Читать книгу Extraordinary Rendition - Don Pendleton - Страница 13

Nothing that Bolan saw on Nikolskaya Street reminded him of Paris. Least of all Aldo Shishani’s club that bore the name, although a tiny Eiffel Tower was featured in its understated neon sign.

Some people, Bolan thought, and let it go.

Leaving Pilkin’s car a block from the casino, Bolan took a beat to hide his Steyr AUG under the lightweight knee-length raincoat he had packed in Montreal. His backup, snug in armpit leather, was the sleek Beretta 93-R, minus its suppressor.

There’d be no disguising his intentions once he entered Paris Nights, so he had ditched the extra weight. If it came down to pistol dueling in the Mafiya casino, he’d let the Beretta speak in full voice, loud and clear. Whether the punks who heard it lived to pass the message on was something else entirely. But there was a message to be passed, and he’d agreed with Pilkin to make delivery job one. She had her game face on as they stood waiting for a break in traffic, poised to cross the street.