Patriot Play. Don Pendleton
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Название: Patriot Play
Автор: Don Pendleton
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Приключения: прочее
isbn: 9781472086242
isbn:
“That’s something you don’t see around this neighborhood every day. Somebody won the lottery, or else the pushers are marking new territory.”
Lyons asked to be dropped at the far corner of the block, paid the cabbie and started walking back to Val Paxton’s building. He went up the steps, then took the stairs to the second floor and checked out numbers on doors. When he came to Paxton’s door, he reached inside his jacket and loosened the Colt Python.
That was when he picked up a scuffle of sound from inside the apartment—a man’s demanding voice, followed by the unmistakable protest from a female seconds before the sound of a slap.
Lyons hit the door with his foot, just below the lock, and it flew open and banged against the wall. The Python was in Lyons’s hand as he dived into the apartment, landing on one shoulder and rolling, coming up on one knee. The .357’s muzzle tracked across the room, Lyons making his scan of who was there: three men, one young woman on her hands and knees, long ash-blond hair hanging over her face, her clothing disheveled and torn.
The Able Team leader leveled his revolver, swinging around to cover the trio of men. One guy had an autopistol in his left hand and he aimed it toward Lyons.
The room echoed to the heavy thunder of the Python as Lyons triggered a 180-grain slug. It hit the pistol man in the chest, coring through to puncture his heart before exiting through his back. The brute force of the shot kicked the guy backward. He struck the edge of a chair and went down hard.
The man’s partners went for their own handguns in the space of a couple of seconds, but their actions did nothing to save them from Lyons’s second and third shots. He took one guy in the left shoulder and the third in the throat. He went down instantly, making a bloody mess on the carpet.
The guy with the shoulder wound started to yell. Lyons, his mood ugly, pushed to his feet and slammed the Python’s steel barrel across the guy’s skull, dropping him to his knees where he collapsed facedown on the floor. If he had been conscious he would have seen Lyons standing over him, the Python aimed at the back of his skull, a wildness in his eyes that only faded when his finger eased off the trigger. The rage inside had almost made him pull that trigger. Lyons knew his limitations. One of them was his short fuse. It was liable to land him in trouble unless he managed to control it. Most times he did, but the temptation was always there, lurking, waiting to push him into the abyss.
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