The soldiers closed ranks behind him, pounding along in the Cadillac's wake. Rapid fire peppered the trunk, shattering the broad rear window, heavy Magnum slugs ripping through the back seat.
He roared back along the block, running the gauntlet of fire for a second time. Automatic fire hammered the car from both sides of the street, and the angle of incoming rounds revealed rooftop snipers. The rearview mirror was blasted free, grazing Bolan's knuckles on its flight out the window.
Minh had thought of everything, and Bolan knew he would die here if he didn't keep his wits and use every bit of his skill.
Luck would take care of itself.
Bolan's face was a mask of grim determination in the pale dashboard light. If it was time to die, he would take as many "elders" with him as he could.
The Executioner had come to terms with death early in his wars. He had dealt it out to others and watched it pass by at arm's length. Death held no terror for him.
The soldier didn't court disaster, far from it. Despite appearances, he was never a "wild-ass warrior," taking chances for the hell of it. His every act, however rash or reckless it seemed, was a product of the soldier's skill and — where possible — careful strategy.
In ambush situations there was no time for strategy; that left skill.
It could make all the difference in the world.
His enemies had manpower, firepower and the crucial advantage of surprise. In normal circumstances, it would have been enough.
With the Executioner, circumstances were not ever normal, especially in the hellgrounds.
The crowd in front of the apartment house had scattered at the first sound of gunshots, leaving the street to the combatants. Bolan had the room he needed now. He holstered the Beretta and raised the Ingram up to dashboard level.
Ahead, the limousine lurched through an awkward turn, facing him like an overweight knight preparing for the joust. Gunners leaned out the windows, angling their weapons into target acquisition.
Steady fire converged on the Cadillac, raking it from all sides.
Beside him, the half-conscious wheelman cried in pain, slumping lower in his seat, sliding toward the floorboards. Bolan glanced over and saw the spreading patch of crimson where a steel-jacketed slug pierced his upper chest. As he watched, another bullet struck the guy and bounced him off the seat cushions like a rag doll.
Blood was everywhere. Bolan knew if the driver wasn't dead already, he was on the way. It would be a miracle if he could get the guy to talk.
Hell, it would be a miracle if he survived himself.
The limousine moved to block his path, and Bolan jammed his MAC-10 through the open windshield, lining up the target as he squeezed off a burst. Blazing steel-jackets marched across the limo's hood and found the windshield, exploding in the driver's face. His head snapped back, disintegrating in a scarlet spray.
Driverless, the tank veered away, scattering foot soldiers and plowing over one, churning him under the wheels. His comrades were high-stepping, scrambling for safety, some dropping their guns along the way.
Bolan chased the limo with a parting burst, probing for a hot spot. He found it as the Ingram emptied. One of his rounds ignited fuel, turning the limousine into a rolling chariot of fire. It leaped the curb, shearing off a mailbox and flattening the gunner who crouched behind it, bouncing up the steps of a brownstone before the engine stalled.
Doors flung open as a secondary blast rocked the dying vehicle. A flaming scarecrow staggered from the wreckage, shrieking in a high, unearthly voice before collapsing on the pavement. Other screaming voices joined the hellish chorus and were finally swallowed up by the hungry flames.
About half of the hostile guns were down and out, or else distracted by a vain attempt to extricate their comrades from the burning limousine. The rest were tracking Bolan with their weapons, pumping lead at him from three sides and riddling the Caddy as he ran for daylight.
It was going to be close, no doubt. His engine knocked, radiator steamed and the gas gauge indicator dropped quickly. The fuel tank was clearly punctured, and he had only minutes — or seconds — left before the crew wagon died of thirst.
A gunner sprang into his path, blazing with an automatic carbine. Bolan let the Caddy drift, taking a hard collision course and framing the solitary figure in his sights.
The guy recognized his grim mistake, snapping off a final burst as he turned to run. Bolan's bumper laced him low and hard, sweeping him off his feet and rolling him across the hood. For an electric instant, the gunner's eyes locked with Bolan's. His fingers scratched at the bullet-scarred metal, then he lost his grip and rolled off the port side. The crew wagon lurched as its rear tires trampled his body.
Bolan reached the cross street and was already turning when a lucky shot found his right front tire. The tire collapsed in a hissing rumble and the crew wagon faltered badly. Bolan fought the skid, nearly losing it as his vehicle drifted wide, slamming broadside against a parked van. His passenger feebly groaned, completing his slide to the floor.
The Executioner was off and running, his Caddy limping on the bare rim and leaking fuel and water. Gremlins hammered under the hood as he pumped the accelerator, gas gauge hovering near empty. Behind him, the street was a parody of hell, complete with leaping flames and dense clouds of greasy smoke.
But he was clear, running with the wind at his back. In one piece, right.
For the moment.
They would be after him, of course... if he gave them time.
The trick was to nurse his shattered tank until he reached the rental car. Two short blocks away, yeah.
It felt like a hundred miles of rugged road.
Bolan had his hostage, for what he might be worth. The guy was huddled on the floor, leaking out his life on the Caddy's carpeting. He was quiet now, and Bolan knew it might be too late.
