of freckles. Her blue eyes held a glazed look and perspiration glistened on her nubile body.
Bolan straddled the doorway, tracking the .44 to cover the three men.
He addressed the young woman without looking at her.
'You're in a killing zone, young lady. Back off.'
'I'm Ali's woman. Go to hell, mister,' she said rebelliously.
'Cap him!' hissed the half-naked dude.
All three men fell away in separate directions, clawing for hardware. Even the bleeding Jimmy Lee.
Bolan put the wounded man out of his misery with a .44 headbuster from Big Thunder that sprayed the wall behind him full of brains and skull bits.
Sam, the driver of the van, was tracking on Bolan with an Uzi that he had slung beneath his jacket; the gun he'd ambushed Bolan with. But Sam was too slow.
Big Thunder spoke again as another projectile opened Sam's throat. A gaping hole appeared in his neck. The guy shuddered and collapsed lifeless on top of Jimmy Lee.
Bolan heard the blonde shriek.
He whirled in a crouch, just in time to see Ali half dragging the naked blonde out of the doorway.
The young woman was stumbling along willingly after the black, as they disappeared into the corridor outside the room.
Bolan angled for a bead on the woman's boyfriend, but she kept getting into the line of fire.
Bolan realized that they were heading toward the front of the tenement building.
Bolan quick-stepped into the corridor just as the black guy and the nude blonde reached the front entrance of the building.
Ali still had a tight grip around the woman's wrist.
'Hold it right there, you two,' ordered Bolan.
He sighted down the hallway on the man.
The blonde was still in the line of fire.
The man spun around, releasing the girl's wrist. He flashed his right forearm up under her throat, pulling her back against him as a shield. Ali raised the .45 and pressed the automatic's muzzle against the girl's right temple.
Her eyes flared with new panic.
Ali's arm crushed the breath out of her.
'Wait!' she screamed. 'No!'
The black glared over her shoulder at the man with the AutoMag.
'Drop your piece, motherfucker, or I'll waste this bitch.'
It registered fully with the blonde.
'Ali! What are you doing?'
Bolan had aimed at a spot between Ali's eyes, but there was death reflex to consider. The damn .45 could still go off.
The girl jerked her head sideways, away from her lover's pistol.
Bolan triggered a round and the minihowitzer recoiled in his hand, spitting flame and a .44 flesh-eater that blew Ali's .45 automatic to bits. The impact obliterated three of his fingers along with it in a violent red spray.
Ali snarled in pain like a wounded tiger. He released the blonde and shoved her at Bolan, delivering a brutal chop to the side of her neck with his good hand.
The girl's eyes rolled back in her head.
She was deadweight coming at Bolan.
Ali expected Bolan to catch the nude form.
Bolan sidestepped, the AutoMag tracking back to Ali.
In the heartbeat it took for Bolan to sidestep the blonde and let her collapse against the nearest wall, the wounded black dodged out of the condemned tenement, back onto the sidewalk.
Bolan raced after him.
The big blitzer cast a glance at the crumpled figure of a naked woman on whom the tables had turned. She was unconscious.
A car engine roared to life in front of the building.
The Ford that belonged to the CIA was stolen again.
Bolan reached the front steps of the deserted tenement just in time to see the Ford flash past a sporty Lancia that was parked near the tenement. The fleeing car disappeared from sight around the corner of the building.
Nothing moved.
Bolan held in a bitter curse that burned in his throat.
He turned and reentered the building.
He walked by the unconscious blonde into the room where he had killed the two other blacks.
Bolan checked the dead men's wallets.
Drivers' licenses identified the deceased as Sam Catcher and James Lee Brown. Some pictures, miscellaneous junk, what looked like a gram of coke wrapped in tin foil snug in each wallet.
And each pocketbook yielded two hundred fifty dollars in brand-new bills.
Bolan grabbed a blanket from the bed and went back to the young woman.
There was no time to waste. Gunfire in this area could go unreported. It often did. But Washington was the most policed city in the nation. The call-in could already have been made.
He wrapped the blonde in the blanket.
There was nothing erotic about her nakedness. She was too unconscious to be sexy.
He picked up the strap purse she had instinctively grabbed in flight. He checked the handbag and discovered the ownership papers of the Lancia.
He carried her outside.
He moved around the building where he had seen the sports car. He placed the girl in the passenger seat, then got behind the wheel. He went through her purse again and found the keys to the car.
He found something else in the young lady's purse that he checked on as soon as he steered the Lancia safely a couple of blocks away.
It was the lady's driver's license.
And the deadly maze took on one more curious twist.
The damndest one in a night of damnation.
Her name was Kelly Crawford.
Bolan felt his gut clench.
He checked Kelly's address.
General Crawford had a daughter named Kelly.
The same General Crawford who had been Bolan's commanding officer in Vietnam, and had been instrumental in setting up the Stony Man Farm operation.
Kelly Crawford.
The general's daughter.
Out cold in a blanket and nothing else in a car driven by Bolan.
Some night, yeah.
And the killing had only begun.
12
Bolan had not intended this night in Washington to be one of rescuing damsels in distress or engaging everyone he encountered in pointless firefights. Sometimes, though, a man is forced into pure reflex response.
Kelly Crawford, case in point.
Bolan braked the Lancia for a moment at a drive-up pay phone and looked up General Crawford's residence
