Don Pendleton: The Iranian Hit

That was how he spotted the woman.

The main entrance to the property was another half-mile up and around a corner from the direction in which the lady was heading. But Bolan had shifted his priorities. He reached behind the Vette's bucket seat and withdrew the Startron spotting scope, which was fixed with a window support clamp. He focused behind him on the woman. He couldn't shake his sixth-sense premonition that something was about to happen....

She was still moving away from him at a fast clip along the base of the wall. She seemed too caught up in her own thoughts to have noticed him slow down and pull over. For brief seconds — the one time she glanced back over her shoulder, still not at him but in the general direction of the high, imposing wall — he caught a stunning vision of high-cheekboned loveliness in the scope's greenish glow.

That beautiful face wore an expression of pure, naked terror.

A four-year-old Datsun entered the Startron's field of vision and braked to a stop at the curb near the woman. Bolan implanted the license number in his memory, then shifted his attention to the youthful-looking guy in his mid-thirties who leaped out from the driver side of the Datsun and dashed directly toward the lady.

Bolan felt himself tensing. He wondered what this confrontation he was witnessing was about. Did it concern his mission?

He relaxed.

There was no danger to the blonde from that quarter. No danger at all. The man and woman met in a passionate embrace and a long, soulful kiss. Then the guy took her hand and led her back toward the car. She accompanied him willingly, taking time for only one more apprehensive look over her shoulder at the wall.

Bolan pulled back from the scope, relieved that this was a false alarm. Now he could be on his way and about his business. About the mission. He only had a few short hours. And those numbers had already started falling, even before he'd been sent in on this job. But the coming confrontation was to be inside that walled estate. Not out here. Not playing voyeur on some girl from the household or staff who had chosen this moment and this place for a romantic assignation. Bolan would rather have all civilians out of range anyway.

He began unscrewing the Startron's window clamp when everything changed. And Bolan suddenly knew that this was the time.

Yes, by God.

He heard a loud squeal of braking rubber back up where the couple were and brought his eye back to the scope.

A '78 Malibu had swerved into the curb, blocking in the Datsun's front end. Four big dudes came barreling out of the Malibu and charged the couple on the sidewalk. The guy with the woman swung away from her to meet the onslaught, shielding her with his body. Then he died. Silenced saffron flashes licked out at him from four different angles, and the way he fell told Bolan that the man was dead when he hit the pavement.

Two of the hefties stooped and lifted the body, toting it back toward their car.

The other two grabbed the woman before she could run, also dragging her toward the Malibu. The blonde fought and twisted wildly in their grip, but it did her no good. She was their prisoner.

Bolan was already swinging into action, tossing the Startron into the compartment behind his bucket seat and gunning the Corvette to life. He stomped on the gas pedal, tugged the steering wheel, and brought the sports car around in a fishtailing U-turn that momentarily included the opposite grassy shoulder.

Only seconds had passed, but even as he straightened the Vette out from the turn, Bolan could see that the four men had moved with stopwatch precision. The man's body and the woman had been loaded into the Malibu. The heap executed its own U-turn and sped off into the distance.

Mack Bolan was a seasoned, savvy warrior. He had baited many traps of his own during his career as a soldier, both in Vietnam and against domestic foes and world terrorism, and he was fully aware that this could be a diversion intended to draw him away from the estate. There was that chance, sure. But that wasn't Bolan's reading. The woman's struggles and the fear in her face had been too real. The way the slain man had fallen — yeah, too real.

One human being was dead.

Another was in obvious, serious peril.

Bolan saw no choice in the matter. The mission would have to wait.

The Malibu negotiated a corner a quarter-mile up the road and, its tires screaming, skidded out of view into the moonlit evening.

Bolan fed the Vette more gas and eased into third. The sports car's gears shifted with a smooth, purring sound like that of some living thing.

With lights off, Bolan tailed the Malibu around the corner onto another rural stretch that a street sign told him was Persimmon Tree Lane. The Malibu's taillights winked at him from a quarter-mile down the road. The driver had slowed down to legal cruising speed. Bolan decreased his own speed accordingly, holding his position at the quarter-mile mark, still running blind.

Apparently the guys in the Malibu didn't know they were being tailed.

Sure.

Unless it was a trap.

The track continued south on Persimmon Tree, out of estate country, through an area of ritzy developments that bordered the road, and finally into the grassy, hilly outer reaches of Maryland suburbia.

Bolan saw plenty of spots along the way that would have been ideal for hot contact with these boys, had this been taking place under ordinary circumstances. But the idea here was to save the lady's lovely hide, not expose it to the vagaries of a firefight. He would have to wait and choose his time and place carefully.

The Malibu swung east onto MacArthur Boulevard, a principal suburban artery that was lined with darkened businesses at this hour. But vehicular traffic was still heavy enough to finally warrant flicking on the Corvette's headlights. Bolan dropped back another few car lengths to compensate and held steady. No need to be on top of them, as long as they were in sight.

He reached behind him and grabbed the Uzi. The weapon was equipped with an enlarged, extra-capacity magazine, fastened at a right angle for speed and quick reload. Bolan knew that when he engaged these men, he would need to move fast, with maximum hard punch. The Uzi, with its relatively moderate rate of fire and its accuracy in open spaces, was perfect for the job. The odds would still be stacked; the lady's safety was still on the line (whoever the hell she was). But there would be no dicking around when Bolan took on these four — whoever the hell they were. None at all.

Both cars were moving smoothly in and out of the sparse traffic now, continuing east on MacArthur. With the Uzi nestled beside his right hip, Bolan next snatched up the small UHF radio transceiver attached to his belt, which kept him in contact with home base.

Stony Man Farm, the 160-acre nerve center of Mack Bolan/John Phoenix's "new war," was a mere ninety miles to the south, in Virginia's Blue Ridge country. As usual, there was a team sitting back there at this very moment, doing overtime on this mission. A beauty named April Rose and a damn good buddy and head fed named Hal Brognola, waiting to assist or supply backup at the sending of an S.O.S.

Bolan did not feel the necessity of bringing in reinforcements, but Stony Man had to be told. They could relay word to those awaiting Bolan in the house back within those walled-in grounds — to the people Bolan had been on his way to protect. At least the estate had its own security force, which had served adequately — up until now. They would have to hold on a bit longer.

Before Bolan could make contact, however, the car up ahead accelerated with a sudden, unexpected burst of speed and skidded into a sharp right, zooming off the highway and out of sight amid a cluster of tall white oak.