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Dark Savior. Don Pendleton
Читать онлайн.Название Dark Savior
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781474045704
Автор произведения Don Pendleton
Жанр Приключения: прочее
Издательство HarperCollins
It was the monk’s turn to obey, passing the Steyr to his boss, shooting a warning glance at Bolan as he left and closed the door.
Brother Jerome studied the rifle for a moment, placed it on his desk and said, “I won’t ask why you’ve come. It’s sadly obvious.”
“Or maybe not,” Bolan replied.
Brother Jerome cocked one gray eyebrow at him, clearly skeptical. “We have a visitor among us, claiming sanctuary. He desires to be a postulant. Intruders from his old life seek to take him from us. You are one of them.”
“You’re half-right,” Bolan granted. “But I’m not the only one who’s coming, and I’m on your side.”
“We don’t need men with guns to help us do the Lord’s work, Mr. Cooper.”
“There are others coming,” Bolan said again. “They’ve killed already, would’ve taken your visitor long before he got here if they hadn’t missed him. He got away once. Between your setup and the storm, I can’t imagine he’ll be lucky twice.”
“Who do you represent?” Brother Jerome demanded.
“No one who’ll acknowledge me,” Bolan replied. “We’re off the record here.”
“I see. Perhaps I should inform you that I’ve spoken to the FBI, the U.S. Marshals Service, and someone claiming to be a deputy attorney general. I have told them all the same thing. Sanctuary is a sacred principle that I am not prepared to violate.”
“That’s why I’m here, and not a SWAT team,” Bolan said. “Nobody’s looking for another Waco, but the men tracking your guest are only paid to do one thing—and I can promise you they don’t leave any witnesses.”
Brother Jerome stood silent for a moment, fingertips pinning the Steyr to his desktop. Finally, he said, “The choice cannot be mine. Brother Thomas!”
In a second flat, the monk who had delivered Bolan stood beside him. “Father?”
“Please fetch Brother Andrew and the postulant at once. I need to speak with both of them.”
Modesto, California
The storm chased Jack Grimaldi back to town, whipping his rented Cessna 207 all the way. He landed none the worse for wear and set about refueling before he tied the aircraft down. The blizzard’s trailing edge was rattling shrubbery around the airport terminal, but snow was limited to tiny flakes, like dandruff, which vanished on contact with the pavement.
The guy who’d checked Grimaldi’s license and his rental paperwork came out to meet him, flicking nervous glances at the clouds. “Did she treat you all right?”
“Sweet as candy,” Grimaldi replied.”
“Think you’ll be going up again?”
Grimaldi deflected with a question of his own. “I’ve got it through tomorrow, right?”
“Right, right. I only wondered, with the storm and all—”
“I’m waiting on a call,” Grimaldi said. “It comes, I go. Till then, she’s battened down.”
“Yessir. Okay.”
The guy veered off and left him, doubtless going to inspect the plane. Grimaldi had already signed off on insurance that would reimburse the owner with a new plane if he wrecked it, whether he survived or not. Still, he understood the natural, paternal feeling the man had for the machine that earned his living for him.
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