Oblivion Pact. Don Pendleton

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      CHAPTER TWO

      “Kill everybody you see!” a man growled, his voice nearly inhuman in its violent rage.

      Nice to meet you, Eric, Bolan thought sarcastically, pulling the safety ring on an antipersonnel grenade. Then he released the handle and flipped the sphere down the stairs. It hit the landing hard and bounced around the corner. Instantly, Bolan surged into action, running for the living room.

      “What in the...run!” a man screamed, the blast cutting off the startled cry.

      The entire building seemed to shake from the force of the fiery blast, windows shattering on the ground level, and a couple of alarms cutting loose with deafening sirens.

      So much for hiding in the shadows, Bolan noted, diving through the cracked window. Welcome to the light, Eric!

      Daggers of glass cut into the trench coat, but the body armor underneath protected Bolan from any serious damage, and he landed sprawling in the fork of an oak tree, startling a small squirrel.

      “Better run, amigo,” Bolan whispered, sliding down the tree to land in a crouch, both of his weapons drawn and at the ready.

      Lights began to appear in all of the nearby houses, people roused by the explosion, and a couple of big men carrying M16 assault rifles appeared from around the front of the building.

      Bolan and the gunners opened fired in unison. They missed, he didn’t, and they fell away into forever, their chattering weapons strafing the open night sky.

      As much as Bolan wanted to walk around to the front and take out Kegan right now, there were too many civilians in the area to risk a gun battle. He felt sure that had been part of the man’s defense strategy, and the soldier couldn’t fault the bastard for coming out with a winning plan. People dressed in pajamas and slippers, armed only with flashlights, were starting across the street, and shuffling this way. In spite of that, Bolan still hesitated and took a step forward, then he saw a couple of kids appear, and a pregnant woman. Time to go.

      Whirling, Bolan took off at a sprint and hit the back fence at a full run. He easily scaled it and paused, with one leg in sight until he heard somebody curse. Then he dropped over, just as a hole appeared in the old wood, spraying out splinters from the thunderous passage of a big-bore round.

      Aiming at the sky, Bolan answered back with two shots from the Beretta, then took off again, jumping over an inflatable pool and dodging patio furniture. A glass door slid aside and out waddled an enormously fat woman cradling a double-barrel shotgun and wearing a fierce expression.

      “Trying to rob me again, motherfucker!” she snarled, discharging both barrels.

      Moving fast, Bolan got out of the way in time, and only a few of the lead pellets hammered him across the back of his armor. Christ, this was a nightmare! He had civilians coming out of the woodwork! Had to move this fight to something more secluded before innocent lives were lost.

      Skirting a huge Cadillac, Bolan heard scampering claws and flipped his gun in the air to grab the Beretta by the hot barrel. A split second later, a huge Doberman charged into view, and Bolan neatly clubbed the animal unconscious with a single blow to the skull just behind the ears. The dog dropped with a sigh, and the soldier continued running, almost becoming entangled with a tricycle, and hopping over a low hedge.

      Reaching the relative freedom of the street, he shot out the light on the corner, and quickly dropped the partially used magazine to slam in a fresh one. Suddenly, a car appeared at the end of the street. The headlights were off, and Bolan could see the dim silhouettes of men holding long objects out the open windows.

      Dropping into a crouch, Bolan switched the Beretta to 3-round-burst mode, and emptied the entire magazine into the front of the vehicle. The stuttering barrage smashed both headlights and took out a tire, then the hood flipped up as the radiator exploded into a hissing geyser of steam.

      “Get that son of a bitch!” Kegan screamed from inside the car, and the darkness became alive with the bright flashes of automatic gunfire.

      Already running low and fast, Bolan took cover behind a Ford Pinto just as the first hail of lead arrived. The car rocked from the arrival of the military rounds, more glass shattering, then there came the strong smell of spilled gasoline.

      Springing along the row of parked cars, Bolan heard the car ignite into a fireball as more house windows started lighting up, dogs began to bark from everywhere, and in the distance there came the long, drawn-out howl of a police siren.

      Not pausing for an instant, Bolan pulled out a flash-bang grenade, armed the device and flipped it over a shoulder. He heard the doors slam shut on the crippled car and men cursing, then the grenade detonated. Designed to incapacitate an enemy, not kill, the stun grenade banished the night with a magnesium-fueled flash ten times brighter than the sun, along with a bone-jarring boom.

      As Bolan dove behind a mailbox, he dimly heard the other men weeping and cursing, their weapons wildly discharging as leaves fell from the trees from the passage of the bullets.

      One more corner, and Bolan saw a huge BMW motorcycle parked at the next corner. It was sleek and shiny and looked like polished speed. The front wheel of the BMW was covered with a bright yellow locking clamp, the infamous Denver Boot. A single kick disengaged the fake plastic clamp, and Bolan climbed onto the bike, twisting the ignition.

      The big engine softly came into life. The only visible signs of operation were the dashboard indicators starting to glow softly, and the shaking of the muffler exhaust. One of the main attributes of the Beamer bike was that it used a transmission instead of a chain. That reduced the noise level significantly. Add a few modifications to the muffler, and the BMW become a purring mechanized ghost, barely discernable from a yard away.

      “Fuck, fire, he’s got a bike!” a man snarled, an M16 cutting loose with a long burst.

      Several of the 5.56 mm hardball rounds ricocheted off the dark pavement as Bolan lurched away, missing the man by the thickness of a prayer. Accelerating as he braked, the soldier took the corner fast and low, throwing out a leg to keep from toppling over. The friction nearly tore the combat sneaker off his foot, but he made it out of sight intact, then he slowed to a crawl, the huge engine barely ticking over.

      Lost in the sounds of people, dogs and police, Bolan couldn’t hear any pursuit, so he fired a couple of more rounds into the air to give them a lock on his position. СКАЧАТЬ