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

multicolored flagstones, coolly surveyed the swimming scene at poolside,
then set off across the patio and through the near-nude swarm of life
encamped there. Blazing lights provided glaring illumination in the
darkness. Several hi-fis were going full blast in a cacaphony of mod sounds,
but not even the electronic amplifications could overcome the noise level of
scores of energetic voices raised in breathless chatter and excited revelry.
A large blonde in a minibikini was go-going from atop the shoulders of
two bronzed youths out at pool center; a shriekingly amused girl was trying
to hand a tall glass up to her. Bolan grinned to himself and shook his head
against the frantic din, halting momentarily to consult a building directory
at the base of the outside stairway. A dazzling beauty in a flesh-colored
bikini came down the stairs, carefully balancing a tray of drinks. Bolan
stood aside to let her pass; instead, she pushed the tray toward him. His
right hand jerked instinctively towards the opening in his coat, then froze
in relaxed constraint as the near nudie giggled and said, "Name your
numbness, baby."
Bolan smiled. "I'm not in the party," he told her. "Thanks just the
same."
This's no party. This's a way of life." Her voice was slurred in
alcoholic realization. "Get into something revealing and come on down." She
giggled again and went on her way, hips swaying in the certain knowledge
that her departure was being appreciatively watched.
Bolan went on up the stairs, paused at the first landing to gaze down
on the swinging scene below, then continued slowly to the third level. Each
apartment opened onto the courtyard; the level-three porch was deserted.
Doors along Bolan's route of travel stood open, as though the entire
building housed one big, swinging family. It seemed probable that most of
the tenants were at poolside. The noise from below seemed to amplify as it
rose toward the higher levels. Bolan wondered vaguely how anybody could live
in such a racket.
He found the door he sought, conspicuously closed, and pressed the
announcer. A peephole opened almost immediately, and an eye glared out at
him. "Yeah?" a muffled voice said.
"George Zitka," the tall man replied. "He live here?"
"That's the name on the door, isn't it?"
"I don't believe everything I read." Bolan removed his sunglasses and
dropped them into a coat pocket, the hand remaining to hover near the
opening in the coat. "Is that you, Zitter?"
"Yeah." The peephole closed quickly, and the door cracked open. Bolan
cast a quick glance right and left, then launched his 200-plus pounds into a
vicious kick against the partially open door, following through with a
rolling tumble into the darkened apartment.
Explosive reports and sizzling projectiles provided the welcome as
several handguns unloaded in rapid fire, the muzzle flashes triangulating
along his route of entry. Bolan's own weapon found his hand even as he was
twisting across the floor, and a new sound was added to the gunfire
symphony. A grunt and a thud near the open doorway announced the results of
the first retort, and already the second and third words were being
introduced into the reply. Then there was silence, except for a sighing
groan off to one corner of the room.