"Дон Пендлтон. Doomsday Disciples ("Палач" #49) " - читать интересную книгу автора

ready.
Behind the counselor, two men filled the doorway. Bolan sized up the
opposition as they entered.
They were bookends, carbon copies of a thousand other savages the
Executioner had known. Different faces, sure, but you couldn't hide the
pedigree. They carried all the signs: a stench of death and suffering
nothing could ever wash away.
"I wish you'd tell me what this... this..."
Carter couldn't tear his eyes away from Bolan. The hardmen were
following his lead, turning to check it out.
What they saw was not a welcome.
It was death.
All things considered, they reacted professionally, peeling off in
opposite directions, giving Bolan two targets. Each was groping after hidden
hardware, competing in the most important contest of their lives.
Neither had a chance.
Bolan took the nearest gunner first, his Beretta chugging out a pencil
line of flame. The 9mm parabellum sizzled in on target, punching through a
tanned cheek under the right eye, expanding and reaming on, exiting with a
spray of murky crimson. The impact spun him like a top and dumped him
facedown on the carpet.
His partner had an autoloader out and tracking Bolan when Belle coughed
a second time. The gunner lurched backward as a parabellum mangier pierced
his throat, releasing a bloody torrent from his ruptured jugular. For an
instant he was frozen, gagging on his own vital juices; his lips worked
silently, emitting scarlet bubbles.
Bolan again stroked the trigger and again silent death closed the gap
between them, exploding in the gunner's face. A keyhole opened in his
forehead and the lock was turned, explosively releasing all the contents of
that dark Pandora's box. Bits and pieces of the guy were outward bound
before his body got the message, rebounding off the sofa on its way to
touchdown.
Mitchell Carter was going through some changes of his own as he
surveyed the carnage. His living room had suddenly become a dying room, and
his white shag carpeting would never be the same.
"Jesus. Sweet Jesus."
Yeah.
The years of grim indoctrination couldn't dam a plea to a
long-forgotten God. Not with bloody fragments of reality clinging to his
walls and furniture.
"Two down," Bolan said. "What's in back?"
Carter tried to answer and finally got it on the second try.
"Swimming pool, sauna and a guest cottage."
All kinds of cover for the back-door gunner.
"I'm going for the sweep," Bolan said. "Be ready when I get back."
"Ready?"
The lawyer was trying not to understand. Bolan spelled it out for him.
"We're getting out of here. Your lease just expired."
Bolan moved toward the rear of the house and killed lights along the
way. He didn't plan to make it easy with a silhouette for the tail gunner.