”

Maxwell paled. “Kenny’s dead? Jesus.” She shook her head. “Kenny was your classic cockroach—figured he’d survive the goddamn apocalypse. Why’d this assassin take him out?”

“He had a close encounter with a truck on the Overseas Highway before I could ask him. That’s why your Mustang was so banged up. Anyhow, when he came into Micky’s, Valentino was talking to someone on the phone, and he said to tell Delgado that Lee owed him one now.”

“That could be anything,” Jean-Louis said. “Hot Lips was always doin’ deals for people.”

“Maybe.” Bolan slid a full clip into place with a satisfying click as he spoke. “But the favor he owed might’ve been giving up Agent McAvoy, which means Delgado’s my next target.”

“Fine,” Maxwell said, “let me make a phone call.”

“To who?” Bolan asked.

“Delgado served with Lee, but he didn’t come out of it so good. He stepped on a land mine. He walks with a cane, but his groin didn’t do as well as his legs.”