Using a two-handed grip, he took aim on the lounging guard. The search team was almost at the end of the aisle. If they turned to work their way back, they might see him. It was now or never.

Squeezing the hair trigger, he felt the satisfying jolt of the Italian beauty, its deadly spit no louder than an apple falling on soft grass. The guard changed position, but seemed unharmed. Bolan thought for a moment the shot had missed. When the stain began to spread across the front of the guard's shirt, he knew he hadn't. The body stayed upright, propped against the rough metal.

Firing two more quick shots, Bolan took out the search team, catching the man on the left almost dead center, just below the collar line. A broken spine allowed his head to loll, and the man dropped straight down, dead instantly. The second man was no luckier. Struck in the base of the skull, he spattered his dead companion with flecks of bright blood and toppled to the floor, his weapon clattering against an empty metal drum.

"Hey!" The shout sparked like electricity through the aisles, and someone ran toward the fallen men, probably the guard from the opposite end of the aisle. Bolan couldn't see anyone, but took the opportunity to move to the other side of his perch.

Pounding feet raced toward the end of the aisle, and as Bolan peeked out over the edge, he saw three men rushing toward the far end of the warehouse.

Checking both ways as the running men disappeared around a corner, Bolan climbed another shelf higher, then another. One more, and he'd be on top. The men far below seemed confused. He could hear their excited voices, and they appeared to be arguing among themselves what to do. Bolan took the plunge, grabbing the highest shelf and ignoring the stab of pain in his wounded shoulder as he hauled himself up.

"You better get the colonel," someone said, raising his voice to be heard over the hoarsely whispered argument.

"We don't tell him nothing, till we get the son of a bitch did this," Johnson snapped. "He'll have our asses, otherwise."

Bolan listened with half an ear as he considered his position. The aisles were wide. Wide enough for a forklift to maneuver among them. It was a good twelve feet. From a standing start, it was one hell of a broad jump.

But if he could get over two aisles, he could reach the catwalk.

"What the hell," he said.

And jumped.

The impact of his booted feet on the next shelf bounced around the girders above him like a sonic pinball. The metal and its echo made direction impossible to fix, and Bolan took the next leap and dropped to his stomach to wait before the noise had a chance to die down.

The men in the corner raced toward him, two aisles over. Picking the one spot that gave him a direct line among the shelves, he gripped the Beretta and waited for a target.

It wasn't long.

26

The first man flashed by. The second wasn't as fast... or as lucky. The 9 mm slug bored down through his left shoulder, breaking the collarbone and ripping through a lung. He fell like he'd been poleaxed.

Bolan crawled along the shelving toward its far end, getting to his feet and climbing onto a pair of wooden crates. He left the AK-47 behind and launched himself straight up, caught the edge of the catwalk and swung a leg up under the safety rail. The M-16 dangled off his shoulder, its sling sliding down along his upper arm.

Bolan swung his other leg up and lay flat on the catwalk. The rifle still hung over the side, and someone spotted it. A sudden burst of automatic rifle fire whistled past and punched holes in the roof overhead. Rainwater started to pour through the holes, its tepid warmth spattering the back of his neck.

He tugged the rifle up onto the catwalk and sprang into a crouch. As he ran, the catwalk swayed beneath him, and two more weapons joined the attack. The slats of the catwalk pinged as the hail of fire chewed at it. In the high shadows, they couldn't see him, and he reached the far wall and paused to catch his breath.

Moving quietly toward the dockside corner, he searched the tangle below for a glimpse of the searchers. Dropping to one knee, he zeroed in on the most likely spot, trying to gauge the angle of fire. The shooting stopped, and he heard running feet but nothing else.

Then, like silhouettes on a practice range, two men swung into the open, their rifles ready and faces turned expectantly upward. Bolan cut loose with a tight burst, and chopped one face to pieces, but the second man dodged behind cover.

Bolan fired another burst, but the solid hammering of the slugs on the crating told him they weren't getting through. The man hadn't seen him, but it wouldn't be long. Surprise was no longer on his side.

Bolan started inching along the front wall, ducking under a pair of ventilation ducts.

He could hear the slight hum of the fans turned by the wind as it whistled past.

The search party was down to three, but he took no comfort in the fact. He knew enough about probability to know that the odds against him were still nine to one. Someone fired a short nervous burst that ripped into the corner behind him, and Bolan smiled.

They still didn't have a fix on him.

A heavy door banged, and someone ran toward the center of the warehouse. Though it was out of his sight, Bolan knew from the sound that it was just one man.

When the voice boomed up into the shadowed corners, he didn't have to guess who it was.

"Belasko, I know who you are." Harding sounded unruffled, even faintly amused. "You don't think you can get out of here alive, do you?" Harding laughed, and for a moment Bolan was tempted to take the bait.

"You don't have a prayer, Belasko. But I'll make you a deal. You ought to be with me, not against me. You know that. I'm going to give you one minute. You hear that? Sixty seconds. You can sign on, Belasko, and there'll be no hard feelings. If not, your ass is mine, mister. Think about it."

Bolan looked at his watch. It read 11:51.

He didn't know whether Harding was stalling for time or not. But there was only one way to make sure. The middle catwalk was just thirty feet away. He moved toward it, waiting between steps to prevent the shaky platform from banging against the metal wall beside him.

At the intersection he eased out onto the narrow walkway. His weight made it squeak slightly, and he held his breath for a moment.

"Thirty seconds, cowboy."

Another five steps, and he could see two men: Johnson and one of the two remaining members of the search team. Two more steps and he had a clean shot. He steadied the Beretta on the safety rail. Squeezing once, he jerked the muzzle and squeezed again.

When he looked, Johnson was nowhere to be seen.

A fatigue-clad arm, its hand twitching spastically, was barely visible at the edge of a wooden crate. He couldn't tell whether it was Johnson or the other man, and he didn't know whether he'd gotten them both. But that was not the question.

Where was Harding?

That was the question.

"Ten seconds, Belasko. Nine... eight... seven..."

And he broke for the far wall, the catwalk swaying beneath him like the deck of a plunging boat in high seas.

"Kill him!" Harding shouted.

Gunfire, as near as he could tell from only two weapons, ripped at the metal slats, punching holes in the aluminum and scattering sharp slivers in every direction.

He was willing to bet they expected him to take the ladder. Bolan reached the far wall and ran toward the ladder a few steps, then stopped. He cut back, remembering the thick bundle of canvas. He spotted it, nearly twenty-five feet on the ladder's far side. One of the huge doors rumbled open, then an engine sprang to life.

The jeep raced its engine, then jerked into gear.