"Did you hear that?" Bolan asked the antinuke leader.

Parsons nodded. "Mr. Glinkov has been anxiously awaiting your arrival. If we're going to have a chance here, you'll have to live up to your reputation, Mr. Bolan."

"Don't worry about it," Bolan snapped. "We don't have much time, so here's what we're going to do. In two minutes, the three of us will hit them head-on. Rachel will cover our rear."

Bolan turned to leave. Parsons grabbed his arm. "Listen, Mr. Bolan. I don't blame you for feeling the way you do. But I swear to you, I had no idea this was going to happen. All I wanted was to close the plant down. I never meant for anyone to get hurt."

"It's a little late for that, isn't it?"

Parsons said nothing. After a moment of awkward silence, Bolan slipped away to rejoin Rachel.

"You're going to have to watch our backs," he whispered.

"Mack, be careful. And look out for Eli. He can be a little reckless."

"He'll be fine. Caution is a luxury we can't afford." Bolan cocked his Ingram and gestured to Cohen and Parsons. At the sign, the three men pressed forward, sliding in and out of the shadows. It was fifty yards to the blank wall. It was the longest fifty yards Mack Bolan had ever walked. He checked his watch. There was less than an hour left now. Parsons was on the right wing. The old guy moved well for an inexperienced man. Eli Cohen was on the left wing.

Mack Bolan took the point.

Parsons slipped through a notch between two columns of piping. Gunfire chased him back into the shadows. The dim light and the banshee wail of the ricocheting slugs chilled Bolan to the core.

In the shadows ahead, several men shifted positions nervously. They had the edge in numbers, and they had the advantage of defending from cover.

Bolan's group had no choice but to expose itself from time to time as it moved in.

Parsons was using a Kalashnikov. He sprayed fire randomly, and Bolan jumped ahead.

Bolan fired and Cohen leaped. Cohen hosed the shadows and Parsons moved. Foot by foot, they moved forward.

The progress was agonizingly slow. Time was slipping away, and they had yet to get a clear shot. It was time to quit fooling around, Bolan thought. Time to make a difference.

Slipping off to the left, Bolan sprinted into the darkness. The overhead lamps were few and far between. It might have been an illusion, but it seemed to the Executioner that they were fading. If he could get an angle on the bastards, he could neutralize their cover. Watching front and side wouldn't leave them any place to hide. The first moments were going to be crucial. He hadn't told Eli he was slipping away. He didn't want any mistakes, and he couldn't take the chance the gunners would realize his intentions. Flat on his belly, Bolan slid under some yard-high conduits.

He wormed forward, the suit scratching on the rough concrete floor. The hiss of the cloth was serpentine and menacing. It seemed louder than it was in the lowering darkness.

While he worked forward, he could hear an occasional short burst from Eli's Ingram and Parsons's AK-47. He only hoped neither of his men would mistake him for the enemy. It was a chance, but he had to take it. Another ten yards, and he would have a clear angle of fire. He slid forward under another bank of conduits. Just ahead, there was a stack of wooden pallets standing on end. Bolan cleared the pipes and got to his feet. Sprinting the few remaining feet, he ducked in behind the pallets.

The flimsy wood wouldn't offer much cover. But he was close now. He could hear the surprised breathing of one of the terrorists as yet another burst of fire came in from Eli's position. One of the stray slugs whined overhead, and Bolan ducked down instinctively. Deadly fire wasn't particular when it came to choosing a victim.

Now.

Three men were exposed to Bolan's Ingram.

Cautiously he raised the weapon. He wanted to take them all out.

Whittling the odds was all well and good when time wasn't a factor. But not this time. The targets were fidgety. One of the guys was shifting back and forth on his feet. His profile slipped in and out of the shadows. The other two were stationary. Choosing the moment, Bolan squeezed. The sound of the SMG bounced off the tangled pipes and concrete floor.

It exploded in his ears.

Spraying his fire in a wide arc, Bolan saw one of the guys go down. The hellfire seemed to lick out of the Ingram's mouth like a dragon's tongue. The second guy heard the fire from his side and turned. Three slugs smashed into his face and blew it away. In the dim light, his backward sprawl seemed staged, like Hollywood's idea of bloody murder. The third man was quick. But not quick enough. As the chattering Ingram swept its tongue toward him, he moved back into the shadows, but there was no room. His dodge bounced him violently back into the path of the incoming fire. With a groan, he was down. But not out. He began to haul himself behind cover, using one arm. The other dangled uselessly at his side. A dark stain covered his left shoulder. Bolan couldn't see its color in the twilight. He didn't have to. He knew it was bright red.

The guy struggled to get out of the way. Bolan rammed a new clip into the Ingram and let loose. The gun bucked in his hands as he walked his fire across the concrete floor toward the crawling man. Two ricochets caught him in a spray of concrete chips, then three more punched through rib cage and shoulder blade.

The man lay still.

After the first burst, Cohen and Parsons caught on. They were alternating fire, just enough to pin the others down. Bolan angled closer to the wall. He could see the huge steel door of the storeroom where, he knew, the hostages waited.

A large shadow detached itself from the darkness.

Supple movements and swiftness combined to create the impression of a large predatory cat walking on its hind paws. Bolan caught a glimpse of the movement. But he was too late. The stalker found new cover.

Bolan was now vulnerable. If he moved to the right, he'd be exposed to fire from his own side. If he moved to the left, he'd be an easy target for the enemy. Quickly he searched the immediate area looking for something anything, to tip the odds back in his favor.

Overhead, the conduits seemed to extend to heaven.

Steel beanstalks, he thought. He could climb them to the giant's castle, if he dared. But he didn't have to climb that high. A little more than fifteen feet up, a yard-diameter conduit met the column he was hiding behind. The right-angle intersection led to a point directly over, and eventually behind the remaining terrorists. If he could mount the pipe without being seen, he'd have a chance to end the fight immediately. And in transit he'd be a sitting duck. He'd have to attain his position without being seen. If they spotted him, it was all over. He couldn't carry the Ingram with him, so Bolan laid the SMG carefully on the floor.

Standing on tiptoe, he could just reach the first flanged joint in the vertical length of the conduit.

It was wide enough to afford him a grip. He pulled himself up far enough to reach the next joint. Painfully he hauled himself aloft. At the intersection, he paused to catch his breath. Beneath him, the firing continued sporadically, but it seemed distant and ancient. It was as if it were another fight, one he had left behind long ago.

As he gathered himself for the perilous crawl out over the gunners' positions, he saw Eli Cohen place a new clip in his SMG. At the same time, Malcolm Parsons slammed a new magazine into his Kalashnikov. Suddenly there was a piercing whistle. Both men began firing.

There was a spurt of shadow off to one side. For a moment, he couldn't place it. Then it hit him. It was Rachel. She was trying the same thing he was, but she kept to the floor to do it. She darted in and out among the shadows, swinging off to one side, trying to slide in behind the attackers. She was holding her fire, hoping for an edge.