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

squeezed off two rounds of his own. The Beretta spat its smoldering chunks
of brimstone into the fleshy neck of Sgt. Edsel Grendal. The hardguy's
throat burst open like a water balloon, pouring forth crimson blood over his
chest and fat stomach. Grendal reeled for a moment, desperately wrapping his
hands around his throat like a tourniquet and choking out some rasping words
of protest. But the blood merely pumped out between his sticky fingers as he
collapsed face forward into the card table, knocking it over. The guns and
ammo clips rattled across the floor.
It was not over yet. Bolan continued his roll out from the other side
of the chair, beading the Beretta toward the last soldier. The wretched
redhead stood in the far corner, his hands already raised high over his
head. "Jesus," he was saying. "J-Jesus goddamn..."
Bolan rose slowly to his feet. There was no way anyone could mistake
the shots from those M191IAIs as anything else but gunfire. However, it was
doubtful that anyone would come snooping around. Especially the law. It was
that kind of hotel, in that kind of neighborhood, it had been built in the
1600's to house the finest Dutch banking firm in the land, but time had
changed and now all of this section of Frankfurt was frequented by anyone
with a few bucks to spend on the dirtier pleasures. Especially bored young
American soldiers killing time. The police avoided the area. There was no
need to worry about the noise.
The Executioner had other things to worry about. He approached the
redheaded kid. "You PFC Gary Cottonwood?"
"Yes, sir. Cottonwood. T-t-that's me."
Bolan poked the corporal aside with the barrel of the Beretta as he
stepped toward the slumped Corporal Tandy, just now coming back to
consciousness.
"How's the head, son?" Bolan asked.
Tandy rubbed the back of his neck, rolling his head slightly to bring
himself to alertness. "Fine, Colonel. I'm fine."
"I want you to take your prisoner." Bolan pointed Belle at the
face-wrecked corporal on the floor. "Comeback to the base and lock him up,
and tell General Wilson what happened. He'll know what the hell I need."
"Yes, sir. What about him, sir?" Corporal Tandy asked Bolan, glancing
over the body of Grendal toward PFC Gary Cottonwood.
"I'll be bringing him along myself. After I ask a few questions." At
that, the doughy-faced victim on the floor tried to shout a threatening
warning at the red-headed Cottonwood, but anything that came out through the
mashed and mangled jaw was badly garbled. Two more teeth fell from his mouth
and bounced across the floor.
"I hope you like oatmeal, Corporal," Bolan said. "Because you're gonna
be eating it for a whole lot of months to come. Now get him out of here."
Corporal Tandy hesitated. "Sir?" he asked in a quiet voice.
"Yeah?"
"I'm sorry, sir. I mean about not taking them all alive and everything.
It was my fault, I know."
"Like hell it was," Bolan grunted. "Grendal knew he was facing a firing
squad or worse. He was bound to take his shot, no matter how bad the odds.
Had nothing to do with you. You understand?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."