Crisis Nation. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
“Ah!” The tires screamed on the cobblestones as the inspector stood on the breaks and threw the vehicle into Reverse. “Hold on!”
The Ford shot backward into the Element. The glare of the headlights filling the Crown Vic’s interior smashed out as the Honda crumpled like the cardboard box it was shaped like. The Crown Vic’s V-8 engine roared as it drove the stricken little SUV back. Bolan rose up through the sunroof. Glass erupted in geysers from the Honda’s windshield as Bolan painted a 15-round pattern over the driver’s position and a second one over the glass covering the man riding shotgun. Gustolallo’s shotgun hammered rapidly five times on semiauto, and the windshield failed utterly and sagged backward into the SUV’s interior.
Nothing inside the Element was moving.
Bolan slapped in a fresh magazine. “Forward! Go! Go! Go!” He dropped back down and put on his seat belt as Constante slammed the vehicle into Drive and put the pedal to the metal. The huge SUV before them had pulled out at an angle to block the lane. Now the driver was desperately trying to execute a three-point turn to face the oncoming Ford while the passengers waved their arms and screamed.
The Crown Vic hit the Navigator broadside at fifty miles per hour. The impact was brutal, but Bolan had braced himself and the air bag deployed against him. He got out of his seat belt, and clicked open his switchblade and slashed away the deflating air bag. The windshield had gone opaque with cracks, and Bolan’s door refused to budge. He rose up through the sunroof. The Navigator was wrapped around the front bumper of the vehicle. The driver and back passenger doors were folded in and not moving. Bolan bent back as one of the men in the back seat of the Navigator tried to fire at him with an M-16. The window erupted outward, but the space was too cramped inside the SUV for the gunman to fire effectively.
Bolan had no such restraints.
The Thompson ripped into life. Constante leaped out from behind the wheel as his weapon joined the crescendo. The doors facing away flew open and men piled out of the Navigator. Bolan jumped onto the hood, then leaped to the roof of the SUV. Two men turned and raised their rifles, but Bolan burned them down with a burst through their chests before they could fire. A young man with a clearly broken arm fell to his knees and raised his working hand piteously. “Madre de Dios! Por favor! Por favor!”
Bolan kept the smoking muzzle of his weapon pointed between the young man’s eyes. Gustolallo came around the SUV and kicked the surrendering punk onto his stomach. He screamed in pain as she twisted both arms back and cuffed him. Constante looked into one of the Navigator’s shattered windows and made a face at the carnage within. “Clear.”
Bolan stood atop the SUV and surveyed the area. Dogs were barking. Women and children in the hovels and tenements were screaming. Sirens began wailing in the distance. The transvestites clapped their hands and whistled. It had been a fine show, and they clearly liked the big gringo with the big gun standing on top of the Navigator’s shattered shell.
Gustolallo yanked the young man up to his knees and the inspector smiled delightedly. Bolan eyed the cringing punk. “You know him?”
“Indeed!” Constante leaned in and leered in the young man’s face. “This is Nacho d’Nico!”
Bolan smiled coldly. “Yotuel’s little brother?”
“His punkito little brother,” the inspector emphasized. “What’s the matter, Nacho? You don’t look so good.”
Between shock, pain and naked terror, Nacho looked just about ready to soil himself. Bolan jumped to the hood, then down to the street. The sirens were getting closer. “I don’t think your car is going any place.”
“No,” the inspector agreed. “And neither shall I. I will stay here. I will say I was alone and was attacked, then killed my attackers. You and Gustolallo take the punk to your place. If we bring him in, he will only be out on bail tomorrow. I will join you shortly.”
It was as good a plan as any. Bolan nodded and Nacho shrieked as Gustolallo yanked him to his feet. Constante lit a cigarette and leaned against his totaled vehicle to wait, apparently oblivious of the gas pooling everywhere.
Bolan and the detective took Nacho d’Nico for a little walk through the neighborhood. It was going to be a long night.
3
Nacho whimpered, then muttered in rapid Puerto Rican slang. His face was pale and he was sweating bullets. Bolan checked his watch. He’d sweated him for about an hour and he could guess what he was saying. Gustolallo sat across from Nacho at the ratty little kitchen table of Bolan’s flat and stared at him like he was a bug. Bolan had uncuffed him and put his arm in a sling, but Nacho was still very unhappy. He had stopped with the threats about half an hour ago and Bolan expected him to move into the begging phase right on schedule. The big American checked his watch again.
Gustolallo frowned. “I won’t lie to you, Blue. The inspector could be in a lot of trouble.”
Nacho snarled with renewed courage. “The inspector is fucking dead!”
Nacho shrieked as Gustolallo lunged across the table and punched him in the sling. It seemed the women cops in Puerto Rico played as rough as the men. Bolan held up a restraining hand and the detective uncocked her fist and sat back down. Nacho whimpered and cradled his arm. Bolan figured the diminutive young gangster was just about ready. Bolan had stopped at a corner kiosk on the way to the flat and picked up a few interrogation aids. He looked at Nacho and sighed sympathetically. “That hurt?”
“Yeah, it fucking hurts!” Nacho instantly flinched beneath Gustolallo’s glare.
Bolan reached into the kitchen cabinet and pulled out a bottle. He poured a drinking glass half full of clear liquid and slid it within Nacho’s reach. “For the pain. Sorry I don’t have anything stronger.”
The younger d’Nico lunged for the 151 proof Don Q rum and gulped it like water. Bolan took out a pack of Marlboros from his pocket. “Cigarette?”
Nacho’s gratitude was almost pathetic as Bolan lit him one and put it between his lips. Bolan refilled his glass. Gustolallo shot him a frosty look and he poured her a shot, as well. Bolan took a fatherly tone. “Nacho, you’re in a lot of trouble.”
“I want a lawyer.”
Bolan shrugged. “Why?”
“This is illegal! You can’t hold me!”
Bolan cocked his head at the punk. “I’ll make things very clear to you. I’m not a cop. I can do anything I want.”
Nacho blanched. He looked desperately at Gustolallo. “She’s a cop!”
The detective popped her gum. “I’m off duty. I’m riding you for the fun of it.”
Nacho hissed. “Puta de—” He howled as Gustolallo’s fist pounded his arm just above his broken elbow. A second jab followed it to his nose.
Bolan poured Nacho another drink. The young man couldn’t have weighed more than a 120 pounds naked and dripping wet. Between shock and an empty stomach, Bolan expected to have a well-lubricated La Neta gangster very shortly.
A voice called out from the street outside in Spanish. “Hello the house!”
Gustolallo nodded. “Ordones and Roldan.”
Bolan still picked up his Thompson and held it low along his side as he unlocked the kitchen door. “Come ahead! Through the kitchen!”
Two men walked into the kitchen. One was as tall as Bebito Jesus and had to stoop to come through the door, but unlike the giant La Neta enforcer, this man was gaunt to the point of emaciation. His tropical white suit hung upon his giant bones like a scarecrow. He had the sad, brown eyes and pale, tired complexion of a man who slept away most days without seeing the sun. He carried something long and bulky wrapped in a brightly patterned native blanket across his broad shoulders. The man behind him was dark-skinned and built like a middleweight. He radiated aggressive energy