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

So too someone had to be the butcher. Bolan could live with it. A guy
with a genius for math should not shrink from numbers... a dancer should
dance, a singer should sing, a painter should paint, and an executioner
should... Bolan knew what he had to do. He knew where his talents lay, and
let the revulsion fall where it would. He could live with it.
He flung away the entire train of thought and began undressing for the
shower. The Beretta and sideleather went on a towel rack just outside the
shower stall, and Bolan went in beneath the stinging spray, lifting his face
directly into the invigorating assault. He remained there a long time, eyes
clenched, breathing through his mouth, luxuriating in the bombardment - and
then he became aware that the door to the stall was open and be felt eyes on
him.
They were solemnly glowing eyes and they belonged to the Foxy Lady...
and there were no shadows or veils there now. In her hand was a cosmetic jar
and upon that divine body was nothing but the painted likeness of a red fox.
Soberly, she said, "Thanks for remembering the body cream."
His mind traveled the several corners of the world before he replied,
"Okay."
"I'll wash your back if you'll cream-off my paint."
He said, "You're on," and pulled her into the stall.
Soft arms went about him and the resilient body-bountiful welded itself
to him in a shivery embrace. Her lips nipped at his shoulder and she moaned,
"I'm Jimi James, let's get that into the record."
Bolan ran his hands along the luxurious flesh of her back as he told
her, "Pleased to meet you, Miss James. I'm still Mack Bolan."
"Oh, and I'm glad, I'm glad," she whispered, and her mouth found his,
and Bolan knew that she was glad. And so was he. Revulsion he could live
with, sure - but this was something to live for .
If revulsion had indeed been present some moments earlier, it had
certainly given way now to something more moving than violence, more jarring
than a chunk of muzzle-heated metal, and infinitely more sublime than
unending warfare. A man and a woman had found an exalted bond that surpasses
all human definitions. And as the storm forces gathered about and above the
landscapes surrounding them, there was engendered between them and by them a
storm of an entirely different sort...

* * *

The sign on the specially constructed door read Communications, Ltd . -
inside were rows of semi-enclosed tables, each equipped with a telephone and
other devices helpful to the bookmaker's trade. This was the headquarters of
a wire-betting service, a national operation covering race tracks and
sporting events throughout the country. Tonight it was covering a different
type of event; this was the Chicago nerve center for the War against Bolan.
Several dozen men manned the telephones, displayed information, and passed
along reports and instructions pertinent to the task at hand.
Larry Turk was holding court with several of his crew chiefs in a
turret of desks and wirecages at the rear when someone observed, "Here comes
Pete the Hauler."
Turk muttered, "What the hell does that guy want to be... ?" He jammed