“Get clear,” Bolan said, throwing open his door and rolling from the seat. He landed in a semicrouch, the Beretta in his hand as he moved to the rear where Kowalski was dragging herself over the window frame. Bolan caught a handful of her uniform shirt, dragging her free. She hit the ground and rolled to the opposite side of the SUV.

  The chase car had jerked to a stop, the driver throwing open his door and exiting in one fluid move. Bolan caught a brief glimpse before the guy was blocked by the rear of the stalled SUV—he was carrying a squat SMG.

  Time halted for long seconds.

  They were all assessing their next move.

  Bolan dropped to a crouch. The chase car driver was at the rear of the SUV. The soldier saw his legs the instant before the guy moved again, this time down the opposite side of the vehicle. He was heading toward the front of the truck.

  Damn, Bolan thought. Where the hell was Kowalski?

  He saw her as she unwound from her low crouch at the front of the car. Even as Bolan brought her into his field of vision, he saw the man stalking her raise his weapon.

  Kowalski had her back to the man, looking in the opposite direction, and Bolan knew he had time for only a single move. He took it, powering out from the vehicle and taking three long strides. His right arm looped around her body as he slammed into her. The deputy gasped as she was propelled forward by the impact. With Bolan’s bulk protecting her, she was lifted off the ground and into space. As she fell, the sandy earth absorbing the impact, Kowalski heard the vicious rattle of autofire somewhere behind. Then she was rolling down a shallow slope, drawing breath and spitting out the gritty sand that had passed her lips.

  Bolan had rolled clear, the Beretta rising. The shooter was not going to turn and just walk away—he was going to try again.

  The Executioner turned onto his back, gun arm extended, and he was already easing back on the trigger when the shooter’s outline came into view. The searching muzzle of the SMG showed, too, lining up for a second try. Bolan triggered the Beretta, the triburst finding its target, punching in hard and fast. An instant later two more shots sounded, the slugs slamming into the shooter inches to the side of Bolan’s three-round burst. The shooter uttered a stunned grunt as he was flung back by the multiple hits. He landed flat on his back, his body making a final spasm before he became still. Bolan sat up and looked around. Kowalski walked to join him, her service pistol in her hand and an angry scowl on her face.

  “What the hell was that all about?” She stared down at the dead man, then back to Bolan. “I guess I should say thanks. He came out of nowhere. I was sloppy.”

  Bolan put away the Beretta. “Good hit,” he said. “You handle that pistol well.”

  “I had a good teacher—my dad. I figure it must be in the genes, too.”

  “You recognize this guy?”

  Kowalski took a good look at the man. “He’s kind of familiar,” she said. “I think I’ve seen him around town.”

  Bolan gave a brief nod as he knelt beside the dead man, going through his pockets and transferring anything he found to his own. In addition to the SMG there was a holstered Glock in a shoulder rig beneath the guy’s jacket. He held it up for the deputy.

  “No amateur,” she commented.

  “His friends will come looking for him when he doesn’t call in.” Bolan completed his search and stood up. “It’s time we moved,” he said.

  “I was right when I said I thought I knew him. Jed Tench. I’ve seen him going in and out of the Cameron Oil office in town, hanging around with Nathan Cameron.”

  “His hanging days are over,” Bolan said.

  The Executioner turned as something attracted his attention. He stepped to the rear of the SUV and crouched.

  “Gasoline,” Bolan said. He stood up. “They blew our tank full of holes. Gas is draining away fast.”

  Kowalski crossed to the chase car. She stood looking at the hood where her shotgun holes penetrated the metal. When Bolan joined her she gave him a tight smile.

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Bolan took a look inside the car. He found the hood release and pulled it so Kowalski could check the damage. His glance took in the shooter Kowalski had caught with the SPAS. He was slumped in the passenger seat, head back. His right arm hung from a few ragged strands of flesh and shredded muscle. Blood soaked his clothing down to his waist where he had bled out. Bolan leaned over and checked for a pulse. There wasn’t one.

  He heard Kowalski mutter something profane as she inspected the damage. She came around to face him, shaking her head.

