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

180-degree turn to show the enemy his tail. The Caddy fishtailed, a fender
slapping a gunner, slamming him into the middle of next week. Other gunners
raced for safety, still pumping wild reflexive fire in the direction of the
crew wagon.
The soldiers closed ranks behind him, pounding along in the Cadillac's
wake. Rapid fire peppered the trunk, shattering the broad rear window, heavy
Magnum slugs ripping through the back seat.
He roared back along the block, running the gauntlet of fire for a
second time. Automatic fire hammered the car from both sides of the street,
and the angle of incoming rounds revealed rooftop snipers. The rearview
mirror was blasted free, grazing Bolan's knuckles on its flight out the
window.
Minh had thought of everything, and Bolan knew he would die here if he
didn't keep his wits and use every bit of his skill.
Luck would take care of itself.
Bolan's face was a mask of grim determination in the pale dashboard
light. If it was time to die, he would take as many "elders" with him as he
could.
The Executioner had come to terms with death early in his wars. He had
dealt it out to others and watched it pass by at arm's length. Death held no
terror for him.
The soldier didn't court disaster, far from it. Despite appearances, he
was never a "wild-ass warrior," taking chances for the hell of it. His every
act, however rash or reckless it seemed, was a product of the soldier's
skill and - where possible - careful strategy.
In ambush situations there was no time for strategy; that left skill.
It could make all the difference in the world.
His enemies had manpower, firepower and the crucial advantage of
surprise. In normal circumstances, it would have been enough.
With the Executioner, circumstances were not ever normal, especially in
the hellgrounds.
The crowd in front of the apartment house had scattered at the first
sound of gunshots, leaving the street to the combatants. Bolan had the room
he needed now. He holstered the Beretta and raised the Ingram up to
dashboard level.
Ahead, the limousine lurched through an awkward turn, facing him like
an overweight knight preparing for the joust. Gunners leaned out the
windows, angling their weapons into target acquisition.
Steady fire converged on the Cadillac, raking it from all sides.
Beside him, the half-conscious wheelman cried in pain, slumping lower
in his seat, sliding toward the floorboards. Bolan glanced over and saw the
spreading patch of crimson where a steel-jacketed slug pierced his upper
chest. As he watched, another bullet struck the guy and bounced him off the
seat cushions like a rag doll.
Blood was everywhere. Bolan knew if the driver wasn't dead already, he
was on the way. It would be a miracle if he could get the guy to talk.
Hell, it would be a miracle if he survived himself.
The limousine moved to block his path, and Bolan jammed his MAC-10
through the open windshield, lining up the target as he squeezed off a
burst. Blazing steel-jackets marched across the limo's hood and found the