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

Bolan checked the knife and found it was clean, Amy hadn't found a
chance to use it. The blood, in all probability, was hers.
Bolan cursed softly, his imagination filling in the gaps. He damned Amy
for ignoring his instructions, turning the safehouse into a death trap.
Clearly, she made a call, brushed against the strands of Minh's web, and
brought the danger upon herself.
He let the anger slide away, concentrating on the here and now. Amy was
beyond his reach; unless the "elders" took her back to Minh's estate, there
was no way for him to trace her.
But if he couldn't find the lady, if he couldn't help her, there was
still something he could do to avenge her.
Something massive.
Armageddon, sure, for the Universal Devotees.
Cold fury rose, supplanting the warrior's early flash of anger. He knew
the feeling, he lived with it and he let it guide his hand against the enemy
in other confrontations, other wars.
It was the righteous anger of a soldier who shared the pain of others,
and who was simply too much a man to turn away.
His enemy had called the game, and Bolan was prepared to take the game
to the limit. It would be scorched earth for Minh and the soldiers of his
private army.
Bolan made a final sweep of the apartment, seeking clues and coming up
empty. He considered calling Able Team's referral number, but dismissed the
thought. If Amy Culp was alive, if she was being taken to the hardsite,
every second counted. If she wasn't, he had given Minh and Carter too much
time already.
Bolan put the apartment behind him, checking each direction as he left.
The corridor was empty, and the stereo's pulsing had receded. Half a dozen
paces brought him to the stairs and he started down, keeping one hand on the
MAC-10 beneath his coat.
He was on the landing, with a single flight to go, when he met the
raiding party - three men, their eyes and faces mirroring the Executioner's
surprise.
The two in front wore police uniforms while the trail man wore a trench
coat. Despite their surprise, the trio was braced for trouble: the nearest
had a pistol in his hand; the sergeant to his left held a riot gun at port
arms; and the backup man was fumbling with the buttons of his coat, edging a
hand toward some hardware.
Bolan stopped short as the shotgunner hailed him, letting the stubby
scattergun slide down to waist level.
"Hold up, slick. We need to have a word with you."
Bolan raised an eyebrow and allowed confusion to enter his tone.
"What's the trouble, Officer?" he asked.
The uniform with the pistol chimed in.
"We have reports of a disturbance.''
Bolan's eyes dropped from the patrolman's face to the weapon in his
fist, locking in instant recognition.
It was a Walther P-38, the classic 9mm autoloader favored by German
Wehrmacht officers in World War II. Collectors would pay a hefty price for
such a piece in mint condition - but no San Francisco cop would ever carry