  “This car is not going home today,” she said. “And the only way we are is by walking.”

  WHEN NATHAN ENTERED the office, he knew he would need to choose his words carefully. Arriving back at the house, one of his men had warned him about his brother’s mood. The news about the hit on the weapons convoy dominated everyone’s thoughts.

  One look at the physical damage only served to caution Nathan even more. Cameron’s desktop had been swept clear, sending computer, telephone and everything else across the floor. He had scattered books from the shelves. Nathan quietly closed the door, turning his attention to where his brother stood at the window.

  Cameron had an open bottle of whiskey in his left hand. He was taking steady gulps of the liquor. A SIG-Sauer pistol hung from his right hand.

  “If Torrance walked through that door this minute, I’d empty this fucking magazine into his skull,” Cameron said in a precise, low tone. Nathan realized his brother had already drunk too much—he only spoke like that when he was intoxicated. “Torrance and Magruder. Two armed men. They had the son of a bitch and he still took them down. Then he drove off with Kowalski…” His words trailed off into a heavy silence.

  “Lou, I have the boys out looking for Cooper and the girl. I even sent the chopper out. It looks like they headed out into the desert. We’ll get them.”

  Cameron stared across the room at his brother. “That is what I keep getting told, but it’s not happening, Nate. Cooper is leaving a trail of dead bodies behind and we are not getting him. That mother is laughing at me. Lou fucking Cameron, the Southwest’s top arms dealer, who doesn’t even have any guns to sell because this guy has just blown my last shipment all over the fucking desert. Jesus, Nate, he’s everywhere I turn. Blowing up my organization. Killing my men. And now that goddamn Russian Poliokof is trying to muscle in and take it all away.” Cameron gave a choked laugh. “Maybe I should give it all up. Call him and say, hey, Comrade Poliokof, come and get it. I quit. Here it is. My books, my suppliers. Here are the keys to my house and my cars. If I had a fucking cat I’d give you that, too.”

  Nathan crossed to stand by his brother’s side. “No,” he said, “we don’t even think about that. We don’t quit. No way. Yes, this is a crap time for us, Lou, but we’ll come through. You built this organization from nothing. You deal all across the U.S. Christ, Lou, all that work, the planning, fighting off the opposition—you want to give it away? Hand it over to those reject Commie bastards? It won’t happen. I won’t let you quit.”

  Nathan reached and took the pistol from his brother’s unresisting hand. He slid it across the desk after he had ejected the magazine and cleared the cartridge from the breech. Then he gently pried the bottle from Cameron’s other hand.

  “Lou, you’ve downed half a bottle. You know how much this stuff costs?”

  Cameron made eye contact with his younger brother, a frown creasing his forehead. And then a thin smile cracked his set mouth. He clapped Nathan on the shoulder.

  “Very funny, kid,” he said.

  “Lou, go lie down for a while. Let me take over until you sleep off this very expensive booze. Agreed?”

  Cameron nodded and allowed his brother to move him out of the office and through the house to his bedroom. Nathan made sure he was settled, then closed the door and made his way to his own office across the wide hall. He slumped behind his desk, staring into empty space as he went over the recent events.

  Two major problems.

  The first issue was the activities of Cooper. His campaign against the Cameron organization had, no doubt, caused a severe amount of damage to its reputation. In their business, it was expected that self-protection was a solid and dependable constant. And that had been so until the appearance of Cooper.

  Nathan could have ranted and allowed his inner feelings to get the better of him, but yelling and screaming would not alter the facts. Cooper was a formidable adversary. Professional. Ruthless. He favored direct action and did not resort to idle threats. He located his targets and homed in like a heat seeker. He took out property and goods and men with equal intent. His cold efficiency when it came to taking life was one of the most disturbing elements.

  It unsettled Nathan. If Cooper came looking for himself and Lou, there would be no negotiating. No pleading for leniency. They were going to need to be on full alert, ready for the man if he came near. The answer was to stop the man before he did come close, deal with him while he was out in the open, being hunted by the teams already on the move.

