"Дон Пендлтон. Death Squad ("Палач" #2) " - читать интересную книгу автора

Bolan's grief turned to white-hot fury, and he declared all-out warfare
on the local Mafia entrenchments of his hometown, the Eastern city of
Pittsfield. Unhampered by the usual restrictions imposed on legal
authorities, Bolan carried jungle-warfare concepts directly to the enemy,
and The Executioner's Battle of Pittsfield became an American legend
overnight. Single handedly he smoked out the gangland principals and
executed them in a daring series of encounters. "I am not their judge,"
Bolan declared. "I am their judgment-I am their executioner!"
But he was definitely outside the law. Though many officials secretly
applauded the executioner's actions, he was officially charged with multiple
counts of murder, arson, intimidation, and miscellaneous mayhem. And to the
executioner's certain knowledge, he had found no victory at Pittsfield. He
had become a man marked for death, sought by every law-enforcement agency in
the nation and with every resource of the worldwide Mafia organization
geared to his destruction. Bolan left Pittsfield with the feeling that he
was setting out on his last mile-but he was determined to stretch that final
mile to its highest yield, to fight the war to its last gasp. Mack Bolan's
last mile was going to be a bloody one. The Executioner would live life to
the very end.

Chapter One
The game

The Executioner arrived in Los Angeles on the evening of September 20
without fanfare or prior announcement. Approaching from Las Vegas, he
followed the freeways across the city, exited into Santa Monica, and angled
southward along the coastal highway. Several minutes later he pulled
alongside a telephone booth at a service station, consulted the directory,
then thumbed a dime into the coinbox and dialed the number of an ex army
buddy, Vietnam veteran George Zitka. A cautious voice answered the ring.
Bolan grinned and spoke crisply into the mouthpiece. "Early Bird, this is
Fireman. What is your situation there?"
A startled gasp, then momentary silence. Then a voice of quiet emotion
replied, "Situation normal, Fireman. Suggest you bypass and proceed direct
to Kwang Tri."
"Negative," Bolan replied, his voice stiffening somewhat. "It's time
for R and R, and I'm coming in."
"Suggest Kwang Tri for R and R," the voice responded in controlled
urgency.
"Negative, I'm coming in," Bolan clipped. He hung up, stared
thoughtfully at the dial for a moment, then returned to the car, drove to
the rear of the service station, and again descended to the pavement. He
removed his coat, reached into the glove compartment and produced a
snub-nosed .32 revolver and shoulder holster, slipped it on, tested the
breakaway several times, then loaded the revolver and snapped it into place.
"Kwang Tri, my ass!" he muttered as he drew on the coat.
Twenty minutes later a hot little sports car eased through the arched
gateway and along the parking ramp of a flashy apartment complex and came to
rest in an open spot opposite the oval-shaped swimming pool. A tall man
wearing dark glasses unwound from the small vehicle and stepped out onto the