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

Not wide open, not all the way. All he wanted at the moment was a
visible crack or two here and there in the defenses.
He wanted to show DeMarco how hollow he really was.
The warwagon had a shiny new decal on each side. It was now "Bay
Messengers, Inc." - and it had been since a few hours after the arrival in
the bay city.
That van had been in the DeMarco neighborhood at least twice each day
for the past three days; the driver, a tall man in Levi denims and a white
wind-breaker, had even attempted to make a parcel delivery to the DeMarco
house; it was a mistake, of course - no one by the name of "Lamancha" lived
at that address,
At any rate, the DeMarco palace guard had acquired at least a passing
familiarity with Bay Messengers.
And now Bay Messengers was going to give them a chance to get better
acquainted.
Bolan got into the denims, pulling them on over his blacksuit, and
slipped into the nylon windbreaker. Then he carefully stuck on a false
mustache and pulled a billed cap low over his forehead.
Most people, even sharp-eyed mob people, were not too much on faces
when things appeared to them out of the usual context. Sure, anyone would
recognize the Executioner in his combat blacks. But to most of the world
Bolan's face was no more than an artist's sketch seen in newspapers and
magazines, and maybe a few times on television - and the human eye tended to
identify things by setting, role, and other general characteristics.
Mack Bolan was a master at what he termed "role camouflage." He had
developed the art in Vietnam and perfected it in such places as Pittsfield,
Palm Springs, New York, and Chicago.
It had not let him down yet.
The choice of weapons was the next consideration.
The Beretta would, of course, be at the top of that list. But he needed
a grabber, a heavy punch, something that would not unnecessarily encumber
him, something that...
His decision focussed around the newest thing in the Bolan arsenal.
He had field-tested the thing two days earlier, and found it awesome.
It came in a handsome little attache-type case and it was such a new
item that factory ammo was not yet available. For this honey, Bolan had
taken the time to make his own ammo.
It was called "the .44 Auto Mag" and it was the most powerful going in
hand guns. It was three and a half pounds of stainless steel - yeah,
stainless steel - and measured overall eleven and a half inches. A guy with
a small hand wouldn't want to get involved; it took a big strong hand to
cope with the recoil from more than a thousand foot-pounds of muzzle energy,
and especially long fingers for a comfortable grip and trigger-squeeze.
The Auto Mag had been designed primarily as a hi-punch hunter's
handgun, and she'd drop anything that the heavy rifles would bring down in
most big-game situations. Bolan had experimented with different loads, and
he'd finally settled for a combination of twenty grains of powder charge
behind a 240 grain bullet, for damn near 1400 fps of muzzle velocity and a
performance uniformity that was really outstanding.
At twenty-five yards the big bullets tore up a one-inch bull in rapid