Zavlin watched from the shade of his tree, able to see everything, observe his men take aim when the prison van came within range, and fire and keep firing until Dodge Reed was dead. As well as everyone else in the van.

And, should anything go wrong, he would be safely up here. He swung his binoculars down the dirt road. A puff of dust rose and grew like the tail of a frightened cat. He couldn't make out what the vehicle was yet, but it had to be going to the new prison. That was the only place the road led to.

Not a prison yet. It hadn't been completed.

But the walls were up and where they weren't, barbed wire had been strung. The dormitories hadn't been finished yet either, but the plumbing was working and they'd constructed rows of tents for the convicts to sleep in.

Nothing unusual in that.

Zavlin had read of many prisons fighting overcrowding with small tent cities. And recent troubles at Fulton had convinced authorities to use the new prison a little early while they investigated the prison murders, defusing what they feared might be a race war.

A helpful, well-paid secretary, had managed to include Dodge Reed's name among those scheduled to be transferred. The amount of her bribe had been staggering, but it was money well spent, Zavlin thought. The whole KGB operation could be jeopardized if Dodge Reed told anyone what he knew. And that operation was too important to risk. Not when they were so close to striking what surely would be a crippling blow to the entire American society.

The vehicle wobbled closer, still engulfed in the cloud of dust, defying identification. Zavlin glanced down at his men. They scrambled to their positions and readied their rifles. — Zavlin could feel the familiar excitement as he pressed the binoculars back to his eyes, zeroing in on the approaching dust cloud. Public outcry had forced the location of this prison to be changed from the more populated areas to more rustic locales. Getting here had been the biggest challenge so far. But it was for the best. There would be no one to stop what was about to happen.

The plume of dust hugged the winding road, clinging to the bouncing vehicle like a coat of buzzing flies.

Another half mile and it would be on the short straight road that Zavlin had determined was the best location for the ambush.

If only that stupid record-store manager had told his boss about Dodge Reed first. But no, the manager, all of twenty-five and filled with selfimportance over his recent promotion, had not only fired Reed, but had him arrested! It had all happened so quickly that by the time the boss had found out and informed his own KGB contacts, it was too late to drop the charges without arousing suspicion. Both the manager and the boss would be dealt with later. After Dodge Reed had been eliminated.

The dust swirl swept around the final curve and hit the straight section of road. Zavlin adjusted his binoculars and smiled brightly. The van.

And there, leaning against the window, was the morose young face of Dodge Reed.

The KGB assassin shifted his glasses to take in the whole van. The rush of dust would complicate an already difficult shot. His marksmen would have to stop the van first.

Just as the thought entered his mind, the sharp crack of a rifle shot echoed up to him and he saw the front left tire of the van explode. The rear of the van swung out, skidding across the dirt road as the driver wrestled with the steering wheel. Then the glass on the driver's side shattered and the driver's head collapsed into red mush. He was flung out of his seat and the van, uncontrolled, spun to a halt. The six prisoners, each handcuffed to his seat, yelled and hollered as they ducked down under the windows, only their cuffed wrists showing. The remaining guard had his gun drawn and was hunched down, peering out the shattered window for a target.

Only a tiny sliver of his head was visible. But that was enough. One of the KGB assassins tightened his callous finger around his trigger and the top of the guard's head flew off like a soggy red toupee. The prisoners hollered even louder. They were trapped, without weapons, bound to their seats.

Now all Zavlin's men had to do was walk in and mop up. A bullet in the head of each man, three in Dodge Reed's head. Just to make sure.

He watched them stalking toward the disabled van, their guns ready. Very good, Zavlin thought, lowering the binoculars. A volley of shots startled him and he raised his binoculars. The van was still sitting there, unmoving, the prisoners yelling for help. He aimed the binoculars at his men just as another fusillade boomed through the valley. One of his KGB hit men spun, fired a shot into the brush. A shotgun blast ruffled dogwood leaves as the pellets brushed aside everything in their path, then punched through the KGB agent's chest like an iron fist. The agent was jerked off his feet as he flew backward into the azaleas.

Zavlin was on his feet, the binoculars screwed to his eyes.

Bolan shouldered his way through the dogwood, dropped to one knee and squeezed off two rounds from his S&W .357. It was a little barrel-heavy, but that heaviness allowed full development of gas pressure behind the bullet. The double-action squeeze was absorbed by the tension of the mainspring inside the grip.

The bullets shredded some leaves but otherwise missed the two fleeing assassins. Bolan hadn't really expected to hit them. They were moving too fast and with too much skill. The KGB trained its field agents as if they were Olympic athletes. Some of them were.

Shawnee appeared at Bolan's side. "One down."

"Nice shot."

"You kidding? With this thing I'd have to be blindfolded to miss."

He didn't look at her, but sensed her nervousness. Not from what was ahead, but from what she'd just done. For all her time in Vietnam, she'd never hurt anyone before. She'd been a nurse, healing wounds, cursing the weapons that did this kind of damage. Sure, lately she'd been busting down some Mafia doors and chopping the joints up. But all she'd needed to do then was point her gun, threaten.

Now she was pulling the trigger.

And a man's chest had burst out his back.

He felt her shivering next to him, trying hard to tough it out, not let him know how she felt. But he knew.

Despite the years of violence, the trail of corpses, Bolan still remembered that first body, the look of surprise on that Cong sniper's face as Bolan's bullet plowed into his skull. It took a while to get over that. But Shawnee didn't say anything. She hunkered next to the Executioner and waved for Rita and Lynn. The two women ran up and knelt next to Bolan and Shawnee. They'd been told to follow behind Bolan and Shawnee, so their path must have brought them to the dead KGB agent Shawnee had killed. Rita looked at the shotgun, then at Shawnee. Lynn, the most reserved of the women, nevertheless touched a comforting hand to Shawnee's shoulder, then withdrew it. Nothing was said among the women, but Bolan could sense a feeling of support, of unity. One he'd experienced many times in Nam and again with his men at Stony Man Farm.

"Rita, you and Lynn stay here and keep those two goons pinned down. If you hit them, fine, but our main priority is getting Dodge Reed free." Bolan checked his watch. "Give Shawnee and me five minutes to get to the van, release Reed and be on our way back to the car. Once the time is up, drop back and head for the car yourself. It'll take them a while to decide whether or not it's safe to follow us."

"Okay," Rita St. Clair said. "But with this baby..." she hefted her Krico Super Sniper "...I should be able to do a little more damage than just pin them down."

Lynn tapped her watch. "Five minutes. Go"

Bolan led Shawnee through the underbrush to the road.

Behind them Lynn and Rita were peppering the hillside with a hard rain. A few shots were being returned from the KGB agents and Shawnee stopped to make sure Lynn and Rita were okay.