He knew he could not fire into the Lincoln but there was a chance the luxury vehicle's bulletproofing did not extend to its tires.

At these speeds, Bolan understood he was risking the life of the woman held hostage in the crew wagon...

if they hadn't killed her already, he reminded himself grimly.

But the wheelman of that Mob car was more likely a pro criminal driver who would, Bolan hoped, manage to keep the Lincoln from rolling and killing or seriously injuring those inside.

Bolan's only chance, he knew, was to cripple the Lincoln and carry the fight to those holding the woman captive, and the numbers of this game were just about used up.

Right now the police net would be closing in rapidly from all sides. There would be less than two minutes before Lakeshore Drive was roped off to car traffic in either direction. Chicago street cops were nothing if not damn efficient.

Bolan started to take aim out the Vette's side window at the rear tires of the Lincoln when he saw a Mafia hardguy in the back seat lean out his side of the big car. The wind whipped the man's hair and coat as he lined up the snout of a pump shotgun at the Vette.

Bolan saw it coming. He ducked, powering the Vette into an evasive swerve, but not fast enough.

The shotgun's boom was muffled beneath the whining engine sounds that filled the night.

The safety glass of the Vette's windshield disintegrated into thousands of diamond cubes that peppered the sports car's interior. A frigid blast suddenly howled in through the vacant space left by the shattered glass.

Bolan raised his head from where he had ducked at the first sight of the man aiming the shotgun. He felt something warm trickle down the front of his face but he could not brush it away. He flicked his head, throwing off the thin stream of blood before it could drip into his eyes.

He triggered the Beretta.

More golden flame licked the blackness before the gunner, still leaning out of the speeding Lincoln, could let loose another round.

The Beretta's 9 mm parabellums sieved the mobster's upper torso.

The shotgun flew out of his hands onto the roadway, followed by the hood's corpse.

The Vette rumbled over both without slowing.

Another glance in the rearview mirror showed Bolan that the gunfire had hardly discouraged the police cruiser closing in from behind, less than a quarter mile now, eating up the gap like a shark drawn by the scent of blood.

Bolan could see other police car lights flashing both from behind the cruiser on his tail and from a mile or so farther north along Lakeshore Drive.

The Lincoln and the Vette would be boxed in within the minute!

But Bolan could not erase from his mind the image of a dark-haired, bravely struggling woman those goons had tossed into the car.

It would only be the wheelman and the woman in that Lincoln now.

Bolan hoped she was still alive.

He was determined not to give up this chase until he found out for sure.

He squeezed off another burst from the Beretta, at the Lincoln's tires this time.

Sparks told him that the bullets found their mark.

And the tires were bulletproof, too.

Suddenly, the Lincoln began slowing down, wobbling erratically as if the driver had lost control, then regained it.

The Lincoln quit the roadway at a decreasing rate of speed, bouncing crazily down a grassy incline to come to a complete stop on the unlighted, deserted stretch of beach hugging the icy Lake Michigan shore.

There was no moon tonight. The only illumination came from streetlights along Lakeshore Drive and the high-rise apartment and condo buildings across the way.

Bolan holstered the Beretta, gripping his steering wheel with both hands. He downshifted, guiding the sports car off the pavement and along the Lincoln's tracks to halt some ten feet from the luxury vehicle.

He left the Corvette hurriedly but cautiously, staying low near the dark sandy ground.

Sirens closing in from three directions toward this inky beach seemed already on top of him.

He unleathered Big Thunder and drew a bead on the Lincoln.

"Out," he growled loud enough to be heard inside the armor-plated vehicle.

He expected one of two responses from inside the Lincoln: a door flying open with a blaze of gunfire behind it, or a more cautious response that would tell him all he needed to know.

When the front passenger door of the Lincoln inched open hesitantly, he could not check the soft sigh of relief that escaped his dry throat. He stayed his finger on the AutoMag's trigger.

The woman slid out of the Lincoln and he caught a brief, close-up glimpse of her face now. Under normal circumstances he would have considered her pretty, but at that moment her features were tense, like a taut mask; her eyes did not leave the fierce-looking weapon he held in both hands even as she obeyed his brusque command to leave the vehicle.

He lowered the pistol when the car's interior light also showed him the form of the driver slumped un-moving over the Lincoln's steering wheel.

A regular pocketknife protruded from the base of the man's neck. He was dead.

The woman must have plunged it in after finding herself alone in the back seat when Bolan had blown away the guy firing on him with the pump shotgun. She had obviously killed the driver with one well-placed stab, regained control of the Lincoln, clambered over into the front seat and guided the car off the parkway and down here onto the beach.

Some woman, thought Bolan.

He stepped toward her and kicked the car door shut, cutting off the dim glow from the car's interior.

The woman did not cringe from him.

"Wh-who are you? You're not one of them... Not one of the police..."

"I'm a friend," he told her. "What's your name?"

Something in his voice made her respond without hesitation.

"Lana. Lana Garner," she breathed.

She was not in shock but close to it, Bolan sensed. He grabbed her hand. She did not resist.

"We've got to get away," he told her. "Or you can wait for the police if you want to."

"No! Not the police!"

"Come on, then," he urged.

He started away from the Lincoln, heading north along the beach in the direction of more residential areas that bordered Lakeshore Drive.

If they could just elude the cops closing in on them...

The woman came with him, keeping pace, their footfalls muted by the sand that slowed their pace.

"What did those men want with you?" Bolan asked as they began jogging along, the AutoMag ready in his right fist.

"They... caught me," she panted. "I was... planting a homing device."

"The Porsche?"

He sensed her nod in the gloom.

"The senator's car," she said.

Then the police car, the one that had been tagging so close behind the Vette and the Lincoln, skidded to a noisy stop on Lakeshore Drive on the higher ground just above them, its headlights stabbing out into the darkness over the beach like angry alien eyes, joined a moment later by a mounted spotlight that commenced probing the night.

Bolan released the woman's hand.

"Get down," he warned.

She faded away into the gloom, somewhere at his back.

"Please, don't hurt those policemen..." she beseeched.

"Don't worry."

Big Thunder roared once.

The spotlight shattered, blacking out.

Bolan turned to urge the woman to resume their flight.

He could not see her.

She was nowhere near him.

She was gone.

Bolan shook his head, puzzled at this new development.

He could hear scores of other police cars, their sirens wailing, shrieking to abrupt stops above his position. Urgent voices and slamming doors told him that these cruisers were disgorging backup policemen. They hit the pavement running, and now he could see them closing in on this night-shrouded stretch of beach, toting rifles and angry, determined grimaces.