Читать книгу Pressure Point - Don Pendleton - Страница 2

But it wasn’t a member of the Lashkar Jihad or the United Islamic Front. It wasn’t even human. Instead, Bolan found himself staring at a roiling, slow-moving cloud the color of pea soup. His mind flashed on the briefing papers he’d read on the way to Samarinda: an entire work crew killed in seconds by mingling pesticide vapors.

Trapped, all Bolan could do was watch as the cloud spilled over the side of the precipice and drifted down toward him. It looked almost alive, like some deadly creature on its way to claim a hapless prey that had fallen into its web.

Already he could smell the noxious fumes and his eyes were starting to burn, as well.

This is it, he thought. At long last, his number had come up.