  Nathan understood it wasn’t going to be easy. Cooper understood tactics. If his back was to the wall, he would fight hard and any confrontation would be bloody. If that was how it would be, then the sooner the better. They would not be able to start rebuilding the organization until the Cooper had been dealt with.

  Nor could they successfully resume the business until Zader Poliokof had been taken care of. Nathan had been doing some discreet checking on the Russian Mob boss. He acknowledged the man’s fearsome reputation. Poliokof had risen through the ranks on his own forceful personality, performing so well that his masters back in Russia had offered him a high rank and allowed him to build his own Family. Poliokof had achieved startling success and in the process had engineered the demise of some of his old masters, beating them at their own game.

  In a few short years, since moving to America, Poliokof had gathered a fiercely loyal group. They were utterly faithful, in every respect, to Poliokof. No one would even think of going against him because if they did and were caught, their punishment would be too terrible to even contemplate. The savage reprisals against anyone who stood against Poliokof were legend.

  His empire prospered, expanded, and it was widely understood that the man wanted more. If he set his sights on something, he invariably got it. One way or another. He would use anything and anyone to advance his interests. Nathan’s contacts had told him the word coming from the Russian criminal fraternity was that he had set his sights on the Cameron organization. It had been there for a while, and the destructive maneuvers of Cooper had simply acted as a lit match to the fuse. Poliokof had seized the opportunity to strike while Cameron’s problems with Cooper had weakened his hold on his territory. He would keep pushing, taking off sections of the organization and strengthening his intention to snare it all.

  Nathan’s thoughts were interrupted by the phone. He picked up and recognized the voice as one of the Chicago crew.

  “Nate? There’s no easy way to say this. Tony Lorenzo was hit a few hours ago. Wire garrote around his neck the same way Costanza was done. Somebody must have been waiting for him when he got to his apartment building. They took him after he got out of his car. Shot both his bodyguards. Lou is going to be pissed. Tony was one of his favorites.”

  “Keep this to yourself, Artie. I’ll tell Lou at the right time. He has enough to deal with at the moment. Lay the word down. I don’t want this coming through from anyone. Understand?”

  “Okay, Nate.” There was a pause. “With Tony gone we don’t have…”

  “Yeah, I get it. You head things up for the time being, Artie. Poliokof and his crew are a priority. Just let the boys know to watch each other’s backs.”

  “We’re on edge here, Nate,” Artie said. “Those Russians are coming for us piece-by-piece. We already lost guys here in Chicago and Newark. They hit us hard. Sons of bitches seem to know all our locations.”

  “Make sure the boys are well-paid for holding out. Help’s on the way from Kansas. If these Russians want a fight, they’ll get one. Lou isn’t going to let this happen, Artie. Stay hard.”

  Nathan put the phone down. He leaned back in his seat, swinging it back and forth, staring up at the ceiling. The old proverb said something about it always being darkest before the dawn. He tried to imagine how much darker it could get.

  He picked up the phone again. Damn thing seemed to be ringing nonstop.

  “Yeah? Jesus. Well, tell them that’s what they get paid for. To find that bastard and bring him back. Well, if they’re on foot that should make it easier. Just do it.”

  Nathan slammed down the phone. Boneheads. Trouble was they’d had it so easy for so long, now a little pressure was causing them all to whine. What the hell was wrong with them? One guy and one girl, on foot and probably low on ammunition. That’s what they were up against—not exactly the Mongol hordes. What did the bastards want? He caught a glimpse of the bottle of whiskey he’d taken from his brother. Nathan got a glass and poured a generous slug. He tasted it, felt it slide down easily.

  “If that damn phone rings again before I finish this glass, I’ll toss it through the fuckin’ window,” he said out loud.

  The phone did not ring.

  Nathan had another drink.

  21

  They walked for an hour under the hot sun, the wind blowing dust around them in swirls. The sweat produced from their bodies dried on their skin. The single bottle of water from Bolan’s SUV had been a third full. They used it to moisten their lips and the insides of their mouths.

  “Hell of a hospitable place you have here, Erin.”

  “You should come around when it’s really hot.” She moved the M-4 to her other shoulder to lessen the chafing from the strap.

