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

feet.
Coldly, Bolan asked him, "You ready to die, soldier?"
The gunner shook his head in a negative response and the revolver
slipped from his hand.
"How many more of you?" Bolan demanded.
"Just me," the youth mumbled. His gaze once more raised to Bolan's cool
inspection, then again fell. "And I'm hit," he added dully.
Bolan said, "Count your blessings." He tossed a marksman's medal toward
the defeated man's feet. "Pick it up," he commanded. "See that Lavallo gets
it. Tell him he's next."
The Masfioso scooped up the medal with his good hand. He inspected it
with suddenly expressive eyes and said, "Hell, I guessed it. I figured it
must be you. Jeezus, Bolan, I..."
The Executioner's graveyard voice commanded, "Take off."
The guy took off, staggering back through the hedgerow without a
backwards glance, and undoubtedly counting his blessings.
Bolan stepped over a dead body and strode quickly toward the garage and
his waiting vehicle. The mob, he was thinking, would not overlook a
challenge like that.
The die was cast.
The Chicago Wipe-Out was on.
And maybe something else was on, as well. The mind-blowing blonde with
the million-dollar wiggle, whom Bolan had last seen entering the hardsite,
was standing beside his Ferrari and breathing hard as she agitatedly watched
his approach. Her hair was in a wild tangle, and somewhere she'd become
parted from the fur coat - a loss she could hardly afford, considering the
costume she had left. The girl was practically naked, and Bolan couldn't
decide if she was shivering from the cold or from terror. Either way,
something else was definitely on.

2
A foxy lady

"I'm on your s-side. Take me with you. Please !"
If she'd looked good in the sniperscope, she was downright edible in
the three-dimensional reality as she moved jerkily around to Bolan's side of
the car. A tall girl, pushing close to the six-foot mark, but put together
in eye-gathering proportions, with those softly alluring contours that are
sometimes seen on a budding ballerina who has not yet gone to solid muscle.
The costume would have been a bit much for the classical ballet crowd,
though. It was made of red fur, a one-piece bit of fluff with a microscopic
bottom that was hardly more than a G-string, and a thin strip stretching up
each side to loop about into a decorative but entirely non-concealing swirl
across luxurious breastworks. A bushy red tail reaching to her knees
completed the picture - except for the head of a leering fox, done in
bodypaint and peering out from the soft valley between her breasts.
Discounting the tail, Bolan figured he could hide the costume in his
hand. The only other items of apparel were soft, ankle-high moccasins - and
the temperature was in the mid-thirties with a stiff breeze raking in from
the lake. It was no time to be recruiting a women's auxiliary - but it was