Читать книгу Death Run - Don Pendleton - Страница 2

He hadn’t been wearing a seat belt and when the car hit the cement pylon, he’d been slammed back into his seat with such force that he appeared to have broken his back. A SAR-21 still lay in his lap, but the man couldn’t move his arms. Both his right arm and the right arm of the driver bore the distinctive question-mark tattoo with which the Executioner had become far too familiar over the past few days.

“Who sent you?” Bolan asked.

“The Malaysian,” the man said just before he sunk into unconsciousness, confirming the soldier’s suspicions. Bolan felt the pulse in the man’s neck. He doubted the man was going to make it.

Bolan could hear sirens approaching in the distance. A delay would likely result in the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people, so the Executioner was on his motorcycle riding toward San Francisco before the first emergency vehicle came into sight. He held his speed to a reasonable level until after he’d passed the last squad car responding to the accident, then poured it on. He felt relatively sure he wouldn’t get stopped for speeding since just about every available unit in a ten-mile area seemed to have headed for the accident site.