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

Again the bolt-action ejected searing metal and the trained eye of the
marksman rode the jolting weapon to the next preselected step of the
rapid-fire triple punch, and again the tightening finger of death dispatched
an emissary of war. As swiftly as three ticks of a clock, three victims of
sudden death lay crumpled in the drive of the lakeshore estate that
corruption had built.
Aurielli's Cadillac lurched forward, moving head-on toward Bolan's
distant position - a purely instinctive reaction of flight. The Weatherby
sent it careening out of control on an instantly deflated front tire, then
Bolan swung the scope aside for a broader view of the developments down
there. His unencumbered eye caught a glint of something in motion at a
dormer window atop the joint - the window raised and a figure leaned out to
shout something at the hardman at the door, and the upstairs man was
pointing in Bolan's general direction. At that same moment he saw a flash
from another gable window and instinctively dropped to the floor a
split-second before a projectile tore away his own window-facing. Two others
came in quick sucession, heavy sizzlers that sent showers of rotting wood
Hying through the garage apartment.
And Bolan knew now why the uneasy feeling. His recon had not been good
enough. The joint way a hardsite; they had defenses there that not even a
two-day watch had revealed... and these Chicago clowns were no clowns -
their response had been instantaneous and effective. The reports of several
high-powered rifles were blending in a concerted and rapid return fire; they
were concentrating on the window areas, keeping Bolan down and ducking while
their comrades on the ground below found cover. Heavy calibre slugs were
tearing into the building with ominous thumps and the sounds of splintering
wood.
Okay, so Bolan knew that game too. They were working a bracketing
pattern, intent on keeping him down and clear of those windows. He grimaced
and snaked along the floor toward the door, the opening of which was set at
a right angle to the line of fire. He lay in the doorway and sent three
quick rounds into the grounded Cadillac, then immediately rolled back to his
original gunport at the window, smiling with grim satisfaction as the
doorjamb began to splinter under the same ferocious counterattack previously
accorded the window areas. Three seconds was all Bolan desired... three
seconds of diverted fire. He could see the flashes from two weapons on the
roof across the way and just below these, a weapon at each of the dormer
windows. Make it four seconds.
The sniperscope was back in place and he was scanning the ridges of the
roof. A target came into sharp focus, a face in dark concentration as it
fought the rapid recoils of a semi-automatic rifle. Bolan squeezed off a
shot and moved the scan onward, allowing no time to verify the hit, smoothly
working the bolt-action and immediately acquiring another target,
squeezing-off and moving on to the dormers.
The desired four seconds were not forthcoming; his opponents at the
windows had already become aware of the maneuver and were retargeting. The
shadow of a man in a face-on confrontation appeared in the vision-field, a
scope-mounted semi-automatic foregrounded and spitting flame. Something
thwacked into the wood beside Bolan's head as he cooly squeezed off, then
rode the recoil into the next target and again sighed into the pull; this