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

little strength she had left. Time was of the essence, and he seized her by
the shoulders, shook her roughly, voice lashing out at her in the deathly
stillness.
"Stop it, Amy! I'm a friend. We have to leave right now."
Something reached her, perhaps a combination of the message and her
name. She let him put her in the Caddy and sat with eyes lowered, saying
nothing, as he closed the door.
Bolan felt her staring at him as he slid behind the wheel, but there
was no time for introductions. His mind was on priorities, the grim
mechanics of survival.
He was playing by instinct, making it up as he went along, and the odds
were all against him now. Reconnaissance showed a checkpoint at the only
gate, manned around the clock. Unless the enemy was totally inept, the
checkpoint guards would have been alerted to expect a car at any moment.
Fair enough. The Executioner would give them one.
And if they tried to stop him - well, he would deal with that problem
when he came to it.
Bolan cut the headlights, dropping the Caddy into gear. A light came on
inside the house, followed by another and another, winking at him in the
rearview mirror. He pressed the accelerator down and left them all behind,
running sleek and silent through the mist.
Darkness enveloped them and carried them along toward a rendezvous with
death.

2

Through the fog, Bolan spied the checkpoint at fifty feet. He eased off
the gas, coasting as he scanned the driveway for sentries.
He found a pair - one in the middle of the drive, another half-hidden
inside the gatehouse. He saw them before they heard the car, but they were
already on alert and waiting for him.
At twenty feet he kicked on the Caddy's high beams, framing the nearest
guard at center stage. Inside the gatehouse, his partner was speaking
rapidly into a telephone.
The walking guard was moving up to meet the car, one arm raised to
shield his eyes against the light. His free hand drifted toward his right
hip, casually opening his jacket to reveal the glint of holstered hardware.
Bolan never let him reach it. The Beretta chugged twice, one parabellum
slug drilling through the man's palm, a second ripping through the open oval
of his lips as he tumbled back from the car.
His partner in the gatehouse dropped the phone.
Swinging up a large-bore revolver, bracing it with both hands, he
tracked the target. Bolan punched the gas, angling his Beretta through the
open window as the Caddy sprang forward, growling.
For an instant they were face to face, their eyes meeting, locking over
gun sights. Then they were firing at point-blank range. The warrior's
reflexes gave him a split-second advantage.
Bolan saw the gatehouse window shiver and buckle with the impact of his
9mm rounds. The sentry was sent spinning like a top, his Magnum handgun
blasting aimlessly at walls and ceiling, searching for a target he would