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.

There was still a slim chance for him to turn the tables. And that slim hope rested with the dying man slumped in the seat beside him.

Bolan methodically slapped the driver, jerking his head from side to side. The guy moaned again, the sound stronger now, and a mist lifted in his eyes. Slowly, painfully, they focused, settling on Bolan's face.

There was confusion and weak defiance in his eyes, but no trace of fear. He was too far gone for that, and Bolan knew he would be fortunate to get anything from him.

Even so, he would have to try before the guy slipped away completely.

Bolan leaned closer, watching the driver's face.

The soldier knew he had to reach the guy, and quickly.

Bolan gripped the driver's shoulders and shook him smartly. The guy tried to resist but he didn't have it in him. A spastic shudder was the best he could manage.

Bolan kept his voice low, terse, as he addressed the enemy.

"I want the girl," he said. "Where is she?"

The driver stared back from under drooping eyelids. He made no sound beyond the rattle of his breathing.

Bolan gave the rag-doll form another shake then grimaced at the driver's painful gasp. A thought of Amy Culp renewed his grim resolve.

"Where is she?"

The driver's lips moved, but no coherent sounds were emitted. Bolan wasn't even certain his words were getting through the guy's haze of pain, making a connection with his mind.

Another moment, the driver stiffened, spine arching like a bow in the height of agony. He was gripped by a violent fit of coughing, bloody spittle flying from his lips.

Bolan saw his eyes roll, glaze over, then the driver's face went slack. A scarlet ribbon started at the corner of his mouth and dripped across his chin. A shudder racked his frame. The man's dying breath escaped in a whistling sigh.

He was gone. Beyond the reach of mortal interrogators. Anything he knew about the girl was lost.

Bolan softly cursed and let the limp body slump back against the passenger's door.

He had missed his chance. There was no denying his bitter disappointment. Amy was beyond his reach, perhaps already dead. He had lost her.

The Executioner was familiar with the pain of loss and disappointment. A feeling man, certainly, with the memory of lost friends and family branded on his soul.

You took chances as they came, influenced the odds whenever possible, and made the best of bad situations. Second chances were as rare as happy endings in the hellgrounds, and Bolan never counted on them.

A man could lose it all in an instant, waiting for luck to come his way. Bolan survived each day by never counting on the stroke of luck, never taking anything for granted.

The warrior made his own opportunities, his own odds. And when circumstances forced him to retreat, he didn't quit, he found another front, another angle of attack.

It was time to seek that other angle, to press ahead before the enemy was able to regroup.

With a disgusted gesture, Bolan turned from the cadaver and reached for the door handle. He was half out of the Caddy when a small sound stopped him, drew him back. Rasping static, and tiny voices emanating from under the driver's seat. Instantly he recognized the sound of a two-way radio.

Fishing under the seat, he found a compact walkie-talkie that had passed through the battle undamaged. Tuned to a common frequency, it was silent up to now... or its voices were muffled by combat sounds.

Bolan felt a sudden rush of hope. There was still a chance...

If Minh's "elders" risked broadcasting in the clear, if they didn't take the time to code their messages, he might profit from their momentary chaos.

If.

He would seize the opportunity and run with it as far as it could take him, right.

With any luck, it would take him all the way.

He left the Caddy, with its silent, staring occupant, and moved briskly toward the street. As he walked, Bolan brought the walkie-talkie to his ear, turning up the volume and eavesdropping on the traffic from the battlefield.

Dazed and angry voices sounded, some frightened and showing strain. Overriding all the others, a voice that Bolan pegged as that of the chief of operations.

And the guy wasn't happy. Not at all.

He was furiously snapping at his soldiers, fighting to bring order to chaos, trying to salvage something before police arrived.

Bolan grinned at the night and wished the chief luck... all bad.

"Dammit, Number Two, report!" he snapped. ''What's your situation?''

Hesitant, another voice replied from somewhere in the hellgrounds.

"Number Two is out of it. He bought the farm."

The C.O. took a moment to digest the news, but recovered swiftly.

"All right," he said, "we've got another Number Two. You're it. Get your people out of there, and make it fast."

Bolan could almost hear the rush of pride and excitement, as the shaky soldier received his battlefield promotion.

"Yes, sir!" he answered, fighting to control the emotion in his voice. "We, uh, we've got some wounded here..."

The field commander's answer fired like whiplash.

"Take 'em with you, dammit! Forget about the rest and move your ass before we have to fight the friggin' riot squad!''

The new Number Two, anxious to succeed, was having trouble with his orders. Bolan could almost feel for the guy.

Almost.

"Do we, uh, head for the usual place?" he asked.

Static couldn't hide the field commander's short, exasperated sigh.

"Go to the warehouse, for chrissake, all right?"

"Right, okay. We're gone."

Bolan's heart pounded like a trip-hammer as he reached the rental car and slid behind the wheel. For once, he didn't have to guess what the enemy was saying, he didn't have to rack his brain for clues.