"Come on," Bolan ordered. "As long as they stay under cover, they'll be fine."

Shawnee hesitated, but then ran after Bolan as they dashed for the van. Bolan reached it first. He stepped into the vehicle, climbing over the bodies of the guards and ignoring the pleading of the men begging to be set free. Kneeling on the floor, he kept watch out the window while Shawnee checked the two guards. Bolan knew what she'd find, but he also knew she needed to try.

"Dead," she finally said. "Both of them."

Bolan nodded, started searching the bodies for the keys to the handcuffs. The prisoners were yanking and jerking at their cuffs, trying to dislodge the whole seat.

"It's you," Dodge Reed said as Bolan approached him with the key.

"Yeah, kid. You're coming with me."

"What's going on here?"

Bolan gave him a cold stare. "Don't you know?"

Reed shook his head. "Honestly, I don't know what you want."

Bolan paused. What if the kid was telling the truth? Then why was Zavlin trying to kill him? Either Reed was lying, or he knew something that he didn't know was important.

It didn't matter. Reed knew something. Something the KGB was willing to kill him for. Bolan had to know what that was. He jammed one of the keys into the cuff lock and turned. Nothing. He tried another key. And another.

"Hey, Blue," one of the prisoners yelled.

"I know you, man. I seen you in Fulton. C'mon, man. Give us the keys."

"Give us the keys, Blue," another man demanded. Others chorused in their agreement.

Bolan ignored them, trying keys until he finally sprang Reed's lock. The kid seemed dazed, unable to move. He just sat on the floor in a stupor. Bolan grabbed him by the arm and yanked him to his feet.

"Let's go!"

Reed stumbled after him.

As they headed for the front door of the van, uncuffed arms reached out and ensnared both Bolan and Reed. Bolan felt them grabbing at his arms and legs, trying to pull him down so they could get the keys. He used the eight-inch barrel of his .357 to smash fingers and hands, kicking his way free from the groping wall of arms. He pulled Reed after him, stopping to hammer the wrist of one stubborn prisoner who had hold of Reed's hair.

"They'll kill us, man!" one of the convicts whined to Bolan.

"No, they won't," Bolan assured him. "Once we're gone, their interest in you will be gone too. When you guys don't show up at the prison within the next ten minutes, they'll be sending a few squad cars after you. If you were free, they might think you had something to do with killing those guards. That would make you an accessory."

"Big fucking deal," one of them snapped. But the others, realizing that a manhunt for escaped cons involved in killing guards could result in their getting shot on sight, decided maybe it wasn't such a good idea to get out. Bolan didn't care what they thought. He shoved Reed out of the van, nudged Shawnee to follow and brought up the rear. They ran for Shawnee's Celica, hidden under brush farther down the road.

Zavlin's eyes hurt from pressing the binoculars so tightly against his face. But he couldn't stop. Not now. Not while he watched his men pinned down under a barrage of fire in a vulnerable location. Not while the man in black and the athletic woman stole Dodge Reed away.

He focused on the man in black, on the long square jaw that jutted out like the prow of some battleship. And those dark, menacing eyes, glowing with concentration as he ran, guiding the woman and Reed.

Those were the eyes of a professional.

Zavlin kept the binoculars aimed at the man in black, studying him as a hunter studies a new prey, until the dark-clad figure disappeared into the brush.

Zavlin swung the binoculars back to his two men. Their position was undefendable. They were lucky that the two women didn't stalk after them, were satisfied with merely keeping them immobile. Then one of Zavlin's men, obviously frustrated, began to move. His comrade tried to stop him, but he shook off the restraining hand and crawled belly first from behind the brush. What's he doing, Zavlin wondered, running one hand through his white hair. Now the two women were beginning to move. The Oriental looked at her watch and shouted something to her tall companion with the wicked-looking sniper rifle. The tall woman nodded and the two of them started in the same direction as the man in black.

Zavlin's angry assassin was gaining some high ground, climbing up to a clump of trees, shinnying up the trunk to a thick branch and taking aim with his rifle.

A shot thunder-clapped in the valley.

Zavlin swung the binoculars around just in time to see the short Oriental woman spin around and tumble into the brush. The tall woman with the reddish hair immediately dropped to her knee, snapped the rifle to her shoulder, surveyed the hillside with her scope and triggered a round. The agent in the tree returned fire. His bullet kicked up dirt three feet to the left of the woman. But she didn't move. She methodically adjusted her scope, aimed again and squeezed the trigger. No return fire.

Zavlin whipped the binoculars around again, saw his man hanging at an awkward angle from the tree branch, the leg he'd wedged between branches for support now keeping him from falling. The front of his shirt was sopping with blood. There was a hole in his chest that looked as if a giant bird had been pecking at his heart.

The tall woman was helping the Oriental woman to her feet. Zavlin watched as she tore a strip of material from her blouse and wrapped it around the wounded woman's arm. Minor damage.

They started off again, following the man in black.

Zavlin searched for his remaining agent, still hunched in the brush, waiting. He alone had done the right thing, waiting until the firing stopped before making any move. The white-haired killer got up from his folding chair and picked up the SIG PE-57 assault rifle he'd leaned against the shady tree. Squinting to protect his sensitive eyes from the sun, he chambered a 7.55mm Swiss cartridge, braced the stock against his shoulder and screwed his right eye to the scope. He tightened his hand around the black rubberlike pistol grip, and focused on his target.

He squeezed the trigger.

Through the scope he watched the shocked expression on his own KGB agent's face as his chest erupted in a sudden red mist. The man's thick Russian features stretched thin and rubbery from screaming, then went flaccid as his body flopped into the brush.

A shame, Zavlin thought, but necessary. The others were out of range, so there was nothing he could do about them. But he couldn't take a chance of his own man being caught by American authorities. Nor did he want him to tell KGB officials what had happened.

It would reflect badly on Zavlin that some American agent had outguessed the KGB's top assassin, beating him to the target.

No. Zavlin would take care of the matter himself.

He would find out more about Dodge Reed and the man in prison who had befriended him, Damon Blue.

In the meantime, he would think about the man in black.

Replay the humiliation he suffered today at that man's hands. And think of how he would kill him next time they met.