Читать книгу Terrorist Dispatch - Don Pendleton - Страница 3

Brusilov made it easy for him by trying to escape in the cruiser.

Bolan’s sniper’s mind ticked off the necessary calculations in a heartbeat: range, velocity, the distance he would have to lead his target for a hit.

He took a breath, released half of it, held the rest. His index finger curled around the Remington’s trigger, eased it back until he felt it break, then rode the recoil, eye glued to the reticle.

Downrange, a burst of scarlet splashed over the cruiser’s dashboard. Without a seat belt to restrain him, Brusilov slumped to the right and out of Bolan’s view.

Bolan didn’t stick around to see what happened when the cops arrived. He had removed the viper’s head, and while it would inevitably sprout a new one, that was not his concern this night.

The Executioner had another hand to play in the East Village, and he was already running late.