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

by the fog. He paused on a street corner, listening until the sounds died,
then crossed the street to enter his apartment building from the rear.
An alley cat arched its back and hissed at his approach, reluctantly
giving ground. Bolan wished it well then turned his full attention to the
door. It was locked. The ancient mechanism yielded to his key, stashed in a
pouch on his belt. He slipped inside.
Bolan stood in a darkened corridor sending out combat feelers, probing
the building's stillness. He listened to the structure settling, testing
each new sound to see if it betrayed a hostile presence. One by one the
warning signals were decoded, found innocent, then dismissed.
Satisfied he was alone, Bolan moved along a short hallway to the
stairs. Taking them two at a time, he reached the first landing when
footsteps sounded overhead, drawing closer. In another moment they would be
upon him.
Bolan froze, easing off the Ingram's safety. One person by the sound,
but he wasn't taking any chances.
Above him, a disheveled figure reached the stairs and started down.
Graying, shoulder-length hair with a drooping mustache, O.D. jacket, faded
denims - the guy was an aging relic of the Flower Generation. The eyes that
met Bolan's were burned-out, having seen too much and understanding too
little.
The guy smiled at Bolan, revealing missing teeth, and raised a hand in
greeting.
"Hi, man."
The Executioner nodded and stood aside to let him pass. When the front
door closed behind him, Bolan counted ten and resumed his climb.
The third floor was dimly lit. The paint was drab, discolored by years,
the cheap carpet dirty and threadbare.
Bolan paused on the stairs to take another reading of his gray
surroundings. Down the hall, a stereo was playing, bass guitars throbbing
through the walls like an erratic pulse. He scanned the corridor for other
signs of life, detected none and finally moved toward the door of his
apartment.
The door was open.
Either Amy had left, or someone had entered.
Bolan let his coat fall open, the stubby MAC-10 nosing out. He stepped
back, avoiding a direct line of fire, and gave the door a cautious nudge. It
swung inward with a rusty creak. Bolan's view of the apartment was expanded,
broadened inch by inch.
The empty room mocked his caution.
Bolan entered, lowering the Ingram as he closed the door behind him.
Glancing through the open bathroom door, he knew he was alone.
Amy Culp was missing, right, and from the evidence, she did not leave
willingly.
Bolan found the telephone lying where it had been dropped, or thrown. A
knife was on the kitchen floor, and near it, something else...
He stepped closer, bending down to make the confirmation. There was no
mistake, and Bolan's face was a mask of grim determination as he
straightened up. There were blood spots below the sink, already drying rusty
brown against the backdrop of pale linoleum.