Assault on Soho

strange land, he nevertheless discovers that 'all places are alike to him.' The Mafia is there. Bolan is there. And, inevitably, violence and terror and death are there.

Chapter One Reception at Dover

Bolan did not see the enemy but he could sense their ominous presence out there, in the darkness. He had felt that from the moment he stepped aboard the car ferry at Calais, and it had lasted throughout the brief crossing of the English Channel and the landing at Dover.

Sure, they were waiting for him: the escape from France had been too smooth, too easy, as though someone had been running interference for him. Even the fast shake through British customs had been entirely too easy. Now that he was in England the feeling had accelerated into a big ball of mush at the pit of his stomach and he knewthat he had been maneuvered here, manipulated and channeled and directed to just this place and time. And now they were out there, waiting.

He unbuttoned his coat and tested the breakaway on his side leather, then checked the clip of the hot little Beretta automatic, retracted the slide to chamber in a 9mm round beneath the hammer, and snugged the combat- ready weapon back to his side. The retreat was over.

Bolan had purposely hung back to allow the swirl of debarkation to proceed on ahead of him as he watched and evaluated possible avenues of escape. Now he stepped out of the shadows of the ferry station and into very light foot traffic, walking at a casual clip toward the waiting railway cars. Footsteps immediately moved in behind him, pacing him across the darkness; a double pair, slowing when he slowed, quickening when he quickened. Bolan's trained ears could recognize a dropback set… and as he crossed the fifty yards or so of wharf he became aware also of a converging set across his flanks. He was being bracketed on either side and cut off from the rear. Somewhere up ahead he would find the final side of the box, and this would be a place of their careful choosing, a point of no escape, with doubtful survival for the prey caught in the center of that box.

Bolan took a deep breath and made his move, pivoting suddenly and walking straight toward the left flank. He heard them quietly adjusting, a soft voice in the darkness behind him issuing muffled commands, a sudden scraping of quick feet just ahead making hurried changes to the choreography, running sounds on his new right flank.

It was time to hit, perhaps the only time he would find. But first he had to make positive identification of the enemy. He had never yet slapped leather on a cop; he had no wish whatever to do so now. A dim overhead lamp, muffled and impotent in a high-swirling fog, lay just across his path. He stopped directly beneath it and lit a cigarette, his ears straining for movements about him, and he found encouragement in the knowledge that they still seemed to be somewhat off balance and scurrying toward new positions on the box. He went on quickly then, looking to neither left nor right but with ears quiveringly alert to the sounds behind him.

Now! He flipped the lighted cigarette far ahead, the gun hand moved inside the coat and his forward motion was arrested on the ball of his right foot as he went into his pivot, swinging about to the right in a lightning sweep, the Beretta swinging with him at full extension and spitting its sharp argument against entrapment as Bolan sprawled into a prone fixing position. For a single heartbeat Bolan had hesitated, staying the trigger finger and sacrificing that all-important moment of surprise in the interests of identification. But a heartbeat was all that was required; his uncanny timing had caught them directly beneath the overhead lamp, and this split- second of visual reference was all Bolan needed to confirm his earlier instinctive identification… his welcoming committee were Mafiosi.

Earlier that day Bolan had refined the tolerances on the new Beretta and reworked the trigger for a four- pound pull, getting consistent two-inch target groupings in rapid fire from twenty-five yards. Tonight he was thankful for that foresight, even though firing at an almost point-blank ten-yard range. The two men under the lamp were dead on their feet with mutilated hearts, pistols hardly clear of the sideleather, and even as they fell Bolan was rolling on. Then he gathered his feet under him, and charged the side of the box. Muzzle flashes pierced the darkness ahead of him as handguns were unloaded in panicky reaction and fired blindly at him, the unseen and fast moving target. Even so, Bolan was moving through a suddenly dense atmosphere, and the flashing synapses of his computer-quick brain told him that the enemy had come out in massive force. A whistling slug tore through the fabric of his coat, another took the heel off his shoe. He charged into their ranks, the Beretta blasting with telling effect as the 9mm Parabellums spurted into the opposing flashes, their success registering as despairing grunts and muffled cries.

Bolan was moving swiftly and feeding the Beretta a fresh clip when he collided with a large human bulk.

They went down together in a sprawling tangle and a heavy weapon exploded almost in Bolan's face, the shot sizzling off into the night. Bolan's free hand chopped out and turned the weapon just as the hammer fell again and this time the shot buried itself in soft and unresisting flesh. The man wheezed, 'Oh, Jesus…' and melted fluidly out of the tangle.

Again Bolan rolled, getting as much distance as possible from that encounter. Running feet pounded toward him shadowy shapes took form against a backdrop of sudden light. He came to one knee and sent all eight rounds of the new clip into that suddenly visible pack. It scattered, with toppling bodies and shrieks of alarm.

The source of light was arching toward Bolan now: automobile headlamps, blunted and haloed by the fog, and moving forward so that Bolan was not exposed to the full glare.

The enemy were either faltering or regrouping; there was silence and a sudden cessation of gunfire. Suddenly Bolan heard a feminine voice calling out to him, and it was coming from behind those headlamps. 'Bolan, get in!'

Another voice, harshly excited and far to the rear, yelled 'That car! Stop that car!'

The voice was American and Bolan thought that he had heard it before but a new volley of fire, this one directed against the vehicle, was now commanding all his attention. The car was taking repeated hits and swerving erratically in tinkling glass when Bolan reached it. A door flew open and Bolan flew in, and was immediately pinned to the seat under high-G acceleration as the scene of carnage quickly fell behind.

Bolan had an impression of softly feminine curves, glistening dark hair worn short and casual, an almost luminous skin, a nice fragrance. He judged her to be about twenty-five, and scared half to death. A short skirt was crumpled high on the hips; gleaming thighs reflected the light from the dash; knee-high leather boots fit tight on well-turned calves that trembled almost out of control. The car whizzed in a tight circle around the railway station, then plunged down a narrow street. Somewhere off in the distance the wail of police vehicles was added to the insane quality of that soft misty night.

Bolan added a fresh clip of Parabellums to the pistol and told the girl, 'I'm grateful, but… that was a dumb stunt.'

She threw him a quick look, hardly more than a twitch of her eyes, and gasped, 'Don't speak of dumb stunts. Your odds back there were about thirty against one.'

'I was doing all right,' Bolan said quietly.

He recognized her suddenly, and also the car, a Jaguar sports model. He had noticed both aboard the ferry from Calais. He had even lit a cigarette for her on deck while they small-talked about the value of radar navigation through channel fog. Now he was hanging on grimly as the powerful vehicle swerved through the foggy streets, navigating without radar.

'You shall never get out of Dover unless you do exactly as I say,' she said in a voice thin with tension. 'The hatbox, behind you… it's yours, put it on quickly.'

'It' was a wig of fiery red hair and matching beard, also a seaman's jacket in Bolan's size. He stared at the contents of the box while his mind clicked through the various implications of this latest development. Obviously the rescue had been a planned, not a spontaneous, action.

Quickly the girl confirmed this. 'We'll exchange cars just ahead,' she told him. 'Get into your hair and be ready for the jump.'

An uneasy feeling was crowding into Bolan's gut. Who the hell was the beautiful lady with the expensive