Читать книгу Dying Art - Don Pendleton - Страница 6

Bolan heard gunshots ring out inside the room.

The Executioner delivered a powerful kick, and the door flew inward, bouncing against the wall.

Romero lay on the floor. His face was canted to the left, his sightless right eye staring at nothing as a crimson pool soaked into the carpet beneath his head. No one else was in the room, but the window had been smashed out.

A blood trail wound toward the window, and more smears of red decorated the wall next to it. Bolan sprinted to the opening and chanced a quick look. Twenty feet below, the black van revved its engine, then started to roar away from the scene, the rear door partially open. A hand holding an MP5 jutted from the rear and fired another blast of rounds skittering off the side of the building.

Bolan ducked back. By the time he was able to return fire, the van was no longer in sight. He’d been too late...