Читать книгу Murder Island - Don Pendleton - Страница 3

The tiger sprang toward him, jaws wide.

Bolan hurtled forward, the sharp edges of the plants smacking into him. He could hear the tiger panting behind him.

The Executioner began calculating the distance he would need between himself and the animal to get off a good shot. If it came down to it, he would have to roll when the beast lunged and try to get under it. He might stand a chance if he could put a shot into its heart or its head before the tiger opened him up with its claws.

Suddenly, the greenery gave way to a sea of lights. Bolan skidded to a halt inches away from the wide expanse of tinted glass that marked the boundary of the rooftop atrium. The glass was wet with condensation, but even so he could see the panorama of Hong Kong at night spread out before him.

Bolan heard the scrape of the tiger’s paws and spun, leveling the UMP. Too late. The tiger hit him like a cannonball, and he slammed backward into the glass. There was a sound like a hundred bottles shattering, and then the night air caught him, and he was spinning through space in a cloud of broken glass.