He waited, aware that he was holding his breath, as if to exhale would kill the delicate glimmer behind the dusty glass. It had become steady, electric light rather than a flame, but it did nothing. Losing his patience, Bolan began to fidget in the doorway. When the light disappeared again, he sprinted across the street at an angle. Pressing his face to the glass, he tried to see inside, past the cascading silks. They tumbled over a rack in thick, almost seamless folds.

He tapped on the window with his knuckles, and the glass rattled in its peeling wooden frame. A chunk of putty fell from the bottom of the pane and hit his foot. He backed away from the glass to look down. He started to lean back in when he saw something behind him, reflected in the glass. He began to turn as the grey blur dissolved. He was halfway around when the window, now almost behind him, cracked.

Instinctively he fell to the ground. He looked for cover, but there was node to be had. He started to move, crabwalking under the window ledge to the corner, when something slammed into the wooden wall just above his head.

At the corner he scurried across the rounded concrete step and ducked in behind the far wall.

Desperately he scanned the silent row of shops across the street. The grey blurbs had seen was gone. In all probability, it had been the gunman. Cautiously he got to his knees, straining to see through the dark glass across the street.

The next shot tore a chunk of wood from the window frame just above his shoulder. Sharp splinters stabbed his left cheek, and he dropped to the ground again. He still didn't know where the shots had come from. The gun was silenced, and there hadn't been a flash, either.

Then he saw the gunman, just a block of dark grey in the mouth of an alley four shops from the corner. Inching forward, Bolan rested the muzzle of the Desert Eagle on the six-inch step. The shooter was being careful. He didn't leave much exposed. Bolan was about to squeeze the trigger when a second shadow moved, then a third.

Shifting his aim, he drew a bead on the nearest shadow, just a blob of darkness on the roof, blotting out a few stars. As he squeezed, the shadow opened up. Unfolding like a leaf, it stood erect and let loose with a burst of suppressed fire. The slugs chewed at the corner of the building, sparking where they hit the concrete, and Bolan cringed against the wall. When the firing stopped, he ducked back out and squeezed off two quick shots. The shadow on the roof folded back into itself, then toppled over the edge and landed with a dull thud on the pavement.

Bolan ducked back and took a deep breath.

There had been at least four shooters. They were one shy now, but that was cold comfort.

In the street behind him, a dull roar exploded into thunder. He turned to see where it came from just as another burst of lead clawed at the pavement in front of him. A blocky shadow hurtled toward him, its engine whining. It was a dark-colored van, one set of wheels on the curb the other still on the street.

Bolan scrambled to his feet. Emptying the Desert Eagle at the far side of the street, he squeezed into the doorway and smashed the window glass with his elbow. Diving through the shattered frame of the door, he landed heavily on his shoulder. The window to his left blew out, and a steady hail of fire chewed the window display to tatters. Bolan pressed himself against the wooden floor.

The van squealed to a halt outside as Bolan reloaded with quick and practiced hands. He looked over his shoulder to see the van parked across the doorway, blocking his way out.

The van's passenger door swung open, and another metallic slam, probably its rear doors, echoed inside the shattered shop. Bolan drew the AutoMag and started to back away from the broken window. He bumped into something he couldn't see in the dark and fell backward just as the shop's second window caved inward. The roar of cascading glass died away into a tinkle that was almost playful, like a windup music box.

As he struggled to regain his feet among the tangled bolts of cloth, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Come this way. Quickly!" It was a woman's voice, but he could see nothing in the pitch-black shop. She tugged again on his arm, and he followed her, stumbling twice as an assassin tumbled through the broken window and swept the darkness with an automatic rifle.

Bolan nearly knocked the woman down when she stopped suddenly. In a hoarse whisper, she told him to back up a step, and he heard a bolt being thrown. The squeak of metal hinges let him know she was opening a door, then she was pulling on his arm again. He banged his head on a hard surface, probably the door frame, and he staggered drunkenly until she pushed him against a wall by placing both palms flat against his chest.

"Don't move," she whispered. Her voice seemed to come from below his chest. He guessed she couldn't be any more than five two or five three.

The dull thud of footsteps pounded back in the direction they had come. He heard the hinges squeak again, and shouted voices that seemed to be swallowed by the darkness as the door swung closed.

For the third time her hand snatched at his sleeve, and again he followed her, bending low to avoid another crack in his skull. His head throbbed from the previous collision, and every step seemed to split the bone a little wider. He rubbed his forehead just below the hairline and found a lump the size of a robin's egg. His fingers came away sticky.

They rattled down a stairwell, the woman pulling him like an angry mother dragging along a wayward child.

He wanted to ask where they were going, but her pace was picking up and he had to concentrate on keeping up with her. Running in the darkness, he felt as if he couldn't breathe. He was getting tense, wary of slamming into another obstacle he couldn't see, and the anxiety helped to drain his reserves of energy.

Reaching out with one hand, he brushed his fingertips against what seemed to be a rock wall, likely raw stone cut into rough blocks. Dampness trickled down over the stone, and something soft, probably moss, filled the seams. He still hadn't seen a glimmer of light, and marveled at the woman's ability to move so quickly in such impenetrable blackness.

They were far enough away from the shop that he could hear nothing but his feet on damp earth, his steps drowning out those of the woman ahead of him. His throat felt raw, and his breathing rasped in his ears like a swarm of flies. His mouth was dry, and it felt as if his tongue were growing thick between his teeth.

Just when he was about to call for a break, she began to slow down, and he stumbled to a halt. He leaned over and breathed deeply.

"Where are we?" Bolan asked.

"Does it matter?" she responded.

"You've got a point," Bolan said. "Will you at least tell me who you are?"

"You don't need to know that, either. Not yet."

"You're a regular gold mine of information," Bolan commented.

She ignored the sarcasm. "When you need to know, you will know. But not before." She stepped close to him and hissed, "Shhh!" Even though he couldn't see her in the darkness, he knew she was suddenly straining to hear something.

Bolan held his breath. He, too, thought he could hear something. It was distant and muffled. It came from some distance behind them, but he couldn't tell whether it was all the way back at the shop or closer.

"What is it?" he whispered.

"I'm not sure. But we'd better go."

Bolan nodded. Then, realising she couldn't see him, he whispered, "Okay."

Again she reached out to grab his arm, but the tugging was more gentle, as if finally satisfied that he would follow her lead without argument.

They had gone no more than fifty feet when she slowed again.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing. There is a door here. Wait while I open it." He stood stock-still, listening to her work a latch in the darkness. There was no fumbling. It was almost as though her fingers had eyes. Smoothly the lock opened, and she pulled the door back. "Go on," she prompted.