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

one on duty.
Bolan smiled at the "officers."
"I must've slept through it," he said. "Never heard a thing."
The shotgunner scowled.
"We're gonna have to take you downtown for questioning," he growled.
Bolan feigned amazement.
"Hey, listen now..."
Growing nervous, the "sergeant" snapped, jabbing the air with his
scattergun for emphasis.
"Shut up, and let's see those hands," he ordered.
"Okay, Jesus," Bolan stammered, "just don't shoot, all right?" '
His left hand was already shoulder high when the right hand poked
through the open front of his overcoat. Downslope, his huddled targets had
but a heartbeat to read the death message in his eyes before Bolan stroked
the trigger.
The Ingram man-shredder fires at a cyclic rate of 1,200 rounds per
minute, rattling off a clip of thirty-two 9mm parabellums in a second and a
half. Bolan held the trigger down, and few of his bullets missed flesh
inside the narrow stairwell.
He took the "sergeant" first, neutralizing his deadly riot gun. A line
of steel-jackets zippered him from crotch to throat, opening his stolen
uniform and releasing his stuffing in a surging, liquid rush. The hollow man
tumbled backward, dead fingers triggering a blast that released a rain of
plaster.
The other uniform gave a startled cry and swung his Walther up,
tracking his target. His hands were shaking, and his first shot gouged the
wall a foot to Bolan's left.
Bolan hung a wreath of parabellum manglers around the gunner's neck,
watching face disintegrate. The uniform's cap was blown away, his scalp
inside it, sailing down the stairs like a bloody discus.
The third man was still groping for his weapon when the headless corpse
hit him, knocking him off balance. Already smeared with blood, he swatted
the thing away, half turning and tugging harder at reluctant gun leather.
Bolan's automatic fire hit him in a blazing figure eight, and the
half-turn became a jerky, spinning dance of death. His trench coat rippled
with the deadly drumming impact, releasing a crimson tide, mingling with his
partner's blood. A final burst swept him off his feet and pitched him
headlong down the staircase, joining the others in a tangled heap of arms
and legs.
In the sudden, ringing stillness, Bolan heard the building come alive.
Doors banged open, sleepy voices shouted questions. Bolan fed the MAC-10 a
fresh clip, moving past the bodies toward the back door.
Bolan knew enough of Minh's strategy to expect a backup outside. If the
sounds of battle hadn't carried to the street, there was still a chance for
him to take the backup by surprise. With luck, he might even learn the
whereabouts of Amy Culp.
He gave Minh credit for the suck play. The man counted on his enemy
returning to the nest, and it worked... almost. Another moment either way,
and it could have been Bolan sprawling in his own blood at the bottom of the
stairs.