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

Blancanales stomped hard on the accelerator to wring another five miles
an hour out of the laboring engine. Behind them in darkness, the trailing
headlights lurched, then drew closer, gaining.
"I need a face-off," Bolan said softly. "Choose your own time."
Blancanales snapped his friend a curt nod, craning forward over the
wheel, his eyes scanning the dim street from side to side. He saw his
opening, in the form of a midnight-dark side street racing toward them on
their right.
Bolan saw it coming too, reading the scene and his comrade's tense body
language behind the wheel. Both men braced themselves.
"Okay, buddy," Pol grated over the roar of the engine, "right...
about... Now."

2

Pol cranked hard on the steering wheel of the sedan, working the
accelerator and brake pedals expertly to put the car into a tire-smoking
turn at the mouth of the darkened side street. The headlights revealed a
short cul-de-sac lined with silent, sleeping houses.
Blancanales floored the accelerator, and the sedan leaped forward,
aimed directly at the sloping front lawn of a large house dead ahead.
Suddenly he slammed on the brakes and twisted the wheel hard to the left,
rewarded by the scream of tortured rubber as the car slid into a 180-degree
bootlegger's turn. Pol instantly killed the headlights, making the half-spin
in sudden darkness.
Bolan was out of the car and crouching, the Ingram poised, before the
sedan rocked to a complete halt. His combat senses were pruned and alert,
probing the hostile night.
In an instant the chase car roared into the cul-de-sac on two wheels,
high-beam headlights knifing through blackness as the driver struggled to
right his vehicle. For a split second the onrushing beams were blinding,
then Pol Blancanales switched on his own lights, kicking them up into high
beam and framing the hurtling attack car in the brilliant glare.
Bolan caught a brief glance of two hard-faced men inside, both bringing
their arms up to shield their eyes against the sudden blinding light. The
driver was hunched forward over the steering wheel, and the passenger on his
right had an arm out the side window, his silencer-equipped pistol blindly
seeking a target.
Bolan stroked the trigger of the Ingram, and the stubby machine pistol
made a sound like canvas ripping. He tracked the flashing muzzle from left
to right in a surgically precise twelve-round burst. A row of neat, even
holes blossomed across the attack car's windshield, spider web cracks
obscuring the suddenly terrified faces within.
Already dying, the driver tried to control his vehicle for another
faltering heartbeat before he lost it all. Bolan helped him get there with
another short burst to the driver's side, this time seeking flesh and
finding it.
The windshield imploded, and at once the front wheels locked into a
death slide, much too sharp, sending the big car into a wide, looping roll
that ended with the vehicle upside down across the sidewalk, its nose amid