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

on the floor, leaking out his life on the Caddy's carpeting. He was quiet
now, and Bolan knew it might be too late.
If he was going to salvage something from the situation, he would have
to do it quickly.
The rescue mission was a washout. He had risked his life, jeopardized
his mission, and accomplished nothing.
He was no closer to the lady now than he was before the shooting
started.
It had been a risk, at best. A long shot. The Executioner had known
going into it that he was bucking all odds. Even so, he could not suppress
his bitter disappointment.
Bitterness and anger. A cold, abiding fury.
There was enough of both to go around.
If he couldn't learn the whereabouts of Amy Culp, he was prepared to
make delivery of same.
Beginning with Nguyen Van Minh.

13

Bolan, with his dying hostage, reached the rental car. He was wary of
another trap, but a quick driveby assured him his vehicle was secure and
undisturbed. Minh had cast his net all right, but not far enough.
Bolan nosed the Caddy down a darkened alley. He eased off the gas
pedal, coasting to a stop, and the crew wagon died before he could reach the
ignition key.
He could hear the distant wail of sirens drawing closer. Police, he
thought, probably a SWAT team, responding to the shooting. They would arrive
at the scene any moment, and he wondered if Minh's surviving "elders" would
be swift enough to beat the numbers.
Some weren't going anywhere - except on a journey in a body bag.
The numbers were also running out for Bolan, and there was no time to
spare. If the wounded driver wasn't dead already, he was going fast, and any
hope that Bolan had of getting information from him was leaking out with all
his vital fluids on the carpeting. It was now or never for the guy, and
Bolan couldn't throw his chance away.
He grabbed the huddled captive and hauled him into a sitting position.
The driver emitted a feeble groan - he had that much life in him, anyway -
and Bolan ignored it. There was no time for gentle handling.
The guy was fading in and out of consciousness, his head hanging and
his chin resting on his bloody chest. His breathing was labored, marked with
a liquid rattle. Bolan realized one of the slugs had ripped through a lung.
The wheelman was drowning in his own blood, and there was nothing the
Executioner could do to help him.
It was grim poetic justice; the hunter caught and mangled in his own
trap.
Bolan would have called it a fair deal, except the savages were still
ahead. Their trap worked in part. One object of the exercise - recovery of
Amy Culp-was achieved without a hitch. The other - Bolan's death - was
narrowly averted, but that still left Minh with the prize.
Unless the Executioner could win it back.