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

He paused at the door, letting' his eyes grow accustomed to the dark.
His mind was ticking off the numbers, calculating odds and probable
trajectories.
Bolan merged with the night, a hunter in his element. The low voice
stopped him halfway across the patio.
"Far enough, counselor."
Bolan turned toward the sound, eyes probing at the mist. He picked out
a moving man-shape near the pool.
The guy was right. It was plenty far enough.
The Belle found its target in a single fluid motion. Bolan squeezed off
a silent round, adjusting for the fog's natural distortion.
Downrange, the plug man was stumbling through an awkward pirouette, all
flailing arms and legs. He lost it on the second spin, and his jerky dance
step became a headlong dive to nowhere. Bolan heard the splash as he
disappeared from sight.
He was thrashing in the pool's shallows, life leaking out of him, when
Bolan got there. Hard eyes glared back at him, unflinching. Bolan closed
them with another parabellum, and the guy stopped thrashing. A murky slick
was spreading on the surface of the water.
The warrior retraced his steps across the patio, circling the house.
Going for he sweep with one touch-point remaining.
He wasn't leaving any witnesses this time.
Bolan approached the driver from his blind side, moving silently,
sheltered by the fog. He passed along a juniper hedge, deliberately
overshooting, doubling back to take the Caddy in the rear.
The wheelman was restless. Bolan watched him drumming his fingers on
the steering wheel, bobbing his head in time to music on the radio. He
stopped to light a cigarette, and Bolan used the distraction as a chance to
close the gap.
From six feet away he watched the driver and listened to his music in
the darkness. The guy was preoccupied, watching the house, but something - a
soldier's sixth sense - alerted him to danger.
Bolan scuffed a sole across the pavement, barely audible, but loud
enough. The driver twisted in his seat, eyes going wide as they found Bolan
and focused on the autoloader rising in his fist.
"Aw, shit."
The guy was clawing at a shoulder holster, lunging sideways in an
effort to escape the line of fire. Bolan helped him on his way with a
parabellum in the ear. He ended in a twitching sprawl across the broad front
seat.
Grim Death pumped another round through the open window, and the
twitching stopped. On the radio, one record ended and a new screamer began
as the severed spirit winged into the Universe.
Bolan leaned through the window, found the ignition switch and turned
it off. For an instant there was silence, then a muffled droning sound
intruded the night. He straightened up, turning toward the noise, every
combat sense alert and tingling.
The garage door was opening. An engine rumbled into life inside the
garage, the sound reverberating like distant thunder.
Carter didn't wait for the door to open on its own. A Lincoln sprang