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

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Bolan sprang into action as the flashlights spotted him. The driver
panicked, disengaged the parking brake, and Bolan chopped him hard across
the temple with his pistol. The guy folded. Bolan opened the door, pushed
the driver's slack form across the seat and slid behind the wheel.
Downrange, the limo's headlamps blazed forward, blinding in the fog,
and the tank leaped forward with a screech of tortured rubber. Across the
street, foot soldiers were advancing in a line, firing as they came. The
Caddy was taking hits, lead hail drumming on the doors and fenders.
A bullet struck the window behind him, ricocheted and burrowed into
Bolan's headrest. Tiny fragments stung his cheek, drawing blood below his
eye. Angry bullets filled the car's interior, buzzing in one side and out
the other.
Bolan dropped the Caddy into gear and floored the accelerator, tires
smoking into a collision course with the limousine. He also kicked on the
high beams, giving the enemy driver a taste of his own medicine. He caught a
glimpse of angry faces, blinded by light.
The two cars stormed toward each other, engines snarling. Bolan saw
guns bristling from the limo, dirty orange flame winking madly from the
muzzles. The rounds were on target, blasting paint off the hood and fenders
of his car. One of Bolan's headlights exploded, but the tank rolled on, a
speeding cyclops.
At the last instant, with a heartbeat to spare before collision, Bolan
cut the wheel hard left and veered across the limo's path, barely skimming
past. Startled faces swiveled toward him as they passed, and Bolan snapped
off a quick double-punch from the Beretta. One of the gunners grew an extra,
sightless eye in the middle of his forehead, his face going slack as he
melted out of sight. The Executioner was past the limo, gunning the Caddy
toward open road as the enemy driver stood on his brake, fighting to bring
his car around.
At his back, the firing faltered, trailing off as the limousine came
between him and the skirmish line of soldiers. Bolan seized the opportunity
to make his break, squeezing yet another ounce of speed from the crew
wagon's straining power plant.
Beside him, Bolan's captive groaned, shifting on the seat, stirring
fitfully. The Executioner dismissed him with a glance; the guy was out of it
for now, and even if he came around, there was no place for him to go at
their present speed. He was with Bolan for the duration of the ride.
They were halfway down the block when a garbage truck cut across their
path. The truck emerged from an alley, gears grinding, gray bulk filling the
street ahead of Bolan. Gunmen hung off the truck, some scrambling down from
the tall cab, unlimbering their weapons for a point-blank fusillade.
Minh had done his homework in a hurry, right, and it might be a costly
lesson for the Executioner.
Bolan ducked as a fiery attack erupted from the truck. The crew wagon
shuddered, its windshield rippled, raining pebbled glass over Bolan's head
and shoulders. Hot tumblers ripped the seat where his chest was only seconds
earlier.
He stomped on the brake, cranking hard on the wheel, screaming into a