"Дон Пендлтон. Blood Sport ("Палач" #46) " - читать интересную книгу автора

Three.
Two.
One.
Go! Go! Go!
Bolan sprang through the closed window, an unleashed, lashing-out body
of muscle. His head was tucked down. His Beretta was tight in his right
hand.
Glass exploded everywhere. Bolan had burst into the room like some
avenging angel, or devil. The startled men at the table gasped in shock and
horror.
The violent appearance of the warrior with the black grease smeared
over his face, his shape all clad in black, was the coming of their fate.
As planned, Bolan's action had distracted them long enough to allow
Cleveland and Tandy to bust open the hotel door and cover the three
prisoners with their rifles.
""Don't move!" he heard Corporal Cleveland command.
Sergeant Grendal was first to recover. Aware of what grim punishment
the army would have in store for him now, he obviously decided to take a
chance. A desperate chance.
He slammed his chair forward to the floor and grabbed at one of the
guns on the table, snapping in a magazine with his palm. It took only a
couple of seconds for the two MP'S to pivot their rifles directly in the fat
sergeant's direction, but by then too much else was already in motion.
Taking his cue from Grendal, the pasty-faced corporal vaulted out of his
chair like a damn fool and lunged at the throat of Corporal Cleveland.
"Black sonuvabitch!" he shrieked.
Corporal Cleveland swung his rifle butt up and into the smooth face of
the flying corporal. It caught the soldier squarely in the open mouth and
jaw. The jaw broke with a crack like it was some cheap plastic toy. The
whole anatomical mechanism twisted too far to the left and white splinters
of bare bone poked through the cheek's skin. Several blood-drenched teeth
had exploded from his mouth and the dumb corporal tumbled into a heap of
convulsions against the folding metal chair. His coughing sprayed a pink
mist of bloodied phlegm out from his face and onto his shirt.
Corporal Tandy, diligent of Bolan's command to take these creeps alive,
was meanwhile attempting the same rifle butt technique on Sergeant Grendal.
But Grendal was combat trained, and despite his bulk he easily sidestepped
the inexperienced MP, deftly clubbing the younger man on the back of the
head with the butt of his just-grabbed pistol. Then with brazen expertise,
he swung around to face Bolan, and squeezed off several rounds from a
two-fisted crouch position. But Bolan was not a sitting target.
From the moment he had plunged through the window he had kept moving,
rolling across the wooden floor and its new carpet of glass shards to a
better vantage for return fire. He heard the loud report of the .45 as he
came out of his roll, saw dust and splinters kicked up from the floor before
him as the sergeant's bullets dug in.
Bolan heard the third shot and felt a tug at his pant leg, enough to
know it had been too damn close.
He twisted around, gaining enough leverage to dive behind the hotel's
torn overstuffed chair near the corner. Halfway through the dive, he