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

top of that stairway, his eyes straining against the blinding snow, all of
his senses finely tuned into that split-second of opportunity to pounce like
the great jungle cat that he was. And, in that startling instant, Jimi
understood the inner man that was Mack Bolan as perhaps no other person had.
Her fear, in that moment of understanding, gave way to an inner calm
awaiting the inevitable.
And the inevitable came quickly, as Bolan had promised. A shivering
voice, very close now, muttered, "Let's see, B-240. I wonder which way that
would be."
A returning voice of cold steel suggested, "To your left."
"Huh?"
"Wh?.."
Jimi might have missed the quiet phuttings of the Beretta against the
background of storm noises if she had not also seen the lances of flame that
came so closely together as to almost be connected - and, yes, she knew now
about suddenness.
An almost unbearably drawn-out quiet descended. A sign above Jimi's
head creaked with the wind - now and then the murmuring idle of the
automobile engine was brought in on the wind. She fought down an impulse to
call out Bolan's name, and instead conjured a picture of him standing at the
head of that stairway, taking its pulse at the railing, his animal senses
flaring out into the storm to draw in impressions which perhaps would not
come to an ordinary person.
And suddenly his hand was on her's and his lips, close to her ear, were
instructing her, "Let's go, quietly."
She went, and quietly, one hand in Bolan's, his body partially
shielding her's. He led her around the cluster of fallen soldiers and they
began the descent.
Bolan stiffened suddenly, about halfway down, and Jimi reflexively made
herself small behind him. Then she became aware of the sounds that had
halted him - another murmur of voices, somewhere out in the storm, rising
frequently to angry tones - an occasional glimpse of auto headlamps
shimmering through the vertical blanket of snowflakes. She could not be
certain if she was seeing multiple sets of lights or if a single pair were
creating optical illusions.
Then Bolan was tugging at her and they went on, cautiously planting
their feet and pausing at each step before progressing to the next one. And
the voices were becoming clearer.
A heavy one, sounding angry and vexed, was declaring, "... tells me
where I go and where I don't go. You go back and tell 'im that."
Another, respectful, almost pleading: "It's just that this's no place
for an important man like you't'be, Mr. Lavallo. Turk just don't want you
exposing yourself needlessly."
"I know what Turk don't want, Bernie, and you better remind 'im who
he's dickin' around with. And you better remind yourself."
Bolan and Jimi were off the stairway now and moving past the headlamps
and voices - close, so close. The snow was drifting into kneehigh ridges
along the line of parked vehicles, and they were following one of these
ridges. Bolan was moving surely and swiftly now, and again Jimi marvelled at
his finely developed instincts or whatever it was propelling him into the