"Дон Пендлтон. Continental Contract ("Палач" #5) " - читать интересную книгу автора

Bolan had located the enemy forces, as revealed by the last volley.
They were clumped into four groups of about three men each. Two groups were
directly across from him, in the shadows of the opposite building; the other
two were flanking him, covering from the warehouses to either side of
Bolan's position. The leader was out front, as evidenced by the voice of
authority; a sub-regime was off to the left flank, the cocky voice of
impatience and disrespect for the Executioner's image.
The groups out front would have to cross a wide area of relative light
in order to close on Bolan. Either flank, however, could move in with only a
momentary exposure between the buildings. The tactical instincts of the
professional soldier had instantly become aware of this truth, and Bolan was
ready to exploit this single favorable factor.
"Bolan?" came the voice from out front.
The wounded Mafioso groaned again, feeble and pained, a convincing
sound of approaching death. Bolan tensed and waited.
"I told you he's hit!" This from the left flank.
"Dammit you hold it!" From the center. "How you know that ain't Joe?"
"Aw shit, you know better! Joe didn't live a second, face to face with
that guy! We can't wait around all night. Cops are gonna be..."
Bolan was satisfied that the time had come. He was rolling slowly
toward the edge of the shadow, silently putting as much distance as he dared
between himself and the building and straining toward a midpoint position
toward the left flank. They would be coming in any second now.
"Allright, check 'im out," came the grudging instructions from up
front, verifying Bolan's prediction. "Bolan - if you're listening - you fire
once, just once, and you're gonna get blasted to hamburger."
The prospective hamburger was lying prone with pistol extended toward
the shaft of moonlight falling across his left flank. Cautiously moving feet
scraped the concrete out there as a crouching figure leapt across the
lighted zone. Bolan held his breath and his fire; another man hurtled over,
and then another. The Executioner smiled grimly to himself over that fatal
mistake; the entire left flank had moved in, leaving none to protect their
own rear. He heard them moving cautiously into the trap as he moved also in
a silent circling, and then they were between him and the building and he
was sighting down from his prone position, rolling swiftly now and squeezing
off a single shot for a calculated effect.
A grunted exclamation of alarm and a confused volley from his original
position signalled the success of step two of the bold escape plan;
reflexive fire came in from the front and the other flank and the trap
closed fully with the Mafiosi firing into each other's positions in a
contagion of over-reaction.
Bolan himself was on his feet and sprinting into the open flank,
leaping across the thin shaft of moonlit area and disappearing into the
shadows beyond.
An excited voice cried, "Hold it, we're shooting at each other! This
bastard's behind us!"
Indeed, the Executioner was behind them. He could hear them shouting
and damning one another for their fatal error, the groans and frightened
cries of the wounded becoming a cacophony which was now entirely too
familiar and increasingly repugnant to Mack Bolan. But this was the world he