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

torture-interrogation or torture-revenge in which the victim is
systematically reduced to a mindless mass of mutilated and writhing flesh,
or "turkey," though conscious and screaming for mercy right into the moment
of death. Its practitioners develop a high degree of skill, and Larry Turk
had received his nickname in recognition of his own high development of this
delicate art, acquired during his earlier years of advancement along the
rungs of power.
This appointment to lead the counter-war against Bolan represented a
new challenge, and perhaps a new pinnacle of achievement, for the ambitions
of Lawrence Rossi. Forty-one years of age and a two-time "graduate" of the
Illinois State Prison at Joliet, Larry the Turk had arrived at the high
moment of a vicious career. And it must have seemed to him that all roads
from this point led straight up.
On this night of the storm, however, the turkey-maker was to discover
that even the most sublime roads always travel in more than one direction.
Even in Chicago.

* * *

Bolan let himself into the motel room and deposited his parcels on a
table by the door. The room was lighted only by a sliver of illumination
from the bathroom door and the glow from a television screen.
The girl was sprawled casually across the bed on her forearms, her
attention, absorbed by the television set, a bath towel draped carelessly
over her bottom. The Foxy Lady costume lay on a luggage rack at the foot of
the bed.
Bolan took in the towel-draped highrise and quickly shifted his focus
to a less disturbing scene, the murmuring television. His own image was
being displayed there as a blown-up artist's sketch while an off-camera
voice was giving a resume' of the New York battles.
The blonde head swivelled slowly about and she regarded him quietly
across a rose-petal shoulder which was glowing fetchingly in the reflected
light from the television screen. The voice was small and maybe a bit weepy
as she told him, "I thought you'd deserted. I've been lying here feeling
sorry for myself."
"Had to stop and see a guy," Bolan explained.
"Yes, I know." A shadow seemed to move across her eyes. "They just
reported the... man... at the trucking company. They said it's connected to
the executions at Lakeside. Is it?"
He said, "Sure," and tossed a flat box onto the bed. "Better check the
fit."
She ignored the box. Again that shadow crossed her eyes as she asked,
"Did you really slit his throat?"
Bolan shrugged. "Dead is dead," he muttered, and strode into the
bathroom. He called back "Get some clothes on," and banged the door shut.
Sure he'd slit the throat, and he'd punched hot metal into a dozen
other men this day - beautiful lady. He had noted that look in her eyes,
that dawning revulsion - somehow he had never become accustomed to that
look. He supposed he never would, no matter how often he saw it. Well, so
what? - he had it coming, didn't he? It was a proper reaction.