"Дон Пендлтон. Continental Contract ("Палач" #5) " - читать интересную книгу автора

Invisibly they reached out to touch every man, woman, and child in the
country, stealing more from the poor than from the rich, squeezing the
working man with invisible taxes and tributes, demoralizing and enslaving
the young with drugs and insidiously corruptive pleasures, cannibalizing
industry and victimizing both retailers and consumers, seizing the reins of
government through blackmail and the exploitation of human greed and
everything they touched turned rotten and spoiled and ugly and corrupt. This
was Mack Bolan's vision, and his sustaining truth, and his reason for living
when often the most pleasurable thing possible would be to merely die.
He earned distinction as The Executioner in the jungles and hamlets of
Vietnam and it was this same brand of warfare that he brought to the
American continent. A police lieutenant in Pittsfield, Bolan's home town and
scene of his first Mafia encounter, was responsible for the nickname living
on through the transition from Vietnam to hometown, but it was Bolan alone
who endowed the name with the terrible attributes that rocked the Mafia ship
of state and struck dread deep into the bones of Mafiosi everywhere, from
the lowest street soldier to the most exalted Capo.
The Executioner was not a cop; he could go and do as no cop could. The
Executioner was not a judge or jury; he was not interested in legal
technicalities, bribes, or threats. The Executioner was not a prison guard
or trusty; he was not impressed with political or underworld influence and
intimidation, and he had no reasons whatever for granting special favors or
dispensations. He was incorruptible, non-negotiable, ready to die, and
willing to kill; he was THE EXECUTIONER, and his target was the Mafia, La
Casa Nostra, anywhere and everywhere, so long as he should live.

1
The Dulles Trap

For one frozen heartbeat, Mack Bolan knew that he was a dead man. And
then the moment ticked on, recording the confusion and hesitation and
perhaps even awe in the eyes of the adversary, and Bolan lived on. Trained
instincts of the jungle fighter responded one flashing synapse quicker;
Bolan's reaction to the surprise encounter was a total one as mind and body
exploded into the challenge for survival His left chopped against the gun
even as the yawning bore of the .45 thundered its greetings, his knee
lifting high in the same reflex as he twisted into the attack. The shot went
wild, the gun clattered to the ground, and the foe momentarily rode Bolan's
knee, buckaroo style, then he was groaning groundward and rolling into a
spasmodic knot.
Bolan scooped up the .45 in a continuation of the defensive reflex and
was swinging into the lineup on the fallen opponent when his corner-vision
warned him of activity on the flank. He whirled and rapidfired three rounds
in the general direction of that threat. Answering fire immediately
triangulated on him as shadowy shapes rapidly dispersed and went to ground
some twenty yards distant. A thick voice yelled, "It's him allright - now
waitaminnit - Bolan!"
Bolan was not waiting. He stepped around the writhing mafioso and
jogged quietly to the far corner of the building. A gun boomed from that
quarter and a slug punched into the wall beside him. He jerked back and