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

blind chaos of the night.
A formless dark shape materialized in their path; Jimi recoiled at
about the same instant that the Beretta coughed and another pencil-flame
lanced the storm. The blob gave off a "Whuf" and dematerialized - and on
they went. Jimi stumbled over something soft lying across her path. She
caught her breath and her balance at the same time, shivering in the
knowledge that she had stepped on an arm or a leg of a man who, seconds
earlier, had been alive and sentient.
The voices of the night had suddenly shut themselves off, then the
angry one could be heard nervously inquiring, "Did you hear that? Didn't you
hear something?"
"Sounds will fool you in this kind of weather, Mr. Lavallo. Really now,
why don't you?.."
"Naw, that's a sound you never forget. It's that blaster with a special
kind of silencer, I think. That bastard's out here somewhere, I bet. I'm
gonna call in my boys."
"God, Mr. Lavallo, don't..."
That voice was lost in the sudden loud blasting of an automobile horn.
Another blob of motion appeared off to Jimi's right, crunching snow and
breathing hard in a hurried transit. She understood then Bolan's selection
of white clothing for this night; they were probably invisible, she was
thinking. These other people were no more than shapeless patches of a darker
mass against the inpenetratable white background.
A loud voice nearby was demanding, "Shut it off! Shut off that goddam
horn if you have to shoot 'im!"
And then Jimi understood that the enemy were all around them - this was
like a game of blind man's buff, with everybody as the blind men and Mack
Bolan operating with some sort of a personal inner radar. The night had come
alive with running feet on crunching snow, startled exclamations, muffled
shouts, and the building sounds of a growing confusion.
Bolan had come to an abrupt halt, and somehow Jimi knew that he had
located the Ferrari. She swung about to get behind him, and found herself
sprawling forward suddenly, off-balance and falling over a large object
which she immediately recognized as the front end of an automobile.
Bolan's strong grip was jerking her upright and stabilizing her, and a
worried voice closely was inquiring, "Hank? What's the matter?"
"Nothin', I thought it was you," came the slightly distant reply from
the rear of the car.
Then Bolan's lips were at Jimi's ear and a harsh "down" was echoing
inside her skull. Without quite realizing how she had arrived there, Jimi
found herself lying in the snow and rolling madly for the protection of the
vehicle.
The Beretta Belle was coughing a soft symphony of destruction amidst
the louder crashes of several pistols. Something hit the snow beside her
outflung hand and she instinctively seized it and recognized in the feel of
it an expended ammunition clip from the Beretta.
She remembered Bolan's cool words, "... and it takes less then a second
to reload," and she understood what was transpiring and felt better for the
knowledge.
Phuttings and booms and muffled cries and grunts, shouts in the night,