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

Any visitor to San Francisco who has ridden a cable car from Powell and
Market streets to Fisherman's Wharf has had an unforgettable experience -
and the final drop from Russian Hill, down Hyde Street to the bay, is a
spectacular finale befitting the adventure.
From atop the hill, most of the north bay is laid out in a panoramic
sweep from the Golden Gate to the Embarcadero, with a view of Fort Mason,
Aquatic Park, Alcatraz, and, on a clear day, across to the rugged backdrop
of Marin County.
Mack Bolan came to Russian Hill in darkness, with the fog, and there
was little to be seen - only ghosts, and echoes of another time, another
war.
He had visited the neighborhood before, early in his war against the
Mafia, and launched his strike from a base on Russian Hill. The mansion once
occupied by San Francisco's capo mafioso was just around the corner.
Old Roman DeMarco was the syndicate padrone in those days. Fearing age,
traitors in the family, and aggression by the national commissione, DeMarco
had looked to the Chinese community - and westward, across the Pacific - for
a new alliance to reinforce his shaky regime. The resulting unholy communion
teamed mafiosi with the Tongs and Chinese Communists, but DeMarco had
reckoned without The Executioner.
And he made all the difference in the world.
Ghosts, yeah - and some of them were friendly spirits. Like Mary Ching,
the China doll who had helped Bolan bring his California hit to a successful
culmination.
Friends and enemies, the living and the dead, Bolan felt them in the
darkness, but they held no terror for him.
He let the specters fade and concentrated on the living. Mitchell
Carter lived on Russian Hill, ironically within easy walking distance of the
old DeMarco spread, in a spacious house befitting a successful corporate
attorney. The man who was once Mihail Karpetyan lived alone.
Bolan left his car on the street and crossed a large lawn. Lights were
on despite the hour, and he opted for a confrontation, brisk and bold.
He had dressed the part in an expensive business suit, Beretta snug
beneath his arm. With any luck, he wouldn't have to use it. Not just yet.
The plan was basic. Bolan would have to milk information out of Carter,
planting his own seeds along the way.
Stage one of the Bolan strategy was complete. The enemy had been
identified.
Stage two - isolation - was commencing.
Bolan hit the doorbell and held it through a five count, listening to
rhythmic chimes inside the house. Another moment and footsteps were audible.
The door swung open and Bolan had his first view of Mitchell Carter. He
looked younger than he did in his photograph, but there was a sort of
world-weariness around his eyes.
The guy was looking Bolan over with empty eyes, missing nothing, and
the warrior gave him time. When Carter spoke at last, his voice was flat,
noncommittal.
"Yes?"
"Good evening, comrade."