"Дон Пендлтон. Renegade Agent ("Палач" #47) " - читать интересную книгу автора

Bolan scanned the page again, committed every word and number to
memory, then flipped the book closed and positioned it exactly where he had
found it.
"Sarge!" Gadgets called softly from across the room.
Bolan's chronometer read 0139:10.
Gadgets had clipped one end of a jumper wire to the third terminal from
the top of the left row. He held the other end in a steady hand. "Which one
does it connect to?" Bolan asked reaching for it.
Gadgets grinned in the dimness and shook his head.
"This is my gig," he said softly.
He clipped the wire's free end to the top terminal on the right. For a
split second there was no sound at all.
Then there was the click of a deadbolt being drawn back mechanically,
and the soft rush of air as Gadgets exhaled his relief.
It took him no more than thirty seconds to remove the jumper, replace
the faceplate, return his tools to the chest pack.
He stood up and gestured at the door, said: "We did it. You want the
honors?"
Bolan turned the knob without a sound and pushed open the door to
Charon's office. Subliminal quivers tickled him.
He smelled the snarl, the drooling, guttural, teeth bared snarl a
heartbeat before his flashlight picked out the two blood-red eyes. Bolan's
mind whistled, howled, he had only time enough to set himself for the
attack.
The satanic eyes rose up toward him and hit him full in the chest.
Bolan went down but with both hands gripping the Doberman's shoulders. Fetid
canine breath expelled into his face. Slavering jaws barked like a mad dog's
at Bolan's throat. Teeth snapped shut on nothing but air, though they came
so close that Bolan felt the animal's clammy muzzle brush his face. Hot
anticipatory dog saliva soaked through the neck of the black suit.
Bolan got his left arm around as he lay on the floor and clamped the
dog's head against his chest to mobilize the slashing carnivorous teeth.
Eighty pounds of steel-wire hound-muscle writhed and struggled to break
the hold. The dog's forefoot caught Bolan in the chest, hard enough to take
his breath away. A hind paw scrambled for purchase, narrowly missing Bolan's
groin. Bolan held all the tighter, pulling the animal's head bone-to-bone
against his chest. Then he squeezed with one arm only, at maximum strength.
Fleet fingers from his free hand found the familiar shape of pistol
grip. Bolan drew, lay the muzzle against the twisting animal's haunch,
pulled the trigger.
There was no recoil, no sound beyond a quick soft gasp. The dog's
maddened snarl turned to a weak growl. He made one final feeble effort to
jerk free, then lay still.
Bolan got to his feet. The fight had taken fewer than ten seconds.
Gadgets Schwarz stood over the dog, his own pistol drawn.
The weapons were identical: Beemanst Webley Hurricane air pistols. The
gun had only the most superficial relationship to the BB rifles that Mick
Bolan roamed the woods with near Pittsfield in his youth. The B/W Hurricane
was powered by a piston-charged compression chamber that produced 60 pounds
of potential energy, enough to spit a .22 slug at better than 400 feet per