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

There was still a slim chance for him to turn the tables. And that slim
hope rested with the dying man slumped in the seat beside him.
Bolan methodically slapped the driver, jerking his head from side to
side. The guy moaned again, the sound stronger now, and a mist lifted in his
eyes. Slowly, painfully, they focused, settling on Bolan's face.
There was confusion and weak defiance in his eyes, but no trace of
fear. He was too far gone for that, and Bolan knew he would be fortunate to
get anything from him.
Even so, he would have to try before the guy slipped away completely.
Bolan leaned closer, watching the driver's face.
The soldier knew he had to reach the guy, and quickly.
Bolan gripped the driver's shoulders and shook him smartly. The guy
tried to resist but he didn't have it in him. A spastic shudder was the best
he could manage.
Bolan kept his voice low, terse, as he addressed the enemy.
"I want the girl," he said. "Where is she?"
The driver stared back from under drooping eyelids. He made no sound
beyond the rattle of his breathing.
Bolan gave the rag-doll form another shake then grimaced at the
driver's painful gasp. A thought of Amy Culp renewed his grim resolve.
"Where is she?"
The driver's lips moved, but no coherent sounds were emitted. Bolan
wasn't even certain his words were getting through the guy's haze of pain,
making a connection with his mind.
Another moment, the driver stiffened, spine arching like a bow in the
height of agony. He was gripped by a violent fit of coughing, bloody spittle
flying from his lips.
Bolan saw his eyes roll, glaze over, then the driver's face went slack.
A scarlet ribbon started at the corner of his mouth and dripped across his
chin. A shudder racked his frame. The man's dying breath escaped in a
whistling sigh.
He was gone. Beyond the reach of mortal interrogators. Anything he knew
about the girl was lost.
Bolan softly cursed and let the limp body slump back against the
passenger's door.
He had missed his chance. There was no denying his bitter
disappointment. Amy was beyond his reach, perhaps already dead. He had lost
her.
The Executioner was familiar with the pain of loss and disappointment.
A feeling man, certainly, with the memory of lost friends and family branded
on his soul.
You took chances as they came, influenced the odds whenever possible,
and made the best of bad situations. Second chances were as rare as happy
endings in the hellgrounds, and Bolan never counted on them.
A man could lose it all in an instant, waiting for luck to come his
way. Bolan survived each day by never counting on the stroke of luck, never
taking anything for granted.
The warrior made his own opportunities, his own odds. And when
circumstances forced him to retreat, he didn't quit, he found another front,
another angle of attack.