"Дон Пендлтон. The Violent Streets ("Палач" #41) " - читать интересную книгу автора

shower of bone and tissue.
Moving swiftly, Bolan sheathed the hot Brigadier and moved to the side
of the tub. Reaching down, he snared the naked lady still submerged there,
and hauled her, coughing, out of a watery grave.
She was very naked, yeah. And there was a single purple bruise on her
right temple.
The hitman's words came back to him, loud and clear.
It's supposed to look like an accident.
So the bruise was meant to give a touch of authenticity to an ordinary
bathtub fall and accidental drowning. Once the place was checked for prints
and found squeaky clean, not even Fran Traynor's friends on the P.D. would
have cause to look any further for an alternate solution.
It was a slick plan, if not exactly original. Slick and professional.
But that was the least of the problems.
Problem number one was clinging to Bolan's arm for dear life, sucking
wind like a drowned rat and shivering in the half-conscious knowledge that
she had somehow been saved.
Bolan led the lady on shaky legs out of the bloody shambles of her
bathroom and into an adjoining bedroom, where he flicked on the lights and
deposited her in an upright position on the bed. He had snared some towels
on the way, and now he began briskly drying her off from head to toe. As he
worked, he noted the return of healthy color to her pale flesh.
Her first feeble protest was swallowed in another fit of coughing that
brought up more water from her lungs, but within moments she was strong
enough to wrench the towel away from him and hold it in front of herself as
a shield for her nudity.
Bolan left her there, breathing heavily, one of her hands pressed to
her head and the other holding the bath towel against her breasts.
He moved quickly, finding the kitchen and scanning the household items
beneath the sink. He found a fat roll of paper towels, some rags, and a
half-empty box of plastic trash can liners, then took all the items back to
the bathroom slaughter-house with him.
After sliding an extra-strength trash bag over the mangled upper
quarters of each lifeless man, Bolan set about swabbing the walls and tub
area with the paper towels, careful to expunge all vestiges of blood and
tissue.
He did not intend to leave any trace of the two hired killers behind.
When he was finished, he gave the whole room a quick visual inspection,
then shoved the bloody towels inside one of the laden trash bags. As a last
step, he rifled the pockets of the dead men, coming up with drivers'
licenses that identified them as Philip Ciccio and Joseph Lupo,
respectively.
Bolan pocketed the ID cards and moved back to the bedroom doorway.
Inside, Fran Traynor was standing beside the bed, a large bath towel draped
across her, toga-fashion, hiding her shapely form from collarbone to upper
thighs. Still a bit unsteady, she stood with one slim hand braced against
the edge of a bedside nightstand.
And the other hand was clenched tightly around a snub-nosed .38
special.
Aimed right at Mack Bolan.