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

one Benny Copa, mobster.
Copa had been born Benjamin Coppacetti in the Hell's Kitchen district
of New York City, and had migrated westward at the tender age of sixteen,
one jump ahead of some heavy-duty robbery and assault indictments in the Big
Apple. He had never been a real power in the Mafia, no one to be reckoned
with outside St. Paul, even in the days before Mack Bolan's syndicate wars,
but he was a localized underworld honcho of sorts.
He needed to know from Copa why the guns had been called out, and he
needed that information before the day got any older.
Benny Copa operated from second-floor offices set above a billiard
parlour two blocks over off Arcade Street. The place was called Freddy's,
but there was no Freddy in residence, and no one in the neighborhood was
quite sure anymore if he had ever existed.
Bolan found the place easily and parked his rental sedan a block past
the darkened entrance, near an intersection. He had passed an alley as he
circled the block, and he found it now on foot, moving cautiously along
behind the businesses that faced the street. In a moment, he had reached the
rear entrance of Freddy's.
And the place was locked. Naturally.
No pool hall would be open at that hour of the morning.
The cheap lock yielded quickly to the Executioner's pick, and he found
himself inside a darkened doorway. The service stairs were immediately to
his left.
Bolan's combat senses made a quick remote probe of the ground floor,
picking up no sounds of human occupation. When he was satisfied that he
wasn't leaving unknown dangers behind, he moved to the staircase, Beretta
Belle in hand and ready to meet any challenge.
There was a hardman stationed at the top of the stairs, leaning back
against the wall in a metal folding chair and dozing after a long night on
duty. Bolan was almost on top of the guy when he woke, trying to right his
leaning chair and reach holstered gunmetal in one awkward, unbalanced
motion.
The Beretta coughed its single deadly word, and the guy went down with
a thud, the chair rattling out from under him as he fell. His passing left a
viscous crimson smear on the grimy wall.
Bolan had to assume that the racket of the hardman's dying had alerted
everyone inside the adjacent office. He hit the door with a flying kick and
burst in, the Belle up and seeking targets.
There were three of them, all clustered around a big desk littered with
loose cash and crumpled bits of paper.
Three pairs of eyes locked onto Mack Bolan at his explosive entrance,
noting his hard eyes and deadly side arm. Two of the men, conditioned by a
lifetime in the mob's gutter wars, broke for their weapons, peeling off in
opposite directions in an effort to divide Bolan's attention.
It almost worked.
But almost isn't good enough.
Bolan nailed the one on the left, plugging a 9mm mangler through the
bridge of his nose before he could reach gun leather. Then he spun to take
the guy on the right. Round one pinned the guy's gun hand to his chest as he
was coming out of his death spin. Round two entered his gaping mouth and