"Дон Пендлтон. California Hit ("Палач" #11) " - читать интересную книгу автора

lone lamp which now tried to illuminate the parking area, a dull yellow blob
of light which would have been worthless even without the dense atmosphere.
This part of the city was eerily quiet and almost muffled in the
characteristic black-gray wetness of early-morning San Francisco, the fog
and the silence blending into an entirely new dimension of time and space.
The world seemed to be wrapped tightly around this tiny oasis of sight and
sound, the lighted coffee house in the next block and the occasional passing
vehicle along the street belonging to an entirely different reality.
But the China Gardens was the only reality Bolan needed, for the
moment.
It was to be a very direct tactic, sure - but it was the only one
available. Bolan had to take what he could get, pull whatever handle
happened to fit his hand, walk through the doors that opened to him.
And a war needed an opener.
The Executioner moved out of his surveillance position and crossed over
to the combat zone, a gliding shadow upon the night, and came into
no-man's-land via the parking lot, halting slightly uprange from the
darkened rear entrance to the central building and directly opposite a
lighted upstairs window.
Shadowy images were playing upon that rectangle of light. The "boys"
were no doubt having a business meeting - posting records and splitting
profits and laying plans for the next day's cannibalistic activities.
Bolan muttered into the night, "Well, for openers..." and swung the
satchel charge one full revolution in a softball windup, then let it go in a
high, arcing pitch.
The game plan was simple... hit and fade... and he was back-pedalling
rapidly in the follow-through when he saw her in his corner vision.
She was a real live China doll, hurrying out of the darkness from the
back side of the pagoda and heading directly across his path, and apparently
she had not even seen him yet.
Consciousness froze for an agonizing instant - with that shipment of
high explosives poised midway between Bolan's hand and the impact point -
the girl rushing blindly into the blast zone.
She was a beauty, petite but fully proportioned, the Dragon Lady in the
flesh, wearing a tight Mandarin style dress with a slit to the hip.
There was time for only a flashing glimpse of her - and then Bolan was
reacting instinctively, like a killer linebacker hurling himself into a
busted play-whirling and lunging to grab the girl and throw her to the
pavement, falling with her and shielding her body with his own. She was
struggling and grunting in alarm, her breath hot on his face, when all the
sounds of the night became telescoped into the smashing of that upstairs
window and the closely following explosion of the satchel charge.
The entire area received instant light, flying debris and whizzing
chunks of deadly glass and mortar - and Bolan had another flashing glimpse
of frightened eyes as the girl ceased struggling and suddenly lay very
still, her head turned to the sound and sight of hell unleashed.
Flames were whooshing through a hole in the upper wall and unseen men
were shrieking in panic. Then the wall bulged out and leaned forward, and
Bolan was dragging the girl into deeper safety when the whole thing
collapsed, spilling bricks, timber, flaming furniture and human bodies in an