Vigilante Run. Don Pendleton

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ bone flecking the shattered CDs inside the unit. Another was whipped backward as a slug tore a channel through his head, spraying brain tissue out an exit wound the size of a quarter. Rook did not hear the screaming as he dropped men and women alike, his ears ringing despite the foam earplugs he wore. As the revolver clicked empty on the seventh pull, he used his left hand to draw an identical weapon from the second of two cross-draw leather holsters at his waist. His prey began to return fire as he started cycling through another half-dozen 230-grain rounds.

      The bikers were brutal enough, but they had no technique and no initiative. As long as Rook could keep them on the defensive, he knew he would win every time. He almost laughed as a stocky Purist in leather pants and a denim vest popped up from behind an overturned table—just in time for Rook to pump a round through his chest. The biker caved in on himself and Rook dropped to the floor.

      Holstering his revolvers, Rook drew two full-size Rock Island Armory 1911-style .45 automatic pistols from leather shoulder holsters under both arms. Then he was up again, sparing two rounds for a crawling Purist he’d wounded through the gut with the first salvo. He stepped over a dead waitress, her hair snaking through a growing puddle of blood, and made his way to the back. There, he knew, there was almost always a card game going on.

      Automatic gunfire ripped through the doorway as Rook hugged one side of the opening. There were Purists back there, all right, and they were waiting for him to stick his head in and get it shot off. Rook smiled again. From the shoulder bag hanging across his chest, he withdrew a Molotov—a simple beer bottle filled with gasoline, a gas-soaked rag plugging the neck of the bottle. He waited for a lull in the gunfire and then tossed the bottle.

      “Look out!” someone shouted from the back room.

      Rook whipped one hand around the doorjamb and fired the .45 dry. At least one of the rounds managed to ignite the gasoline. The whoosh of flame was followed by an agonized cry as one of the room’s occupants began to burn. Rook risked a direct look through the doorway and fired his other .45 empty, tagging at least one cowering Purist who had not been caught by the fire. Then he backed out into the main room of the Tyrannosaur, reloading each of his .45s awkwardly as he juggled both weapons.

      The crackle of fire and the sudden squealing of smoke alarms did not distract him as he stalked through the room. Something moved in the shadow of one of the booths on the far wall. Rook blasted it three times and kept going. He shouldered through the doors to the Tyrannosaur’s kitchen.

      “You bastard!” someone screamed. Rook jumped back and narrowly missed being slashed by the big kitchen knife, wielded by a heavy man in a dirty white T-shirt and apron. The balding, middle-aged man could only be a cook, from the look of him.

      “Wait,” Rook protested.

      The man grunted and slashed again, driving Rook back the way he’d come. Rook shrugged mentally and shot the man center mass, watching dispassionately as he dropped his knife and fell to the floor.

      That was life in the big city, wasn’t it?

      The police would arrive at any moment. Rook took another Molotov from his bag, lit it with a disposable lighter from his pocket and tossed it in to the center of the kitchen. It burst and tinted the scene orange. Rook could feel the searing heat on his face as he left through the kitchen’s emergency exit, ignoring the alarm bell that started ringing as soon as the door opened. His truck, parked illegally in the alley behind the Tyrannosaur, was waiting for him.

      He did not even spare the burning restaurant a glance in his rearview mirror as he sped away.

      B OLAN SKIDDED AROUND THE corner at the Willow Street intersection, skirting the Tyrannosaur and almost sideswiping a row of parked motorcycles. He came to a halt and threw himself from the vehicle, war bag slung across his body over one shoulder. He could see flames dancing at the rear of the building as black smoke filled the sky. There was no other activity. The place was a loss, and the soldier had obviously just missed whatever had happened. Several people from neighboring businesses had come out to watch the fire and were talking animatedly to one another. Bolan could sense their eyes on him as he backed away from the building.

      Bolan caught movement from the corner of his eye and turned in time to see a gigantic man, his face covered in blood, stagger from the building. He was followed by a second, much thinner man, who was cradling his arm. The smaller man’s skin was lobster red. He was badly burned.

      The fat man raised a .38 revolver and opened fire, screaming.

      Bolan heaved himself behind the Blazer. One of the slugs tore into the fender; another blew the tire. Bolan unleathered his Beretta and prepared to bring it into play. Before he could fire, he heard the revving of a motorcycle engine.

      Jumping up, the Executioner tracked the big man as the chopper squealed away, carrying both wounded men. It shot past the Blazer and toward the milling crowds on the street. The big man on the bike spared Bolan a venomous glance backward but did not fire again as he surged away. Bolan held his fire; there were too many innocents between him and the biker. The bike burned around a corner and disappeared as Bolan turned back to his Blazer and its flat front tire.

      For the second time in as many days, he heard police and fire sirens in the background, headed his way. The Tyrannosaur continued to burn and he was no closer to finding the man responsible.

       3

       Liverpool, New York

      Gary Rook was in hell.

      He visited hell every night. Every night was the same as the last. In his sleep, he was terrorized by dreams of Jennifer as she’d been near the end—toothless, thinner than seemed possible, racked with spasms and tics. The haunted look in her sunken, bloodshot eyes was something he’d never forget, not for as long as he lived. There was no doubt in Rook’s mind that when he finally got to hell, she would be there to meet him. Seeing her every night was simply his penance, his prepayment for the sins he had committed and would continue to commit. Only when he was on the streets, making them pay, could Rook feel some measure of peace, some sense of justice and satisfaction. At night, the knowledge of what he’d done weighed heavily on him. Thoughts of what Jennifer herself would think of what he was doing hurt him even more.

      Rook had no illusions. He knew that what he was doing was wrong. He knew that he was doing it for himself, too—Jennifer was long past caring and nothing he did would bring her back. Rook was a murderer. He was guilty and he expected, eventually, to be caught or killed.

      He didn’t care.

      Whipping his head to the side as he woke himself from the nightmare, Rook gasped. He blinked a few times, then brought his wristwatch to his face and tried to focus on it. It was morning, and later than he liked. He sighed. He had better waste no more time.

      He sat up in the sweat-stained, tangled sheets, staring uncomprehendingly at the pillow lying on the floor near the full-size bed. The apartment was almost bare except for the bed and a few cardboard boxes stuffed with clothes and other personal items. Guns, ammunition and other supplies were strewed about the floor. There was no furniture on which to place them. Rook owned no television, either—he couldn’t be bothered to spend any time in front of one.

      Empty bottles of bourbon lay on their sides at the foot of the bed, next to an overflowing ashtray. Rook found his mostly crushed box of Marlboros, in which he’d stuffed another disposable lighter, and sucked to life one of the last of his cigarettes. One of his .45s, cocked and locked with a round in the chamber, lay on the sheet where it had been under his pillow. He picked it up, snapped off the safety and considered СКАЧАТЬ