"Дон Пендлтон. The Libya Connection ("Палач" #48) " - читать интересную книгу автора

The debate stopped and the soldiers went diving in all directions. Four
of them moved under their own power, two dodging behind the truck, one
making for the nearest building doorway, the other hitting the ground with
rifle blazing in response to Bolan's fire.
The fifth guard did a brief crazy dance as a stream of screaming slugs
stitched him from right to left like the heavy metal scythe of Time itself.
Bolan bent his knees into a low, low crouch and moved to the right. He
heard bullets whisper near his ear; heard the ricochets of lead whine off
the baked mud wall behind him.
Bolan triggered another short burst from the chopper in his hands.
Geysers of dirt erupted in a line across the ground from right to left. Then
geysers of blood spurted up as the line of bullets skewered the running
target's life and set it up to roast in hell.
This was a major engagement.
The other running man was almost making the safety of the nearest
building when another stutter of the machine gun checked the run into a
sideways kick. Another hit in a festival of death lapping up losers in the
flaming game of mankind's survival.
Bolan slapped a fresh clip into the weapon. He advanced toward the
truck, remaining all the time in the shadows along the walls of the village
huts.
There remained but two troopers in retreat behind the personnel carrier
parked at the intersection. They both leaned out from opposite ends of the
truck and fired simultaneous rounds down the length of the street. They had
no idea where Bolan was. He continued advancing.
He was some seventy paces from a point where he estimated he would have
a clear shot at both men - when a loud report sounded from the opposite side
of the intersection.
A Galil, Bolan knew.
He saw the soldier on the far end of the truck tumble out into
unprotected view. The soldier did not need protection now. Most of his back
was blown out from an exit wound.
The other soldier ducked out to seek new cover in front of the vehicle.
When the merc terrorist was in his sights, the Executioner offered him
his worth, a shower of hot lead and a free ticket to hell.
Then the merc, Hohlstrom, emerged from the front door of Fahima's and
Bushir's inn. Hohlstrom held his Galil assault rifle at port arms. Bolan saw
that the other man appeared every bit as aware of the danger around them as
did Bolan himself.
Bolan approached the Swede. The two men were alone in the darkness.
"That's one I owe you, man," said Bolan.
The burly merc gave an easy shrug.
"Forget it. We need to have a few words in private, Colonel."
Bolan felt a spinal shiver.
"You must have me confused with someone else."
"I don't think I do, Colonel Phoenix."
Bolan's fists wrapped tighter around the Galil. He could see that
Hohlstrom did not miss the response.
Hohlstrom's free hand was on his holstered side arm.
"Explain, guy."