If he was going to salvage something from the situation, he would have to do it quickly.
The rescue mission was a washout. He had risked his life, jeopardized his mission, and accomplished nothing.
He was no closer to the lady now than he was before the shooting started.
It had been a risk, at best. A long shot. The Executioner had known going into it that he was bucking all odds. Even so, he could not suppress his bitter disappointment.
Bitterness and anger. A cold, abiding fury.
There was enough of both to go around.
If he couldn't learn the whereabouts of Amy Culp, he was prepared to make delivery of same.
Beginning with Nguyen Van Minh.
13
Bolan, with his dying hostage, reached the rental car. He was wary of another trap, but a quick driveby assured him his vehicle was secure and undisturbed. Minh had cast his net all right, but not far enough.
Bolan nosed the Caddy down a darkened alley. He eased off the gas pedal, coasting to a stop, and the crew wagon died before he could reach the ignition key.
He could hear the distant wail of sirens drawing closer. Police, he thought, probably a SWAT team, responding to the shooting. They would arrive at the scene any moment, and he wondered if Minh's surviving "elders" would be swift enough to beat the numbers.
Some weren't going anywhere — except on a journey in a body bag.
The numbers were also running out for Bolan, and there was no time to spare. If the wounded driver wasn't dead already, he was going fast, and any hope that Bolan had of getting information from him was leaking out with all his vital fluids on the carpeting. It was now or never for the guy, and Bolan couldn't throw his chance away.
He grabbed the huddled captive and hauled him into a sitting position. The driver emitted a feeble groan — he had that much life in him, anyway — and Bolan ignored it. There was no time for gentle handling.
The guy was fading in and out of consciousness, his head hanging and his chin resting on his bloody chest. His breathing was labored, marked with a liquid rattle. Bolan realized one of the slugs had ripped through a l
ung.
The wheelman was drowning in his own blood, and there was nothing the Executioner could do to help him.
It was grim poetic justice; the hunter caught and mangled in his own trap.
Bolan would have called it a fair deal, except the savages were still ahead. Their trap worked in part. One object of the exercise — recovery of Amy Culp-was achieved without a hitch. The other — Bolan's death — was narrowly averted, but that still left Minh with the prize.
Unless the Executioner could win it back.
There was still a slim chance for him to turn the tables. And that slim hope rested with the dying man slumped in the seat beside him.
Bolan methodically slapped the driver, jerking his head from side to side. The guy moaned again, the sound stronger now, and a mist lifted in his eyes. Slowly, painfully, they focused, settling on Bolan's face.
There was confusion and weak defiance in his eyes, but no trace of fear. He was too far gone for that, and Bolan knew he would be fortunate to get anything from him.
Even so, he would have to try before the guy slipped away completely.
Bolan leaned closer, watching the driver's face.
The soldier knew he had to reach the guy, and quickly.
Bolan gripped the driver's shoulders and shook him smartly. The guy tried to resist but he didn't have it in him. A spastic shudder was the best he could manage.
Bolan kept his voice low, terse, as he addressed the enemy.
"I want the girl," he said. "Where is she?"
The driver stared back from under drooping eyelids. He made no sound beyond the rattle of his breathing.
Bolan gave the rag-doll form another shake then grimaced at the driver's painful gasp. A thought of Amy Culp renewed his grim resolve.
"Where is she?"
The driver's lips moved, but no coherent sounds were emitted. Bolan wasn't even certain his words were getting through the guy's haze of pain, making a connection with his mind.
Another moment, the driver stiffened, spine arching like a bow in the height of agony. He was gripped by a violent fit of coughing, bloody spittle flying from his lips.
Bolan saw his eyes roll, glaze over, then the driver's face went slack. A scarlet ribbon started at the corner of his mouth and dripped across his chin. A shudder racked his frame. The man's dying breath escaped in a whistling sigh.
He was gone. Beyond the reach of mortal interrogators. Anything he knew about the girl was lost.
Bolan softly cursed and let the limp body slump back against the passenger's door.
He had missed his chance. There was no denying his bitter disappointment. Amy was beyond his reach, perhaps already dead. He had lost her.
The Executioner was familiar with the pain of loss and disappointment. A feeling man, certainly, with the memory of lost friends and family branded on his soul.
You took chances as they came, influenced the odds whenever possible, and made the best of bad situations. Second chances were as rare as happy endings in the hellgrounds, and Bolan never counted on them.
A man could lose it all in an instant, waiting for luck to come his way. Bolan survived each day by never counting on the stroke of luck, never taking anything for granted.
The warrior made his own opportunities, his own odds. And when circumstances forced him to retreat, he didn't quit, he found another front, another angle of attack.
It was time to seek that other angle, to press ahead before the enemy was able to regroup.
With a disgusted gesture, Bolan turned from the cadaver and reached for the door handle. He was half out of the Caddy when a small sound stopped him, drew him back. Rasping static, and tiny voices emanating from under the driver's seat. Instantly he recognized the sound of a two-way radio.
Fishing under the seat, he found a compact walkie-talkie that had passed through the battle undamaged. Tuned to a common frequency, it was silent up to now... or its voices were muffled by combat sounds.
