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

Bolan tromped on the gas pedal and surged forward into the fray, again
with lights off.
They were waiting for him. But they were not ready for him. Just before
the underpass, Bolan yanked the wheel to the right. The sleek black sports
car left the road and went sailing up the side of the embankment. Bolan kept
the hammer down. Railroad tracks clattered underneath; then the car overshot
and was momentarily airborne before coming to rest with a four-point landing
and skidding to a halt slightly beyond and below the waiting ambush car.
Bolan grabbed the Uzi and catapulted out from the Corvette's passenger
side, his black garb holding him to the darkness.
Two of the guys had been leaning across the Malibu's hood, taking aim
at the underpass with handguns, while a third had been pointing a pump
shotgun over the trunk. Number Four must have been down out of sight,
holding onto their captive. Now they spun around as one to meet this
unexpected maneuver, and one of the handgun boys even had time to pull off a
wild round before Death came for them.
Bolan squeezed off only a short burst from the Uzi, but it was enough
to take all three men in a withering hail that stitched from left to right
at upper-chest level, the Uzi's muzzle flashes illuminating the darkness
like some unholy strobe light.
Dead bodies were still jerking and falling when motion erupted from the
nose of the Malibu. Bolan had sized it correctly. Heavy Number Four had been
pinning the girl. Now he was straightening, forgetting about the blonde as
he pawed for hardware beneath his jacket.
The woman kept her head. She dashed from the man's side, losing herself
in the night.
The guy had his weapon halfway out when the Uzi burped again, almost
discreetly. The force of the 9mm rounds smashed the man back against the
car; then he pitched forward onto the grass alongside the road, his right
hand still reaching under his left arm in a final statement of purpose.
The sudden silence was absolute. The car, the bodies - Bolan could see
no sign of the lady.
Cautiously, he approached.
Wondering, as he did, just what the hell had gone down here.
Wondering about the mission.
Wondering what would happen next.

2

The mission was not supposed to be a complicated one. Nor an easy one,
no. Not easy by any stretch of the imagination. But cut and dried, just the
same.
Brognola had briefed Bolan only ninety minutes earlier. Bolan could
still hear the cigar-chewing head fed's words.
"The man's name is General Eshan Nazarour," Brognola had told him. "An
Iranian. High ranker in SAVAK, the Shah's secret police, until the
revolution came along. The general lost both legs in a mortar attack on
SAVAK headquarters during the final days of fighting, but he still managed
to get out alive, which a lot of 'em didn't. For the last nine months, he's
been lodged incognito on a forty-acre spread up in Potomac. He's got