Читать книгу Triangle Of Terror - Don Pendleton - Страница 2

The Executioner hung the M-16 over his shoulder, filled his hands with the Blaster and caressed the trigger, sending the first missle streaking downrange with a loud chug.

As the toxic brew showered armed shadows charging for a nearby pocket, banshee shrieks flaying the air, Bolan jacked the handle, rotated another projectile into place and pumped out another hell bomb. No point in pulling punches, he decided, no sense fretting about noise and police swarming the block.

The Executioner was moving in to run and gun. Another batch of drums puked away toxic loads on a roaring ball of fire to douse a few more cannibals in what amounted to the fires of hell on earth.

There went the neighborhood.