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

never find.
They reached the gate, Bolan's appropriated tank shearing through the
flimsy locking mechanism, peeling back the wrought iron like it was tinfoil.
There was a hellish grinding sound as the ruined gates raked along their
flanks, and then they were clear, gaining the highway in a surge of
desperate speed.
Bolan swung the Caddy north, following a track that would eventually
put him on Highway 131, a few miles north of Tiburon. From there, it was an
easy run south on Interstate 101, across the Golden Gate and into the
teeming anonymity of San Francisco.
His high beams reflecting on the fog were blinding, so Bolan kicked
them down to low and finally shut them off completely, trusting to the
Nitefinders. Even with enhanced vision they were going dangerously fast. He
eased back on the accelerator, watching his speedometer needle drop through
the seventies, settling around a risky sixty-five.
The lady was fully alert now, watching him wide-eyed and keeping her
distance. From the corner of his eye, Bolan saw her reaching for the inside
door latch.
"Not at this speed," he cautioned her. "If you're hot to go back, I can
let you out anywhere along here."
The small hand froze, finally retreated. It took another moment for the
voice to function.
"No thanks," she said. "I'm not going back."
Bolan gave her points for common sense and coolness under fire. She was
holding up, and that was something in itself.
"I guess I ought to thank you," she was saying. "You may have saved my
life."
Bolan's voice was curt.
"Thank me later. I haven't saved you yet."
His eyes fastened on the rearview mirror where two sets of headlights
were boring through the fog. The chase cars were running in tandem and
closing fast. They hadn't spotted Bolan yet, but at their present rate of
speed it was only a matter of moments.
Bolan considered running for it, but instantly rejected the idea. He
didn't want the hunters on his tail all the way to San Francisco. If he had
to fight, he would choose the site, a battlefield affording him some combat
stretch. Bolan didn't want his war in the city streets if he could keep it
out.
"We've got a tail," he snapped. "Get down on the floor and stay there."
She glanced backward, then did as she was told. Her eyes never left
Bolan as he drew the silver AutoMag and laid it ready on the seat beside
him.
Instead of speeding up, he backed off the gas, dropping down another
five miles an hour. The chase cars were gaining. In another moment they
would have the Caddy in their sights. Bolan had one desperate chance, and it
required split-second timing. If he blew it, he would have sacrificed his
lead for nothing.
The point car was almost on top of them, closing to a range of twenty
feet, when he hit the lights. A screech of rubber told him it had worked;
the driver had mistaken his taillights for brake lights in the foggy