"Дон Пендлтон. The Violent Streets ("Палач" #41) " - читать интересную книгу автора

saying hushed goodbyes before he let himself out.
He took the stairs two at a time on his way to the Politician's rented
car.
There was no limit, it seemed, to the number of victims. Hell, it was
always open season on the weak, the meek, and the good, whether predators
were stalking the streets and alleys or the steaming jungles of the world.
And no limit on the human capacity for suffering.
Someone close to Mack Bolan was suffering now, and that someone had
damn sure suffered enough.
Someone else, though, had not yet begun to suffer for the pain he had
inflicted on others.
There was inequity there, right enough, and the Executioner meant to do
everything in his power to balance the scales a bit. Maybe, just maybe, he
would have the luck and the odds that he needed on his side to upset those
bloody scales completely.
At least for a little while.
No war, it seems, ever is won. It only pauses to rest before breaking
out again, somewhere else, under some other flag or justification. Today the
battlefield was St. Paul. Tomorrow?..
Bolan put the grim thoughts from his mind and concentrated on his
unscheduled meeting with a lady cop.

5

Bolan checked Fran Traynor's name and number against a St. Paul
telephone directory and came up lucky. Unlike many police officers, who
opted for unlisted phone numbers, the lady cop was listed on what turned out
to be a medium-prosperous residential street lined with tract houses and
scattered shade trees. At that hour of the morning, all the houses were
sleeping, cloaked in darkness.
On his first drive-by, Bolan noted that the house's separate garage was
set well back and away from the road. There were two cars in the driveway. A
small foreign compact was parked nose-on toward the big garage door, and a
long black Cadillac had it blocked, filling the drive behind it.
So the lady had company, or else she liked to drive in style.
Bolan couldn't see an honest cop laying out the necessary cash for the
big Detroit black, so it remained to be seen only if Fran Traynor's company
was welcome or unexpected.
And the Executioner suddenly had a strong negative feeling about that
Caddy in the driveway.
He had seen too many like it before, sure, during his home-front war
against the Mafia octopus, to avoid a warning tightness in his gut at the
sight of the big steel shark waiting silently, as if for prey.
And yet he could not afford to jump to any conclusions, either. It was
just that he could never be too careful if he wanted to keep on breathing
and walking around with all his working parts in operating condition. Not
after the greeting he and Pol had received a few hours earlier.
Bolan drove on by the apparently sleeping house and parked his rental
car two houses down. Within seconds he had checked the load on the 9mm
Beretta Brigadier beneath his left arm, and he was E.V.A., moving through