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

darkness. At once he accelerated, and cut off the lights again.
Behind them, the point car was standing on its nose, drifting as the
driver hit his own brakes in reflex action. A collision was narrowly averted
as the second car swerved around its leader, tires screaming. For a moment
they were running side by side in Bolan's wake, filling both lanes, and then
the second driver gunned it, moving up to draw abreast of the Caddy.
Bolan had the .44 in hand as the chase car pulled alongside. A sideways
glance revealed the stubby shotgun protruding from window, angling toward
the Cadillac. The gunner's face was a pale blur.
Bolan tapped the brake, falling back, just as the enemy put on a burst
of speed. The shotgunner fired and missed, pellets spraying off across the
Caddy's nose. Bolan poked his autoloader out the window, ripped off a burst
in rapid fire. He fought the massive recoil, never letting up until the
slide locked open on an empty chamber.
Sledgehammer blows pounded the chase car, drummed on metal, shattered
safety glass. Men cursed and screamed. None thought about returning fire.
They were all too busy dying.
The driver lost it and his car slid sideways, rolling, rupturing its
gas line, doors flapping opened expelling bodies. The battered car was
already burning as it came to rest across the highway, blocking both lanes
of traffic.
The driver of the second car slammed on his brakes to avoid colliding
with the flaming wreck. Bolan seized his opportunity and floored it, pulling
away in a major burst of speed. In the mirror he saw headlights behind him,
edging cautiously around the wreckage and bouncing as the driver steered his
tank over a corpse in the road. Another moment, and the fog closed in behind
him, cutting off his view of the pursuers.
But the Executioner had seen enough.
He knew his enemies were not stopping for survivors. They were
continuing the chase.
And they would not be fooled a second time by flashing taillights in
the dark.
Bolan knew he would have to stop them now, on the open road, or risk a
hot pursuit into downtown San Francisco. It was no choice at all, and the
warrior turned his mind to ways and means.
He could try to lose them in the fog, take a side road and hope they
passed by. Or he could lead them on a merry chase through the foothills
until one of the cars ran dry, letting fate choose the final battlefield.
Either choice was risky, to himself and his silent passenger.
Bolan opted to take the offensive. He would not hide, cringing with the
woman, nor leave his fate to random chance. A savvy warrior chose his own
killing ground whenever possible, and Bolan was a seasoned veteran at the
game. The game was life.
A half mile farther on he hit the brakes, cranking hard on the wheel,
putting the Caddy in a screaming 180-degree turn. As they rocked to a halt,
facing back uprange, he loaded a fresh magazine into the AutoMag.
Shaken by the wild ride and her recent brush with death, the woman did
not budge from under the dash. Bolan caught her staring at him and he
recognized the hunted look in her eyes. He pitied her.
Except there wasn't time for pity now.