"Дон Пендлтон. Chicago Wipe-Out ("Палач" #8) " - читать интересную книгу автора

ran out at the stroke of five. It would seem like they would take more
interest in the business. After all, it was their bread and butter, wasn't
it? Maybe he'd shake up this goddam crew, get them on their toes, and either
shape 'em up or ship 'em out. That idea appealed to him, and he continued on
toward the lobby in a rising good humor.
The news about Louis had really shaken him. He was glad to be pulling
out of that dark mood. His ulcers got edgy when he got edgy, and he sure
didn't want a flaxeup of them goddam things.
Rudy Palmer was seated on the bottom step - waiting for the boss -
tying his shoe or something. The good humor deepened. Rudy might not be
overly bright, especially in business matters, but he could be a comfort to
a guy. Imagine him saying that this Bolan was horsed up! Lavallo experienced
an unbidden tremor. If only it were true. It was, of course, not true. Mack
the Bastard Bolan was the most scarey damn thing to come up in all of
Lavallo's experiences. You couldn't explain away a guy like that as a junkie
, for God's sake. And now the bastard was in Chicago. And there sat Rudy,
one of the best gunners in the business, hovering at the bottom of the steps
and waiting patiently for the boss, plus a whole crew of gun soldiers
waiting outside to escort the boss safely home. So why the hell should Pete
Lavallo be worried at all?
He brushed past Palmer with a gruff, "Let's go, let's go," and got
halfway to the door before realizing that Rudy was not following him. He
turned back and said, "Hey! You sleeping on the job?"
Then Lavallo noted the dark discoloration on the carpet immediately in
front of Rudy Palmer, and he realized that Rudy was sitting in one hell of
an awkward position. He hurried back to the stairway and grabbed Palmer's
shoulder and shook it. The whole torso wobbled and the head flopped limply
back to reveal a gaping slit across the throat, wide-open eyes stared
blankly at the ceiling for a moment, then Rudy Palmer's remains toppled
over.
Lavallo recoiled and danced clear of the failing body. His hand was
fumbling for his coat pocket and the comforting grip of the .45 and he was
making a run for the door before he was even aware of his actions.
It was then that the tall man in the black suit stepped from the
shadows near the door, a long silencer-tipped black blaster targeted on Pete
the Hauler's head, tight lips pulled back in a killer snarl to reveal
gleaming teeth. Again Lavallo recoiled and came to an abrupt halt, but his
hand continued to dig for the .45.
Two quick spurts of flame arced away from the black blaster -
accompanied by quiet phutting sounds - and something hot and furious tore
through the fabric of Lavallo's overcoat. His hand came out of there
quickly, a double furrow plowed across the top of it.
Two words, about as clipped and final as the phuts from the silencer,
were spat at him. "Freeze, Lavallo."
Pete the Hauler froze, but his stomach did not. The ulcers were already
yelling bloody murder when Lavallo coughed nervously and asked, "Bolan? Is
that Mack Bolan?"
"Did you get my message from Lakeside, Lavallo?"
"I got it. Sure I got it. And here's one for you. There's a whole gun
crew waiting just outside that door. They can see you clear as anything,