Bolan felt a sudden rush of hope. There was still a chance...
If Minh's "elders" risked broadcasting in the clear, if they didn't take the time to code their messages, he might profit from their momentary chaos.
If.
He would seize the opportunity and run with it as far as it could take him, right.
With any luck, it would take him all the way.
He left the Caddy, with its silent, staring occupant, and moved briskly toward the street. As he walked, Bolan brought the walkie-talkie to his ear, turning up the volume and eavesdropping on the traffic from the battlefield.
Dazed and angry voices sounded, some frightened and showing strain. Overriding all the others, a voice that Bolan pegged as that of the chief of operations.
And the guy wasn't happy. Not at all.
He was furiously snapping at his soldiers, fighting to bring order to chaos, trying to salvage something before police arrived.
Bolan grinned at the night and wished the chief luck... all bad.
"Dammit, Number Two, report!" he snapped. ''What's your situation?''
Hesitant, another voice replied from somewhere in the hellgrounds.
"Number Two is out of it. He bought the farm."
The C.O. took a moment to digest the news, but recovered swiftly.
"All right," he said, "we've got another Number Two. You're it. Get your people out of there, and make it fast."
Bolan could almost hear the rush of pride and excitement, as the shaky soldier received his battlefield promotion.
"Yes, sir!" he answered, fighting to control the emotion in his voice. "We, uh, we've got some wounded here..."
The field commander's answer fired like whiplash.
"Take 'em with you, dammit! Forget about the rest and move your ass before we have to fight the friggin' riot squad!''
The new Number Two, anxious to succeed, was having trouble with his orders. Bolan could almost feel for the guy.
Almost.
"Do we, uh, head for the usual place?" he asked.
Static couldn't hide the field commander's short, exasperated sigh.
"Go to the warehouse, for chrissake, all right?"
"Right, okay. We're gone."
Bolan's heart pounded like a trip-hammer as he reached the rental car and slid behind the wheel. For once, he didn't have to guess what the enemy was saying, he didn't have to rack his brain for clues.
In a sudden flash, he knew it all.
Bolan's briefing with Brognola at Stony Man Farm, together with his on-site reconnaissance in the afternoon had taken him beyond the thirty-acre hardsite and encompassed other holdings of the Universal Devotees. Initially surprised by the variety, he had quickly learned the tentacles of Minh's operation to infiltrate the community at large.
There were fast-food restaurants, an FM radio station, a suburban shopping mall... and a waterfront warehouse near the World Trade Center Ferry Building, facing the bay.
The warehouse, yeah.
It fit.
He had checked the waterfront location briefly, filing it for future reference. Now he hauled out the mental blueprints and gave a closer look, searching for strengths and weaknesses, an angle of approach.
The warehouse offered Minh a number of advantages. It gave him easy access without sacrificing confidentiality: his soldiers, in the guise of ordinary workmen, could come and go without fear of discovery or interference. The structure gave them storage space and access to the water for deliveries — or escape.
Something clicked in the soldier's mind.
Storage space, sure.
And who said the stored items had to be inanimate?
A gut hunch told him the place might be worth another visit on his way back to Minh's estate. Just in case.
They could have the lady there, and even if they didn't, it would let Bolan finish what he'd started in Haight-Ashbury with the second force of "elders."
It was a chance for him to finish off Minh's reserves, thus protecting his flank when he finally mov
ed against the hardsite north of town. A savvy warrior didn't intentionally leave a hard force at his back, not if he wanted to survive.
Mack Bolan was a very savvy warrior.
He knew Minh would hear of his escape — he might have already heard the news. He would not expect the shaken enemy to find, follow and attack a larger force, and that — the element of surprise — would be Bolan's trump card.
A simple game of life and death. Winner take all.
Bolan fired the rental car and got it rolling, putting one battleground behind him as he sought another. Two blocks over, a line of cruisers streaked through an intersection, sirens wailing, colored lights flashing in the fog. Beside him on the seat, the captured radio was silent; many of the "elders" escaped with time to spare.
Or so they thought.
Once again, they were not thinking of the Executioner. They were counting him out before the battle began.
How many men had he killed so far?
Not enough.
The rest were waiting for him just ahead — even if they didn't know it yet.
And Bolan didn't plan to keep them waiting long.
14
Bolan crouched in the shadow of Minh's warehouse, feeling the night, sending out probes for any sound or sign of danger. The distant pain of past bullet wounds ached and itched, a dim distraction. He always pushed pain out of mind, concentrating on his mission.
The warrior checked his wristwatch, punching up the luminous display. Less than three hours until daybreak dispelled his misty curtain of invisibility.
A lifetime, sure.
He heard the sound of water lapping at the pier and across the bay a foghorn mournfully sounded. Behind him, along the Embarcadero, sporadic traffic whispered through the night.
Bolan was in blacksuit and military harness, his Beretta and the AutoMag holstered in their customary places. The Ingram — fitted with a special foot-long silencer — dangled from his shoulder on a leather strap. The pistol belt was weighted down with extra magazines for all three weapons.
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