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

the ruins of a white picket fence. One of the occupants was ejected during
that wallowing roll, his rag doll body twisting and flopping across the
pavement like a punctuation mark to the auto's emphatic death sentence.
There was little time to verify the hit. Already porch lights were
coming on around the cul-de-sac, brightening the grim arena. The numbers
were falling, fast.
But Bolan was willing to spend a few of those precious numbers, sure,
to find a handle on this brief and lethal encounter. It would not do to quit
the field of battle without some effort to identify the fallen enemy.
Bolan and the Politician crossed the street to stand above the limp,
lifeless form. Bolan recognized the man as the passenger, out of character
now as he lay on his back, one arm twisted awkwardly beneath him, his
bloodied head cocked at an impossible angle. A dark ribbon of blood dripped
from one ear, staining the asphalt.
"Do you make the face, Pol?" Bolan asked his comrade.
Blancanales shook his head firmly. "No. He's a stranger to me."
Bolan shot a swift glance toward the capsized auto, but another porch
light clicked on just across the street, making the decision for him.
Together, the surviving warriors trotted back to their vehicle and put that
street of death behind them before sleepy residents could spill out onto
lawns and sidewalks.
Pol tore out at speed, then slowed the sedan to a more sedate pace,
avoiding the risk of a routine traffic stop by roving police. Beside him, in
the passenger's seat, Bolan was dismantling the Ingram and stowing its warm
components back inside the flight bag.
But the Executioner's mind was not on the mechanical functions of
stripping his weapon. No way. His brain was already in overdrive, racing
toward analysis and recognition of the real game in St. Paul.
They were stopped at a traffic light when Pol's voice intruded on those
dark thoughts.
"I guess I'll have to lose this heap," he grumbled. Then, with a rueful
grin, he added, "Just like the bad old days, eh?"
Bolan frowned. "The old days are supposed to be dead and buried, guy."
Blancanales nodded, losing the grin. "So are you, buddy, so are you."
"How do you read this action, Pol?" Bolan asked, changing the subject.
Blancanales shrugged. His face in the dim dashboard light was genuinely
puzzled.
"No reading, Sarge. Not yet, anyway. It just won't compute. It's beyond
me."
For another few moments they drove along in silence, each warrior
preoccupied with his own private thoughts and concerns. Each sought some
personal answer, some private point of recognition in the puzzle that
ensnared them.
Neither found it.

3

Long miles lay between the deadly poppy fields of his recent mission in
Turkey and the rainy streets of St. Paul, Minnesota, but Mack Bolan, the man
now known as Colonel John Phoenix, had early learned to take his hellgrounds