Day of Mourning

10

The ambushers were using flash suppressors.

Bolan could not tell from which direction the automatic fire issued, only that there were two gunners.

He hit the ground in a loose roll that took him out of their line of fire. Bolan did not return fire, but remained flat on the ground, knowing he would be an impossible target to find now.

There was a rustle of hurried movement somewhere in the night beyond Bolan's range of vision. He heard the slap of receding footfalls on the pavement.

The rental Mustang was now some forty feet away from Bolan's position.

From somewhere back in the vicinity of the Interstate Loan Association building, where the slaughter had just taken place, the wounded CIA agent would be closing in on him, Bolan was sure.

The sound of vehicle doors being pulled shut carried on the night breeze from the direction of the parked van.

Bolan started jogging toward the van.

As he silently glided past the Mustang, he reached down without slowing and picked up a fair sized rock from the garden of the corner residence.

In a crouch, the nightfighter angled closer toward the vehicle's occupants.

Bolan knew this play, a classic urban guerrilla hit tactic. Ifhewas right.

When he was far enough away from the Mustang, he tossed the rock over his shoulder.

The stone hit the side of the rental car, and in the night air it sounded like the sedan's door being pulled shut.

Bolan charged at the van full speed now, the .44 AutoMag gripped in his right hand, but the vehicle was still another ten meters away from the intersection.

The Executioner braced himself as he ran.

He heard the explosion behind him an instant after the rock hit the Mustang. The blast lit up the night with a silver flash that rocked the ground under Bolan's feet.

He was right.

The Mustang was wired to explode in case the ambush was not successful.

The night blitzer looked back to see the rental car go up in a fireball eruption.

The van roared to life and the vehicle shot forward.

At first Bolan thought he would not catch the van before it got away.

But the driver decided to withdraw on the same street that led back to the main avenue by which the vehicle had followed Bolan there.

They were too sure of themselves.

The van swung in a screeching U-turn that almost capsized the vehicle.

The driver stood on the gas as the bulky vehicle lurched forward, accelerating the hell out of there — on a course that would take it right past Bolan's position on the tree-lined street.

Without slacking pace, Bolan reholstered the AutoMag. He used his momentum to jump and grab a low-hanging branch.

He hoisted himself up into the lower branches as the van gunned by beneath him. Bolan dropped onto the vehicle as it sped by, spraddling himself on the roof. He knew that the occupants of the hurtling van would hear the thump of his landing but not have time to react.

He gripped the left bar of the roof rack to steady himself on the slippery surface. With his right hand, Bolan pointed the .44 AutoMag into the cab of the speeding vehicle. He opened fire blindly.

Someone screamed shrilly.

"Agh! My ear! He shot off my fucking ear!"

The van reached the intersection.

The driver yanked to the left in a wide arc that caused the wheels to ride the curb with enough impact to loosen Bolan's grip on the roof rack, pitching him to the ground.

He landed on the springy turf of a well-tended lawn, coming out of the roll in time to see the glow of the red taillights diminishing in the distance as the speeding van rocketed past the hulk of the flaming Mustang.

The sound of squealing tires filled the night air as the fleeing vehicle began a mad swerving pattern.

The wandering van presented an almost impossible target for the ace marksman. But Bolan decided not to risk a shot that could endanger innocent bystanders in this residential area.

He turned on his heel and jogged back along the street to where the CIA agents had parked their Ford near the Interstate offices.

Bolan saw no sign of the wounded CIA man who had started to follow him.

He reached through the driver's-side window of the Agency car and felt along the steering column. The keys were in it. He slapped the big AutoMag back into sideleather on his hip, then climbed into the Ford. The Executioner gunned the car to life and burned rubber in hot pursuit after the escaping van.

Bob Gridell's heart pounded against his rib cage like a jackhammer. The injured CIA man forced himself to walk along on the dark street in pursuit of the big gunman.

He paused for a moment when the chatter of automatic-weapons fire sounded from up ahead. Then he gripped the .38 even tighter in his right hand and pushed on, almost delirious with pain.

The shooting stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

Seconds later a loud explosion blasted the night, almost pitching him to the pavement.

Momentarily distracted by the eruption, Gridell sighted the unmarked Ford. Suddenly the vehicle roared to life and executed a squealing U-turn that left a smoking patch of rubber on the tarmac.

Gridell raised his .38 and assumed a shooting stance as best he could. Pain knifed through him as he triggered three shots after the receding car. The reports from his pistol thundered in his ears as he realized his shots were going wild.

The agent's own car was out of range.

The CIA man held his fire.

All he could do was helplessly watch the taillights of the Ford disappear into the distance.

The echo of gunfire faded from suburbia.

Residents got braver. They clustered along the tree-lined street that had so suddenly become a hell-ground. Curious chatter filled the air.

Gridell lowered his pistol.

He turned, wearily, painfully, forcing himself to limp back to the nearest house.

Six men dead, including a partner; a kid who never had the chance to prove himself.

A stolen unmarked car.

And a wild card.

John Phoenix.