Part 16 (1/2)

The AutoMag roared flame and thunder, and blew point-blank ma.s.sive death into the guy's face. The Thompson chattered briefly at the moon as it disappeared behind the vehicle with its dead programmer The other two guys at the car had flung themselves onto the gra.s.s. One was still rolling for darkness; the other had come to one knee and was unloading a revolver in quick-fire at a target which just would not hold still. The second sizzling magnum from the silver .44 blasted straight into the guy's wide-open mouth and punched him over onto his back.

An instantaneous crack from the Beretta found the rolling man and ended his journey in a grotesque pile-up of arms and legs.

The four who had been at the gate were commanding attention with a crackling of fire from the wall at either side of the gate. Several missiles plowed simultaneously into the turf in the path of Bolan's advancing feet and another sang past his ear, carrying a sample of Executioner skin-from the cheek-along with it.

A rapid-fire retort from both of Bolan's weapons brought quick disorganization down there, plus a groan from one quarter and a cry of ”I'm hit!” from another.

In that same moment, Bolan discerned motion in his side vision and another muzzle-flash from the darkness behind him served as an announcement for the tearing pain that penetrated his left leg and sent him sprawling. The next roar of the .44 sent a screaming sizzler unerringly along the backtrack of fire and found live meat in that darkness, the connection signaled by another agonized cry.

Someone along the wall had yelped, ”He's down! He's. .h.i.t!” and another volley of hand-gun fire tore turf all about him.

Instinctively Bolan was rolling for shadow and blindly returning fire, very much aware that he was bleeding from two places but also strongly aware that he'd cut the odds down to a much more manageable two-to-one.

Some men die easily, pa.s.sively, pa.s.sing back through the gateway of life with a gentle sigh or despairing moan.

Some die with great reluctance, angrily, s.n.a.t.c.hing at everything within reach to block that narrow pa.s.sageway and to seal themselves into the Life side.

Bolan was one of those latter.

He reached the shadow of the wall and surged to his feet, shaking off a wave of pain and nausea from the protesting leg, and went on without pause toward his goal.

He saw the whites of the enemy's eyes and heard the guy's shuddering gasps for life mingling with the metallic clicks of a firing pin upon spent cartridges.

The hammer of the AutoMag itself fell upon an empty chamber; instinctively the left trigger finger closed that fist and the Beretta sent her last charge into shattering flesh and bone-and Bolan was moving past the guy as he fell.

Then it was just Bolan, the iron gate, and the Maserati which had sputtered to a halt just uprange, and maybe one more gunner directly across the drive-a very silent gunner, at the moment.

He punched the b.u.t.ton to activate the gate at the same instant that he plunged inside the jacket for Cavaretta's Browning. But the Browning, not too securely leathered for this type of play, had dropped off somewhere back there-and, yeah, there was one more gunner over there.

In one of those flas.h.i.+ng moments of the combat sense the guy had become aware that Bolan's weapons were empty. He stepped into the gateway, smiling triumphantly, a long-barreled revolver held in both hands and extended at arm's length, tracking coolly on the big man's defensive whirl.

Bolan was not spinning into an escape path, however. He was closing for hand-to-hand combat and the guy misread it, sending his first round into the empty s.p.a.ce which Bolan had just vacated.

Then the big silver auto was whizzing through the gap, airborne and directly on target, and the gunner's second shot was spoiled as he flinched away from the impact.

Bolan himself had closed that gap.

The guy's revolver went spinning into darkness an instant before he found himself locked into a spine-cracking bearhug.

The gunner gurgled, ”G.o.d, wait!”

But G.o.d or the universe had obviously waited long enough, and another Taliferi died instantly in Mack Bolan's embrace.

Bolan let the guy fall away and he took a couple of faltering steps toward the Maserati before recognizing the urgency of the frantic signals surging up from his injured limb.

The battle had been furious, but swift. Mere seconds had elapsed since he'd piled out of that rolling vehicle. Not quite long enough to bleed to death-but quite long enough for shock and weakness to begin settling in through that determined search for Life.

He dropped to one knee to examine the wound, probing with both hands. It was a flesh hit, luckily -no bone involvement, a tearing wound along the calf-but bleeding like h.e.l.l. Somehow the scarf he'd taken from Johnny Cavaretta had remained with him. He removed it from his shoulders and used it to tourniquet the bleeding leg.

Blood was also oozing from the gouge along his right cheek, but this. .h.i.t was more painful than dangerous. He tore off a corner of the scarf and used it to dab at the face wound, and only then did he discover that the last shot of the battle had not gone completely astray. It had struck the gun-leather beneath his left arm and angled into the flesh to lodge between skin and ribs; Bolan could feel it in there, could trace the outline of the slug with his finger. And, yeah, he was bleeding some there, also.

He was hobbling toward the Maserati when the other guy appeared, seemingly from nowhere, standing dead-center in the open gateway.

It was, sure-the young detective.

How now, big bad Bolan?

He scowled at the guy, then his chin fell and he showed the cop empty hands and said, ”Zero.”

The guy knelt to scoop something off the pavement, then came over and shoved it into the waistband of Bolan's trousers. It was the AutoMag.

The cop was smiling soberly. He said, ”Zero, h.e.l.l,” and helped the Executioner to the waiting forty-grand shark.

He closed the door on the most wanted man in America and asked him, ”Got a light?”

Bolan wordlessly pa.s.sed over a packet of matches.

The cop lit a cigarette, handed it to Bolan, and told him, ”Never can remember to bring enough matches for overtime.”