"Дон Пендлтон. The Iranian Hit ("Палач" #42) " - читать интересную книгу автора

"No! Please... take me with you."
Bolan extended a hand. "Then come on. It's now or never. We have to
move fast."
She accepted his hand. He was surprised to find that hers was warm and
vibrant, despite all that had happened.
They started toward Bolan's Corvette. But they never reached it. They
were halfway there when a sedan came wheeling in at doubletime and burned
rubber into a sideways stop only inches behind the Malibu.
Bolan cursed silently as two more tough guys jumped out. One held a
handgun. The other was armed with a Thompson.
Damn!
The boys in the Malibu must have been in radio contact with a backup
team. And now here they were, on the kill.
Apparently they wanted the lady alive. The guy with the chopper began
raising it at Bolan and opening his mouth to bark a command at his partner.
Bolan's Uzi barked instead, catching the man in a tight pattern in the
upper chest area. The guy died on his feet, jerking around in a death
dance - with a dead index finger squeezing back on the chopper's trigger.
Bolan saw it about to happen and pushed the woman roughly to the ground
beneath him as the Thompson stuttered a short blast, sending a dozen or more
rounds zinging into a wild semicircle as the corpse holding the weapon
stumbled and fell.
When the Thompson's angry chatter subsided, Bolan lifted his head to
pinpoint the second guy. It wasn't hard, and there was nothing to worry
about from that quarter.
Backup Number Two must have caught some of the chopper's errant rounds.
He was on his back amid all the other bodies, only he wasn't lying still. He
was groaning - a murky, bubbly sound - and arching and twisting in pain as
if he had no backbone.
Bolan looked at the girl. "Get in the car," he said.
Then, shifting the Uzi to his left hand, he un-leathered the Beretta
and approached the wounded man.
The guy's hardware lay a few feet from his right hand. He didn't seem
to be aware of it, but Bolan took no chances. He kicked the weapon aside,
then knelt down next to the dude.
The guy was in intense pain and must have known he was dying. His lips
were flecked with red. His hands were pressed against his abdomen but did
nothing to stem the flow of life fluids that bubbled out between the
fingers. His breathing was shallow, ragged, and forced. He seemed unaware
that Bolan was beside him.
"Who are you?" Bolan asked calmly. "Who sent you after that woman?"
The guy's eyes opened into tight slits. He was a tough one, all right.
A young guy who must have still thought that there was some honor among
thieves. He spoke through teeth clenched against the pain, and Bolan could
tell it was torture for him. But he spoke.
"Bastard...goddamn bastard...I'm not t-telling you shit....Bastard...."
Bolan sighed. "Have it your way," he said quietly.
He squeezed the Beretta's trigger.
Bolan hurried back to the car, climbed in beside the woman, gunned the
engine, and got the hell out of there, continuing on into the park, away