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

escape. If she couldn't reach transportation, it would have to come to her.
She had a telephone, but whom could she call?
Home was out, of course. Even if her father answered, if he still cared
enough to help her, she guessed there was nothing he could do from
Washington now that things had gone this far. She would have to seek
assistance in her own vicinity. She had no reason to have faith in a city of
politicians a continent away. It had to be local help, and now.
Police? Amy made a sour face. There was nothing to be gained from
questions, accusations. She was getting out, and that did not include
appearances as a witness in protracted court proceedings. Maybe later, when
she had put some space and time between herself and the Devotees.
The man in black had left a number, but she didn't plan to use it. If
her rescuer was the law, he could get along without her help. If he
wasn't...
At last she thought of Sarah.
One of Amy's oldest friends was in her senior year at Berkeley, just
across the bay. She mentally kicked herself for not thinking of Sarah
sooner.
It was too easy to forget friends and family in the Devotees.
Sarah never trusted Minh and had never liked Amy's involvement with the
church. At the same time, she never belittled Amy or verbally disapproved of
her the way other friends and family had. Sarah had expressed her feelings,
then left Amy free to make her own decision, right or wrong.
They had lost touch. Minh discouraged contacts outside the church, and
Amy hadn't seen or spoken to Sarah in seven months. If she was still at
Berkeley... if she didn't make excuses or hang up at the sound of Amy's
voice...
Stop that, she chided herself, cutting off the negative train of
thought. Sarah was her friend, she would help.
What was the number?
Amy racked her brain, angered by all she had forgotten in the space of
a year. Ten minutes later she consulted Berkeley information and received
the number she requested.
Amy felt relieved. That number, seven digits, was the key to her
escape. Without it, she was lost.
Nervous, trembling, she lifted the receiver and started dialing.

* * *

Mack Bolan had parked his car in an alley off Sixth and walked to the
front of Carter's high-rise office building. He stationed himself across the
street, sheltered by the foggy darkness and a recessed doorway.
Carter's suite of offices was halfway up on the twelfth floor, front.
The floor plan was tucked away in the Bolan mental file.
Bolan watched the counselor nose the battered Continental down a ramp
leading to the underground garage. As the taillights disappeared, he moved
from cover to a corner telephone booth, slipped inside and lifted the
receiver.
Able Team's Herman "Gadgets" Schwarz had visited the subject's office
earlier that day, posing as a telephone repairman. In the course of his