  Bolan carried his Uzi in addition to the pair of handguns. They had buried his other weapons and the money satchel some distance from the abandoned SUV. There had been no way they could have dragged the heavy bag along. Kowalski had told Bolan she would be able to locate the ordnance at a later time.

  “You still sure you can find that bag again?” Bolan asked her.

  She stared at him, then nodded. “Well, I’m pretty sure. They’re over that way. Or was it over there? Mmm. Now I’m not so sure ’cause it all looks the same to me.”

  He realized she was using a slow, dumbed-down accent, deliberately teasing him.

  “Okay, Deputy Kowalski,” Bolan said, smiling. “I get it. Sorry I asked.”

  She grinned at him, a playful sparkle in her eyes. “He smiles,” she said. “Even in adversity he smiles.”

  She saw the smile fade. Bolan was looking around, his eyes searching the trackless terrain. Kowalski saw him unconsciously touch the Uzi, fingers gripping the weapon.

  “You hear something.”

  He didn’t speak, simply pointed to the west. The deputy spotted the telltale drift of dust. The way it had formed meant only one thing. It was coming from a fast-moving vehicle.

  Bolan scanned the area. Behind them a spread of jumbled rocks and boulders formed a wide outcropping. It would at least provide cover.

  “Let’s go,” he said, touching her shoulder to turn her in the direction of the boulders.

  As they broke into a run, the tailing vehicle emerged from the dust cloud. Yet another large, roaring SUV.

  The sandy ground turned into an uneven stretch of ridged rock. The only thing Bolan could see to their advantage was that the hard surface was easier to run across than drive over.

  The SUV was bearing down on them with increasing speed. It cleared the sand and hit the rock layer, wheels bouncing against the uneven surface.

  “Go,” Bolan yelled.

  He caught sight of two passengers in addition to the driver. One in the rear, trying to track in with an SMG.

  The SUV tailed them across the uneven strip, bouncing and rocking as the driver kept his foot down hard on the gas.

  Bolan and Kowalski had no choice. They ran, their destination straight ahead, hoping they could get to it before the SUV closed in for the kill. At least there would be cover in the outcropping and the pursuing SUV wouldn’t be able to negotiate through it.

  Behind them the engine rose to a howl as the SUV hit a deep channel and the wheels actually left the ground. When it landed, the engine faltered as the vehicle struggled to regain purchase.

  Seizing the opportunity, Bolan stopped, spun, the Desert Eagle rising in his hand. He tracked in the big handgun and triggered a pair of shots. The boom of the Magnum pistol was loud even in the open space. The powerful .44 slugs went in through the open rear side window, one plowing into the gunner on the seat. The guy uttered a stunned yell as the bullet slammed into his shoulder, ripping its way through muscle and bone. Its trajectory was deflected and it angled deeper into his upper torso, cut through his body and clipped his spine before it blew out and sprayed blood across the interior of the truck. The stricken gunner lost all feeling in his body and flopped helplessly across the seat, then onto the floor.

  Two shots were all Bolan got off before the SUV achieved traction again and lurched forward, the driver spinning the wheel as he angled in Bolan’s direction.

  “Cooper, come on,” Kowalski yelled.

  Bolan powered away from the approaching vehicle, forcing his aching, weary body to move. He heard the solid beat of the engine coming closer. He ran for his life, knowing that if the SUV got close enough for the front gunner to fire, he would be fully exposed.

  He saw a humped ridge in the ground ahead of him and turned to meet it. He didn’t break his stride as he jumped the ridge, almost stumbling when he landed on the other side. The screaming howl of the SUV seemed even closer. Bolan pounded forward.

  The vehicle hit the ridge, the impact lifting the front end. Then the rear wheels slammed against the ridge and the 4x4 was airborne for a few seconds. As it came down to earth the shock absorbers reacted and the big engine bounced, its own weight and forward motion turning it into an unstable, bulky mass. The driver had lost his grip on the wheel during that moment. He grabbed it back and spun the wheel in a flash of panic. The rocking SUV, already off balance, tried to make a turn against the racked wheel, then flipped over on its side, forward momentum sliding it along the rocky surface.

 

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