"What about you?"

"I'll lead them away from the Jeep."

"Yeah, but what then? How do you get out? I'm not leaving without you."

"You won't be," Bolan said.

Demoinei's voice rose again. "You're wasting time, Blue." A flock of birds cawed and flapped their wings in response.

Bolan continued his instructions to Shawnee. "Once you've driven out of sight, they aren't going to bother chasing you on foot. They'll keep coming after me. I'll sneak around, come up behind them right where our Nova is, and you come burning rubber and pick me up."

"How do I know when to come back?"

"Give me ten minutes from the time you take off. Understand?"

"How do I start the thing?"

"Don't worry, they probably left the key in. They wouldn't take the chance of someone carrying it out here, getting shot and floating off with the key. But if there isn't one, just keep running. Okay?"

Shawnee nodded.

"Go." He gave her a gentle nudge.

And she was gone.

Bolan watched her wade through the swamp, keeping out of sight behind the cypress trees. When she was safely on her way, he went to work. The Executioner knew he had to keep Demoines and his men from spreading out and accidentally discovering Shawnee.

That meant telling them where he was. Loud and clear.

He stood up behind a giant tupelo tree, brushed aside a thick clump of Spanish moss and watched Demoines detailing his goons into some kind of flanking movement. Bolan smiled, lifted his .357, steadied the eight-inch barrel against a branch and fired.

A man in a red plaid shirt was jerked back off his feet, rifle flying up into the air. He flopped backward into the water and never moved again.

"There!" Demoines pointed, teeth bared. "There he is! Kill him!"

The seven survivors opened fire at once, chipping hunks of wood from the tupelo, ruffling the lacy Spanish moss but not being able to get a clear shot at Bolan. Who was already moving deeper into the swamp.

They stopped firing and ran after him, occasionally slipping in the muddy peat, tripping on a submerged tree root. Bolan used the thick underbrush to keep them from getting a clear shot at him. Sporadic gunfire broke the marshy stillness, and bullets whizzed by much closer than he liked.

A hazy dimness hung over the swamp as twilight hit the outside world. Visibility would be even worse now, but Bolan knew how to use that to his advantage.

They were resting now, waiting for Demoines to stop wheezing and catch his breath. The Mafia boss handed his Weatherby shotgun to one of his men while he leaned over and retched into the swamp. His men turned their heads. Bolan smiled and ran even deeper into the swamp, his splashing footsteps taunting them.

Up ahead a young man in a park-service uniform was poling a flatbottomed johnboat toward Bolan.

"Hey, fella," the young man called out sternly. "This here ain't hunting season, you know. Let me see your permit."

Bolan spun around and pointed the .357 into the young man's face. "Out!" he commanded.

The young man stuck his pole back in the boat and jumped into the water. He tried to speak, but nothing coherent came out of his mouth.

"I don't have much time, son," Bolan said slowly, "but you'd better listen carefully. There's a pack of men coming this way with rifles and a desire to kill anything human they see. I figure your best bet is to get lost as fast as you can."

"Y-y-yes, sir."

"Good boy. Now get going."

The young man, with hands still held over his head, ran through the water with remarkable speed. By the time Demoines got here, they might hear the distant splashes, but they wouldn't see him clearly enough to shoot.

Bolan silently climbed into the flatbottomed johnboat. It was only about twelve feet long and five feet wide, made of aluminum and painted camouflage green. There was no motor, just the pole that was forked at one end to keep it from sinking into the peat. Bolan had been in something similar once called an alligator punt, a boat pointed at both ends made from cypress boards. That's where he'd first used a pole to propel a boat. Slowly, silently, he muscled the pole into the mud and guided the boat across the water.

"What's that?" he heard someone shout, thinking they meant him, but relieved when he heard the panicked reply.

"'Gator!" A volley of shots churned water.

"Stop it!" Demoines snarled. "That's a log, not an alligator."

Just then the Jeep engine rumbled to life.

"The Jeep!" Demoines hollered.

Bolan stopped the boat behind a thick tree and watched them scramble toward shore. They started firing, but the jeep was already roaring off into the distance.

That gave him ten minutes to get by Demoines and his men.

Bolan slipped over the side of the boat, pushed it out in the direction of his pursuers. They were still too far away to see it, but in another twenty yards they would. However, it would be too dark for them to determine if he was in it or not.

Bolan grabbed the forked pole and waded away from the drifting boat.

"Forget her!" Demoines said, stopping the shooting. "She's gone. But she was alone, I'm sure of that. That means Blue is still here. He's the one I want." He raised his voice. "You hear that, Blue. Your little honey took off on you. Left you for dead meat. Guess she was smarter than you thought, eh?"

Bolan submerged himself until only his head and right hand clutching the gun were above the slimy water.

He crawled on his knees now, edging past them, only fifty yards to their left, while they marched straight ahead.

"Come on, fan out," Demoines ordered. "You two go that way. Tanner, move to the left. It's getting dark and I don't want him to slip by us."

Bolan stopped as he watched the hefty man named Tanner splash toward him.

Fortunately the gunman was moving sideways, keeping his eyes out front like the rest of them. Still, Bolan couldn't afford to move, to make any noise. Tanner kept coming closer. Bolan had no choice but to duck underwater, head, gun and everything.

He waited, holding his breath, squeezing his eyes closed. The water felt greasy swirling around his face. Still he heard Tanner's boots splashing closer.

Not knowing how close Tanner was, Bolan didn't want to risk attracting attention by moving, even underwater. But his lungs were starting to burn, his throat convulsing for air. He fought the urge to break surface.

"There!" Tanner yelled excitedly, pointing out at the flatbottomed johnboat.

Bolan took advantage of the distraction to lift his head out of the water, just as Tanner opened fire at the vessel.

"A boat," someone else said.

Now Demoines was opening fire and then everyone was. Tanner stood firing only eight feet away from Bolan. Amidst the din of shooting, Bolan began crawling away toward the shore where Shawnee would return any minute now.

The movement caught Tanner's eye. Bolan saw him swing his rifle around, eyes wide with discovery, struggling to warn the others and shoot at the same time.

Bolan didn't give him a chance. Fearful that the swamp water might have affected the .357, Bolan just lunged at Tanner with the forked pole. Tanner took the fork directly in his chest.

The sharp wooden prongs punched through the chest like a stapler and Tanner dropped into the water unheard by the others, who were running toward the boat, still shooting rifles and shotguns.

Bolan wedged the pole sticking out of Tanner's chest under a rock, keeping Tanner hidden under the water. Then he continued toward shore.

It had been ten minutes, maybe more, by the time he reached the sandy ridge near the Nova. Where was Shawnee?

"It's a goddamn boat, all right," Demoines was shouting at his men, "but where the hell is Blue?"