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

windshield, exploding in the driver's face. His head snapped back,
disintegrating in a scarlet spray.
Driverless, the tank veered away, scattering foot soldiers and plowing
over one, churning him under the wheels. His comrades were high-stepping,
scrambling for safety, some dropping their guns along the way.
Bolan chased the limo with a parting burst, probing for a hot spot. He
found it as the Ingram emptied. One of his rounds ignited fuel, turning the
limousine into a rolling chariot of fire. It leaped the curb, shearing off a
mailbox and flattening the gunner who crouched behind it, bouncing up the
steps of a brownstone before the engine stalled.
Doors flung open as a secondary blast rocked the dying vehicle. A
flaming scarecrow staggered from the wreckage, shrieking in a high,
unearthly voice before collapsing on the pavement. Other screaming voices
joined the hellish chorus and were finally swallowed up by the hungry
flames.
About half of the hostile guns were down and out, or else distracted by
a vain attempt to extricate their comrades from the burning limousine. The
rest were tracking Bolan with their weapons, pumping lead at him from three
sides and riddling the Caddy as he ran for daylight.
It was going to be close, no doubt. His engine knocked, radiator
steamed and the gas gauge indicator dropped quickly. The fuel tank was
clearly punctured, and he had only minutes - or seconds - left before the
crew wagon died of thirst.
A gunner sprang into his path, blazing with an automatic carbine. Bolan
let the Caddy drift, taking a hard collision course and framing the solitary
figure in his sights.
The guy recognized his grim mistake, snapping off a final burst as he
turned to run. Bolan's bumper laced him low and hard, sweeping him off his
feet and rolling him across the hood. For an electric instant, the gunner's
eyes locked with Bolan's. His fingers scratched at the bullet-scarred metal,
then he lost his grip and rolled off the port side. The crew wagon lurched
as its rear tires trampled his body.
Bolan reached the cross street and was already turning when a lucky
shot found his right front tire. The tire collapsed in a hissing rumble and
the crew wagon faltered badly. Bolan fought the skid, nearly losing it as
his vehicle drifted wide, slamming broadside against a parked van. His
passenger feebly groaned, completing his slide to the floor.
The Executioner was off and running, his Caddy limping on the bare rim
and leaking fuel and water. Gremlins hammered under the hood as he pumped
the accelerator, gas gauge hovering near empty. Behind him, the street was a
parody of hell, complete with leaping flames and dense clouds of greasy
smoke.
But he was clear, running with the wind at his back. In one piece,
right.
For the moment.
They would be after him, of course... if he gave them time.
The trick was to nurse his shattered tank until he reached the rental
car. Two short blocks away, yeah.
It felt like a hundred miles of rugged road.
Bolan had his hostage, for what he might be worth. The guy was huddled