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

"He means don't get your head blown off, eager beaver," the other cop
replied, chuckling.
"Yeah, well, whatever," Phillips said. He drew his revolver and
carefully checked it, then put it away. "They'll be on grid in about two
minutes."
The patrolman nodded. "If they get lucky."
"The guy could be halfway to the Golden Gate by then."
A series of booming reports issued from the big house.
The Sergeant's partner grinned and he said, "Not from the sound of
that. I'd say he's run into a slight delay."
The black cop lifted a gas mask from the equipment rack. He opened his
door and stepped into the street.
The other man said, "Now Bill... dammit..."
"I'm just going to cover the front," the Sergeant assured his partner.
"Stay with the vehicle." He donned the mask, drew his revolver, and ran
toward the booming sounds of open combat.
The black man from Brushfire was going to have himself at least a
little piece of World War III.

* * *

Bolan opened the door and stepped quickly back, allowing the smoke to
precede him into the anteroom of the master suite. Two gunners came
staggering out almost immediately, choking, eyes streaming, and their hands
clasped atop their heads.
"Keep moving," Bolan advised them. "Down the stairs and down the
street, and don't even look back."
One of the men was already bleeding from an arm wound. Both of them
hurried down the hall, wheezing, gasping and totally out of the war.
Bolan entered the suite and shot two locks out of a door on the far
wall, then he kicked it open.
The smoke puffed on through, and it was met by a spray of slugs that
chewed up the door casing and nothing else.
Bolan reached through the opening and fired once at the opposing muzzle
flashes.
A gun clattered to the floor and a guy yelled in a high-pitched squeal.
The man in black went on in and closed the door with his foot to keep
the polluted atmosphere out.
The Capo was standing by the window, swaying slightly and dressed in
pajamas and robe. He looked old and sick, and the small amount of smoke that
had entered the room had been enough to upset the leathery old lungs.
The Tiger of the Hill stood at the foot of the bed, staring with glazed
eyes at the smashed remains of his gun hand. The blood was gushing out and
soaking into the bed, and Rivoli was just standing there watching it run.
Bolan removed his mask and told the tiger, "You forgot to sign for the
delivery, guy."
The house captain tried to say something in a voice that wasn't
working.
The old man croaked, "My God, my God," and he staggered over to his
nephew-once-removed-but-never-acknowledged.