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

He gained the back alley, melting into darkness as he circled
cautiously around the building. If Minh was running true to form, a car and
driver would be waiting for him on the street in front. Whether he could
take the guy alive, whether such a hostage would know anything about the
girl, remained to be seen.
He was running on the numbers now knowing only moments remained before
police received a call about the shooting. They might be on their way
already, and he had no desire for confrontation with legitimate authorities.
In Bolan's eyes, police were soldiers of the same side. He never fired
on them, even at the height of his war against the Mafia, when they pursued
him as the most-wanted criminal alive. His uncompromising stand won the
Executioner a host of secret friends in law enforcement, and more than once
his freedom depended on an officer who looked the other way.
To all but a few, the Executioner was dead, consumed in the grim finale
of his last Mafia campaign. There were no more friends and allies now; San
Francisco's finest would respond at full alert to a report of shooting in
their streets.
Bolan reached the avenue and found the Caddy sitting at the curb with
engine idling. He drew the silent Brigadier from side leather, moving to
take the driver on his blind side. Misty darkness hid him as he passed along
the street with hurried strides.
The driver was distracted, straining for a view of the apartment house,
ablaze with lights. As Bolan reached the car, the front door of the building
opened, spilling yellow light and frightened, shouting tenants into the
street.
The guy was torn between an urge to run and the desire to help his
crewmates. Bolan made the choice for him, reaching in and tapping him on the
shoulder with the Belle.
The driver's head whipped around, eyes widening and crossing as the
pistol hovered inches from his nose. Bolan let him stare at it for a moment,
ticking off the numbers in his head.
"Wha... what the hell..."
"Nice and easy," Bolan told him. "Move it over,"
"You're the boss."
But the man's eyes were darting, shifting, seeking something over
Bolan's shoulder in the fog. Something dark and dangerous stirred in the
back of Bolan's mind, setting off alarms.
The soldier risked a backward glance and saw the trap closing.
A limousine was cruising slowly toward him from the east, running
without lights. Across the street, dark figures were approaching through the
fog, flashlights probing, feeling for him.
A classic suck play, and the Executioner had walked into it with his
eyes wide open, never thinking his adversary might deploy a secondary
backup.
A fumble, sure, and potentially a lethal one.
He was out of numbers now, running on guts and nerves of steel. The
warrior knew that when the odds were insurmountable, you took the only
course available.
You attacked, with everything you had.