"Дон Пендлтон. California Hit ("Палач" #11) " - читать интересную книгу автора

exception to the rule.
This combat-zone athlete's heart was thudding against his ribcage and
his breathing was becoming an ordeal by the time he steered Mary Ching
through the gateway to his "drop" - a large, old home on the north slope
which had long ago been converted to an apartment building - and which was a
few short blocks removed from the mansion of Don Roman DeMarco.
"That's the last time I walk across this town," he panted.
The girl leaned against him for support, breathing too hard for
comment. He pulled her to the rear of the building and they paused there,
getting their breath and allowing overtaxed muscle tissues a chance to
relax.
Presently she asked, "What... are we doing... back here?"
He pointed to the fire escape, hovering just above their heads. "My
private entrance," he told her.
"Are we... breaking in?"
"No. My humble pad is up there. Top floor."
She groaned and rolled her eyes and told him, "Okay. If you can, I
can."
Bolan chuckled and made a leap for the raised platform. The hinges
creaked a little but the contraption came down with his weight, and he
ushered the girl aboard with a flourish.
His window was open exactly two inches, the shade drawn to an inch
above that - precisely the way he had left it. Still... Bolan had not
survived this long on sloppy security.
He moved his lips to Mary's ear and whispered, "Stay!" Then he quickly
raised the window and slid inside.
She was becoming worried and fidgety when finally the lights came on
inside. A moment later Bolan's smiling face appeared at the window and he
said, "Okay."
He helped her in, then lowered the window and shuttered it.
The girl was looking around, wrinkling her nose as only a scrutable
Chinese doll can do it.
He said, "Well if is not sable and satin, I'll agree."
Mary was still having trouble with her breathing. She said, "No... I
was just wondering if you always come home so carefully."
He shrugged and showed her a grin. "Just another small sacrifice of
warfare," he said lightly. "Uh... kitchen's that way. Why don't you brew us
some coffee? I have a phone call to make."
She said, "You actually set up housekeeping here?"
"It's safer this way."
She replied, "I guess it is," and went on to the kitchen.
Bolan dropped onto a threadbare couch that groaned under his weight. He
lit a cigarette and allowed the smoke to surge around inside for a moment,
then he coughed and reached for the telephone.
It was a long-distance, operator-assisted call to a number on the far
side of the country.
The timing, he figured, would be just about perfect.
He got the connection on the third ring and the operator was
announcing, "San Francisco calling Mr. Frank LaMancha."
The responding voice was gruff and seemingly unimpressed with a call