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

quivering with the tension born of a necessity for hairbreadth control and
precision timing. He hit brakes and steering and powershift simultaneously,
arcing into a half-spin and ricocheting off the barricade into a shallow
ditch at the side of the road, jouncing against the chainlink fencing
enclosing the runway area - the wheels spinning, finding traction, then
propelling him into a surging advance along the sloping walls of the ditch.
An alarmed face was giving him the death look from just beyond the MG's hood
as human reactions fell one pace behind charging machinery; he heard the
whump and saw the body spinning away; a flailing hand thwacked against his
door post; then he was climbing for asphalt and making it and the
high-traction drive was finding hard surface once more and the scene was
falling behind. Only then did the impotent and receding rattle of gunfire
officially mark the roadblock a failure; it seemed that Bolan was home
clean - the trap had developed lockjaw. His heart had just begun beating
again when he saw the police beacons flashing along the perimeter highway.
Of course - it was time for the cops to crash the party, and they were
coming in force. Bolan counted six cruisers in a tailgate parade, and he
knew that there would be no exit from Dulles International this night.
It was a time for decision. The Executioner had never challenged police
authority; he had, in fact, studiously avoided any confrontation that would
force him into a gunfight with cops. It seemed now, however, that the
unavoidable moment had arrived. First they would seal all exits, then they
would pour the place full of bluesuits, the inexorable magic of police
methodology would have its way, and that final inevitable staredown with
authority would occur. Bolan would not submit to arrest, he knew that.
Better to die swiftly and with the dignity of a still-free man than to
suffer that slow suffocation of jail cells and courtrooms. How strong,
though, were his instincts for survival? In that final moment when he was
staging his apeshit charge and inviting them to cut him down, would those
combat reflexes assert themselves as they had so many times before, would
his fire be going in for effect, and would he end up taking one or two good
men with him? This was one of Bolan's most persistent nightmares; he had met
a cop or two during the course of his Mafia war, had recognized them as
soldiers doing a soldier's job and respected them for it. He did not wish to
kill or maim any cops.
So now the mob was at his rear and the bluesuits were pushing in from
the front. Bolan made a swift decision and pulled into the parking area of
the passenger terminal. He took a briefcase and a small suitcase from the
rear of the MG and left the battered vehicle snuggled into the sea of cars
in a longterm parking space. As he reached the terminal, two police cruisers
were flashing along the inner drive; from the other direction, a small
caravan of private autos were hurrying up from the freight area.
Bolan sighed and went on in. He was caught in the pincers. Possibly,
one escape route remained open. Straight up. It was fly or die - and, for
Mack Bolan, the war-weary one man army, that initial decision was merely to
fly now, die later, for he knew that death awaited him between every
heartbeat.
This was to be a fateful decision for certain over seas arms of that
cancerous crime syndicate known as the Mafia. Though he did not know it at
that moment, Mack Bolan's private war was about to become an international