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

"We've got a tail," he snapped.
Bolan glanced back over his shoulder through rain-streaked darkness.
"No question?"
Blancanales shook his head. "Negative. The last three turns were for
his benefit. He's sticking tight."
A block behind them, headlights hung on their track at an even,
measured pace. When Pol accelerated, the twin lights edged nearer; when he
stroked the brake lightly, they fell back.
A tail, yeah. No question about that.
Bolan turned back to his friend in the driver's seat. "Okay, we'd
better lose him."
"Roger that, buddy."
Pol instantly swung the sedan into a groaning turn, barely making the
light and the corner as he swung across two lanes of traffic onto an
intersecting street. The tail car never missed a beat, edging out two other
vehicles as it slashed a course behind them in pursuit.
Blancanales was an expert wheelman, familiar with the streets and
alleys of St. Paul. With Mack Bolan at his side, silently urging him on, he
pulled out all the stops, using every trick to shake the tenacious pursuers
dogging their tracks. Up and down one-way alleys, through red and amber
lights, cutting corners across parking lots and filling stations. Nothing
served to shake the dogged hunters.
Outside the car, the driving rain subsided to a drizzle, and the
buildings rapidly transformed themselves from large commercial structures to
small businesses, finally merging into dark and sleeping residential tracts.
Pol's course took them north and east by stages, running serpentine, with
the tail car close behind them all the way.
Two minutes into the winding chase, the pursuers gained speed and drew
within two or three car lengths of Pol's speeding sedan. Dirty orange flame
winked from the passenger side of the tail, followed by the hollow sound of
a bullet striking the sedan's trunk lid. Bolan glanced backward in time to
see a second muzzle flash, and this time the slug chipped window glass
before whining off chrome and steel into darkness.
Bolan reached between his feet and opened the zippered flight bag. He
hauled out an Ingram M-10 9mm machine pistol. He snapped a thirty-two-round
magazine into the vertical pistol grip, then threaded a foot-long silencer
onto the Ingram' s squat muzzle.
The weapon was a man-shredder, conceived during the riot-torn sixties
as a lethal "room broom" for use in sweeping snipers out of the urban combat
zones. It was designed to fire those 9mm manglers at a rate of twelve
hundred rounds per minute, but Bolan had modified and tamed this particular
model down to a more economical - and manageable - seven hundred rpm's.
It was more than enough, yeah, in any situation under a hundred yards.
And Bolan planned to confront his present foe much closer than that.
He snapped back the cocking bolt, bringing a cartridge into the chamber
and priming the lethal little weapon. Pol Blancanales shot a quick glance at
the hardware, shaking his head grimly as he recognized the chopper and its
capabilities.
"Give me some stretch, Pol," the Executioner said.
"You've got it, man," his driver replied.