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

forward, caught the door at half-mast and crashed through, crumpling
aluminum and losing paint along the way.
Tires were smoking, and the headlights blazed on to high beams, pinning
Bolan as he stood in the car's path. Carter's face, a twisted mask of panic,
was visible above the dash.
It was do-or-die now, and Bolan had only a split second for decision.
He could risk a shot, maybe kill Carter at the wheel and end it there, or...
He moved quickly, diving headlong across the Caddy's hood, bouncing
once before slithering off the other side. Behind him, Carter's tank met the
crew wagon in a shuddering collision, scraping down its length with a
hellish grinding sound.
Bolan hit the ground rolling and came up in a crouch, already moving
toward his own sedan. He saw the battered Continental veer away, plunging
across the lawn and churning grass under the tires, shearing off a length of
picket fence before reaching the street. With a screech of tortured rubber
it gained the pavement, taillights winking like glowing eyes. Then it was
gone.
Lights were coming on across the street, sleepy citizens responding to
the battle sounds. Bolan reached his car and slid behind the wheel, pulling
on the Nitefinder goggles as he fired the engine. He was on the Lincoln's
track, without lights, when the first door opened three houses down.
There had been no choice at all in his decision. Mitchell Carter had to
live, at least until the Executioner learned his role with Minh. Premature
execution would have closed the channels, canceled all bets before Bolan had
a firm idea of who was in the game.
The guy was KGB, no doubt about it. His reaction to the Bolan stimulus
marked him as a well-conditioned "comrade." Punch the right buttons, and he
jumped.
To a point, anyway.
At the moment he was frightened, confused and running for his life. He
had a choice to make before he ran much farther.
If he was buying Bolan's act, he faced a grim decision.
He could touch base with his control and try to make amends for almost
running down a fellow agent on assignment. If he took that route, Bolan was
prepared to track him up the ladder of command, taking out the rungs as they
appeared.
Or, he could burn his bridges, take the loss, and throw in his lot with
the "traitorous" Minh and his Universal Devotees.
Either way, the Executioner would have his reading, know the parameters
of his problem. Either way, there would be another shot at Mitchell Carter.
It was inevitable.
The guy stood for everything Bolan hated, everything his New War was
designed to counteract. He was a traitor and a cannibal, feeding on the
vitals of a nation that sheltered him since childhood. He repaid kindness
with a cold-blooded reign of terror.
The warrior brought his mind back to the here and now track. Carter was
leading him along a winding course, crossing Chinatown and homing on the
business district south of Market Street. Bolan hung back, never running
close enough to give himself away.
Five minutes into the pursuit, he knew where they were going. Given