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

target he hung into and watched as it was punched backwards into the distant
room. Then he backtracked in a verification of the first three hits,
realizing already that this phase of the firefight had ended. A warm trickle
of blood was oozing down his cheek. He wiped it away and withdrew the
splinter of wood that was producing it, realizing also that he had been that
close to death.
In a delayed reaction to the doorway fusillade, the Cadillac suddenly
erupted into flames with a whooshing explosion that lifted the rear end and
resettled the heavy vehicle at an angle to the drive.
People were running about down there, amongst the trees, and someone
was shouting instructions. A moment later a lone figure appeared through the
hedgerow separating the two properties. He was a dark, thickset man with a
Thompson chopper, and Bolan did not need the scope to read the ferocity on
that scowling face. Their gazes met in simultaneous discovery and the
Thompson began its upward swing. Bolan had to rise to his feet to get the
proper depression for the Weatherby; he did so, firing from the hip in the
same smooth motion, and the beginning gutteral chop of the Thompson was
instantly eclipsed by the rolling cra-ack of the Weatherby.
The guy staggered backwards into the hedgerow and was momentarily
supported there by the thick bushes, the now silent weapon hugged to his
chest and turning crimson, then he toppled forward in a crumbling fall. The
excited voice of a man somewhere in the background of action cried, "Christ,
he got Blackie!"
Bolan placed a marksman's medal on the shattered windowsill, then
whirled and ran for the door. No... these were definitely not clowns. The
Executioner was beginning to feel like the largest clown of all for walking
into a hardset like this one. The enemy was present in force and knew how to
respond to a hit. The question now uppermost in Bolan's mind concerned his
ability to successfully withdraw. He slung the Weatherby from his shoulder
and hit the doorway at full gallop, flinging himself through and over the
metal railing of the small porch to drop in a plummeting arc to the frozen
ground below, a descent of some fifteen feet. He landed in a shock-absorbing
crouch and continued the motion with a rebound toward the protection of the
building.
His Beretta was clear of its leather and filling his hand as he rounded
the corner of the garage and made a run for the hedgerow. When, confronting
a superior force, Bolan had learned that confusion and the unexpected were
the best equalizers. They would be expecting him to flee; therefore he must
charge.
Charge, hell, I'm just retreating to the front!
His maneuver caught three of the enemy in flatfooted indecision as he
descended upon them along the hedgerow, the Beretta coughing its chilling
little message of defiance. The return fire was disorganized, ineffective,
and very brief as two of the Mafiosi went down under the assault. The third,
a skinny youth with mottled skin and very frightened eyes, stood quietly
staring into the full extension of the black Beretta, his mouth open and his
own weapon dangling impotently toward the ground. The gunhand was rapidly
turning red under a flow of blood from a shoulder wound. The gunner's eyes
flicked briefly from the bore of the Beretta to the icy gaze of The
Executioner , then skittered away to fasten on the dead man lying at his