Patriot Acts. Don Pendleton

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      Bolan didn’t waste the breath to let her know how obvious the advice was. He sighted on the perforated low wall and saw the flicker of movement through the bullet holes torn by the fake T-man. The Desert Eagle hammered out a rumbling thunderstorm of heavy slugs. Four rounds smashed through the sievelike wall panel, blowing it over. On the other side, the Uzi-packing man slumped lifeless, half of his face ripped off by a wide-mouthed hollowpoint round. The gun lay silenced between splayed legs.

      A cabinet shuddered as more submachine gun fire rattled from the direction of the elevator.

      “My paperwork,” Wolfe groaned. Her face was screwed up in pain. “Dammit, stop shooting my files!”

      Bolan rose to his feet and aimed at the gunman he’d nailed in the legs. The man swung his Uzi and pulled the trigger, but the weapon was empty. The Executioner vaulted over the cabinet and the low wall, spearing through the window. The third and fourth shooters were nowhere to be seen. He saw the wounded gunman struggling to reload his Uzi, but Bolan kicked the weapon from his hands and smashed his heel against the man’s jaw on the swing back. Lab staff members came running.

      “Officers! Secure this man!” Bolan snapped. “Get a medic for CSI Wolfe!”

      “They moved out that way,” a technician said. She held the side of her face, a shredded strip of skin livid from where she’d been pistol-whipped with an Uzi. “There’s a controlled access stairwell, but they shot the lock to shit.”

      “I’m on it. Someone get on the radio and tell everyone to keep out of these guys’ way,” Bolan ordered. “They don’t care who they kill.”

      “And you?” the hurt tech asked.

      “I keep them from killing,” Bolan said, racing off toward the stairwell.

      3

      The Executioner heard the gunmen’s thundering footsteps below him in the stairwell. Bolan took the flights fast and furious, hopping when he was halfway down and rolling along the walls to eat up his forward momentum and get turned around to take the next flight. He was almost to the second floor when he heard the emergency exit slam open one floor below.

      Bolan swung around and saw a dark-suited fake Treasury agent swing up his machine pistol. He lurched backward. A stream of 9 mm slugs filled the air where his head had been only moments ago, plaster chewed out of the under-sides of the stairs above his head. He aimed his Desert Eagle and spiked a quartet of .44 Magnum slugs at the shooter. There was a snarled curse of panic as the man retreated.

      Bolan bounded down the final steps as he holstered the big handgun and pulled his shoulder-holstered Beretta. The two men, posing as federal agents, had infiltrated the Los Angeles Crime Lab in an effort to gain control of counterfeit cash that Bolan was investigating. The two had survived the initial conflict, and the Executioner was going to keep the pair from escaping.

      At the bottom of the steps, he burst into an alley and spotted the pair piling into their car. The Executioner raised the Beretta and ripped off a 3-round burst that took out the rear window of the car. They had a driver waiting behind the wheel, and he gunned the engine, tires spewing smoke before they caught hold and pushed the car forward.

      Hot pursuit time, Bolan mused as he charged the length of the alley, punching more rounds, this time ripping 9 mm bullets into the road by the tires. After two tribursts, the right rear tire of the sedan exploded violently, flopping on its rim. The right fender screeched, wailing as it was shredded on contact with the wall, pulled off course by the deflated ring of floppy rubber.

      Gunshots tore through the rear window, automatic weapons in the hands of the fake Feds churning out slugs. Had the driver not been in a struggle to maintain control of the limping sedan, the gunmen could have nailed the Executioner as he charged after them. But rather than hit their target, autofire sprayed wildly. As it was, the sedan ground to a halt, the front bumper rammed into a telephone pole. The driver ground the stick shift, trying to get the car into Reverse.

      Bolan fired again, sinking another burst through the rear window, and suddenly the two muzzle-flashes became one. Bolan ducked behind a large garbage bin and reloaded his Beretta, knowing that at full gallop, he couldn’t have been certain of a direct, fight-stopping hit on one of his opponents. Rather, it was likely that the silent weapon needed recharging, or had jammed.

      Sure enough, a handgun took up the slack of the quieted Uzi. Bolan took a moment as bullets hammered the garbage bin, drew and tapped off his Desert Eagle with a few deft movements. He swung around the side with the Beretta and the .44 Magnum pistol in each hand. The sedan lumbered relentlessly back toward him, the enemy driver trying to turn his car into a missile.

      The Executioner’s handguns blazed out thunderbolts of Magnum firepower and sputtering lightning jolts of 9 mm bursts, ripping a dozen slugs into the charging beast. Then he whirled and jammed himself in the walkway between two structures.

      The sedan bulldozed past, hurtling the garbage bin onto its side with a thunderous crash.

      “Luke! Don’t stop shooting!” a voice cried from the dark car. The rear passenger door was visible to Bolan in the walkway, and he could see an Uzi-toting man kneeling on the backseat. Bolan raised his Desert Eagle and fired twice. The second bullet was insurance in case the window deflected the first shot, but both Magnum slugs detonated gory holes through the gunner’s back, sprawling him across his wounded partner.

      “Stop the car!” Bolan shouted.

      The driver leaned back to the rear of the car, leveled a pistol and opened fire. Bolan hit the sidewalk as slugs ripped into the brick around him, knocking loose explosions of stone splinters that rained down on him.

      The sedan lurched forward, mangled metal chewing at the front tire, but the driver managed to wrestle some speed out of the damaged car.

      Bolan burst into the alley and continued the chase as the enemy driver urged his wheels along. Wrecked as it was by impacts and tire-shredding bullets, the automotive dinosaur finally slowed enough to make foot pursuit possible.

      But the driver suddenly jammed the car crosswise at the end of the alley, forming a barrier. The two survivors got out. One was hobbled by a bullet wound that had torn a chunk of muscle out of his thigh. The driver hooked his arm under the wounded man’s and lurched into the street, aiming his handgun at the windshield of a passing SUV.

      Bolan reached the alley’s end and vaulted over the car, just as the driver deposited his wounded partner into the SUV. On the ground a woman, her chest bloody, gasped as she clutched the spreading dark smear. The Executioner stopped long enough to see if there was anyone else in the vehicle who could be a hostage. Bolan’s pause to ensure the safety of innocents provided time for the fleeing driver to swing his pistol around and open fire. The driver blazed away at the Executioner and forced him to race in a serpentine charge for the nearest available cover. Bullets smashed the concrete at Bolan’s heels.

      The Executioner fired at the grille of the stolen SUV, hoping his Desert Eagle would have enough punch to render the massive V-8 engine useless to the escaping murderers. If he could force the pair into retreat, he could check on the woman and apply emergency first aid.

      The driver was a wily, quick snake, however, diving into the seat well and jamming on the gas with his hand. The SUV lurched and rocketed down the street.

      Bolan raced to the wounded woman.

      “Can you talk?” СКАЧАТЬ