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

below. The larger one, a man, had his hands full, trying to control the
woman struggling in his grasp. As Bolan watched, she kicked him in the shin
and almost broke away before the heavy struck her with a stunning backhand.
The lady folded, whimpering, and the man had to work just to keep her
on her feet. A Caddy pulled up, briefly framing them in the headlights, and
then the driver scrambled around to help his partner with the woman.
Overhead, the Executioner had seen enough. His Nitefinders and the
momentary flash of light told him everything he needed to know.
He recognized the woman as his secondary target. He knew he could not
allow the men to carry her away.
Bolan was all out of numbers now. Split seconds separated recognition
from decision, thought from action.
The soft probe was going hard, in spite of everything.
Bolan launched himself from the balcony, plummeting through space. He
landed on the Caddy's roof, rebounding with a loud metallic bang, and kept
on going, rolling out of sight behind the car.
The hardmen were stunned by his arrival, but they recovered quickly.
Each of them had a gun in hand, the taller man clutching the woman like a
shield. His partner ran around the Caddy's nose, pistol raised and probing
at the foggy darkness, seeking targets.
Bolan left him to it, circling behind the car, keeping ahead of the
hunter. Through his goggles he picked out the woman and her captor, huddled
close together in the night.
It was a risky shot, certainly, but Bolan didn't have the time for
second-guessing. The Beretta in his fist was sliding up and out to full
extension, keen eyes making target acquisition through the Nitefinders even
as he stroked the trigger.
The Belle coughed once, its quiet voice further muffled by the fog. The
target staggered, reeling, head snapping back with the impact of a 9mm
mangler in the face. Blood spattered over corpse and captive, showing up
black in the vision field of Bolan's goggles.
And the woman, suddenly deprived of the supporting arm around her
waist, tumbled to the ground. Bolan left her there, twisting in his crouch
to face danger from another quarter.
The other gunner heard his partner drop, and he finished his circuit of
the Caddy in a sprint. He was almost on top of Bolan when the man in black
announced his presence, squeezing off another silent round to meet the
charging enemy.
The little guy died knowing he had been suckered. Bolan read the fury
and frustration on his face before the bullet wiped it all away and punched
him backward in a lifeless sprawl. He was still twitching with the
aftershocks of violent death when Bolan turned to see about the woman.
She was on her hands and knees when Bolan reached her. Still groggy
from the punch she had absorbed, she was fading in and out as he helped her
to her feet and steadied her against the car. A thread of scarlet at the
corner of her mouth was the only outward sign of injury.
Bolan's mind was racing, weighing options. His soft withdrawal, the
waiting rental car - all his plans were canceled, shot to hell. There was
only one escape remaining, and a risky one at that.
She resisted when he tried to get her in the car, fighting with the