He raised the gun to his shoulder and fired three times.

At last he swung around to face Coralie. “Let’s get out of here now,” he said.

Two hours later they stood on the edge of a low bluff above the ocean, looking down on a crescent of black volcanic ash on which two small fishing boats were drawn up.

The wind had died. Above and behind them, Stromboli still growled and spat fire. Out across the dark swell of sea, the faintest of lights showed on the horizon.

“Tropea,” Coralie told him. “It’s about thirty miles. On the bleakest part of the Calabrian coast. You’ll be safe landing there: it’s so far off the map that the Mafia have never even heard of it!” She glanced at the beach. “The smaller boat, the blue one, has enough gasoline to get you there.”

Bolan had an arm around her slender shoulders. “It’s a long ride,” he said. “I might need company. How does the idea of a long, cool drink in a bar on the Tropea waterfront grab you?”

She smiled, reaching up to touch his face, gazing for an instant at the rakish, hawklike profile. Finally she sighed and shook her head. “Some other time,” she said softly. “In Rome. In Paris. In Marseilles. Who knows? Right now I have to make it back to my father: he’s going to need all the help and comfort he can get in the next few days.”

Bolan nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll take a rain check.”

He ran down to the beach, pushed out the boat, climbed on board and waved once at the small, solitary figure on the bluff. Then he started the motor and settled himself in the stern with the tiller under one arm, setting a course for that distant light on the mainland.

And the next battle.