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

flashes licked out at him from four different angles, and the way he fell
told Bolan that the man was dead when he hit the pavement.
Two of the hefties stooped and lifted the body, toting it back toward
their car.
The other two grabbed the woman before she could run, also dragging her
toward the Malibu. The blonde fought and twisted wildly in their grip, but
it did her no good. She was their prisoner.
Bolan was already swinging into action, tossing the Startron into the
compartment behind his bucket seat and gunning the Corvette to life. He
stomped on the gas pedal, tugged the steering wheel, and brought the sports
car around in a fishtailing U-turn that momentarily included the opposite
grassy shoulder.
Only seconds had passed, but even as he straightened the Vette out from
the turn, Bolan could see that the four men had moved with stopwatch
precision. The man's body and the woman had been loaded into the Malibu. The
heap executed its own U-turn and sped off into the distance.
Mack Bolan was a seasoned, savvy warrior. He had baited many traps of
his own during his career as a soldier, both in Vietnam and against domestic
foes and world terrorism, and he was fully aware that this could be a
diversion intended to draw him away from the estate. There was that chance,
sure. But that wasn't Bolan's reading. The woman's struggles and the fear in
her face had been too real. The way the slain man had fallen - yeah, too
real.
One human being was dead.
Another was in obvious, serious peril.
Bolan saw no choice in the matter. The mission would have to wait.
The Malibu negotiated a corner a quarter-mile up the road and, its
tires screaming, skidded out of view into the moonlit evening.
Bolan fed the Vette more gas and eased into third. The sports car's
gears shifted with a smooth, purring sound like that of some living thing.
With lights off, Bolan tailed the Malibu around the corner onto another
rural stretch that a street sign told him was Persimmon Tree Lane. The
Malibu's taillights winked at him from a quarter-mile down the road. The
driver had slowed down to legal cruising speed. Bolan decreased his own
speed accordingly, holding his position at the quarter-mile mark, still
running blind.
Apparently the guys in the Malibu didn't know they were being tailed.
Sure.
Unless it was a trap.
The track continued south on Persimmon Tree, out of estate country,
through an area of ritzy developments that bordered the road, and finally
into the grassy, hilly outer reaches of Maryland suburbia.
Bolan saw plenty of spots along the way that would have been ideal for
hot contact with these boys, had this been taking place under ordinary
circumstances. But the idea here was to save the lady's lovely hide, not
expose it to the vagaries of a firefight. He would have to wait and choose
his time and place carefully.
The Malibu swung east onto MacArthur Boulevard, a principal suburban
artery that was lined with darkened businesses at this hour. But vehicular
traffic was still heavy enough to finally warrant flicking on the Corvette's