"Дон Пендлтон. Doomsday Disciples ("Палач" #49) " - читать интересную книгу автора

"Leave the car," he commanded. "Get off the highway and find a place to
hide. Don't come back until I call you."
She was trembling, slow to move, and he had to snap at her to break the
trance.
"Now!"
She moved, scrambling up and out of her hole, pausing in the door for a
backward glance.
"Thank you," she said. And that was all.
The man in black didn't watch her go. He was occupied with killing, and
the woman-child would have to fend for herself.
Bolan eased the door open and crouched behind it with the AutoMag
resting on the windowsill. It was a shaky bench rest, but the only one he
had. The door would serve him as a shield when the action started.
Unless the enemy was firing Magnums.
Or, unless they rammed him head-on in the darkness.
Unless...
Headlights were coming now, and Bolan waited, watching as they closed
the gap.
At fifty feet he turned on the Caddy's high beams, swung the big .44
out and onto target. He squeezed a quick double blast through the grille,
and another through the windshield, seeking flesh this time. He was rewarded
as the broad arch of glass exploded in a thousand pieces.
Without its driver, the crew wagon swerved off the road, rearing up and
climbing an embankment. It never had a chance in the contest against
gravity, and Bolan watched it sliding back down again, ending on the
shoulder with the driver's side down.
He circled the dying tank, nostrils full of dust and the stench of
gasoline. Clinging to the darkness, he was careful to avoid the glare of
headlights from the Cadillac.
From twenty feet he watched a gunman wriggle through the shattered
windshield, scrabbling away from the wreck on all fours. The guy was dazed,
bleeding from a scalp wound and casting glances all around in search of an
enemy.
"Over here," Bolan called, his voice reaching out across the darkness.
The man turned toward him, reaching back inside his tattered coat even
before he made the recognition. He identified the voice of death, and he
responded as he was trained.
Bolan stroked his autoloader and dispatched 240 grains of death along
the track. Expanding lead met yielding flesh, and the rag-doll figure did a
clumsy backward somersault, flattening against the crew wagon's hood. Bolan
watched him slide down again, leaving crimson tracks across the dusty paint.
Inside the car, he found the driver tangled in his steering wheel. Dead
hands reached out and a single eye stared at Bolan from the mangled ruin of
his face. Another man was crammed in against the driver, head cocked at an
outrageous angle, bloody spittle drooling from his mouth in scarlet threads.
There was moaning from the back seat.
Bolan worked his way around, peering cautiously inside through another
window. A battered face was looking back at him, the lips moving, nothing
but a steady groan coming out.
The man was dying in his own blood, body twisted frightfully beyond