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 lung.
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.
