Читать книгу Omega Cult - Don Pendleton - Страница 3

The house and grounds went dark, but Bolan knew exactly where his first three targets were.

Sweeping the muzzle of his scattergun across the patio, he triggered three quick twelve-gauge rounds, each blast spewing nine pellets of double-O buckshot, each pellet equivalent to a .33-caliber bullet.

His targets never knew what hit them, blown away and tumbling on the flagstone patio, awash in blood. Somewhere inside the house, a male voice shouted, challenging the sudden dark.

Light from the burning, melting generator shed showed Bolan where he had to go—rushing across the lawn through roiling smoke, past burning patches where napalm has set the grass on fire—and Chan stayed with him, matching stride for stride.

Whatever hell awaited them, they would be meeting it head-on.