Don Pendleton: Save the Children

He jogged across to the Vette, taking only one precious moment to glance beneath its hood and body. He found no suspicious-looking wires or packages planted to detonate when he pulled away.

In the confusion of his lightning strike on this Mafia front, the car he had arrived in had apparently gone unlinked by Parelli's responding security team.

He leaped behind the Corvette's steering wheel and gunned the car to life, popping the clutch and rocketing away from the parking lot in pursuit of the Lincoln.

The Vette swerved slightly, sliding across the spreading pools of slick blood from the remains of the dead doorman and the other hood.

The Lincoln's taillights were still visible a block or so away.

Bolan upshifted, speeding away from the New Age Center, which looked somehow unreal behind him in the night, what with corpses strewing the parking lot and tendrils of smoke still pluming from the broken glass doors of the lobby.

He steered with one hand, holstering the AutoMag. Then he unleathered the Beretta, setting it down beside him as he fingered the spoke of the steering wheel to take a corner on squealing tires. He floored the gas pedal in hot pursuit along the deserted residential streets.

He had committed to memory the license plate number of the Porsche in the parking lot, having glimpsed the number for a few seconds only as the Vette's headlights had swept across the front of the Porsche.

Bolan had intended this hit on the New Age Center to accomplish just one thing: the elimination of David Parelli.

Federal and state Org Crime divisions had a handle on the mob scene in Chi, maybe not enough to slay the dragon but enough to keep chipping away. There were other areas of operation that Bolan felt would benefit more by his presence at this time than Chicago.

Except for Parelli and those vague rumblings of a particularly solid power grab that wild young turk boss was said to be planning, if not carrying out, this very night.

Bolan had come to stop it, to take Parelli out.

Simple. Yeah.

Hit and git, just like Nam.

Except that there was no Parelli.

There was only a by-the-numbers display of what the media had long ago dubbed the Bolan Effect in action.

And there was one fighting woman, identity and pedigree unknown, in the back seat of that Lincoln.

And the way those goons had been treating her, Bolan did not give the woman much hope of leaving the back of that Lincoln alive.

Unless he got to her in time.

The Executioner spent his life fighting for those who could not defend themselves. The men and women who were the victims. Like the lady being kidnapped in the Lincoln.

This simple hit was going wild and there was not a damn thing for Bolan to do but follow the train wherever it led him.

Ahead, the Lincoln managed to gain some distance on a straightaway, the taillights winking as the driver braked to negotiate another intersection and speed out of sight.

The accelerating whine of the Corvette's engine enveloped Bolan's senses. He could feel the sweat breaking out across his forehead.

He heard sirens, closer, louder than before, piercing the engine's din; a look in his rearview mirror showed him two police cruisers skidding onto this street about two blocks behind him, wasting no time in giving chase.

Bolan navigated the Vette into another squealing turn moments behind the Lincoln, hoping like hell he could coax more speed out of the Corvette before that crew wagon got away and those pursuing cops closed all the way in.

The earsplitting howl of tortured tires on pavement filled his head.

He steered the Vette into the turn without slowing, the Lincoln leading the chase down a secondary commercial street now.

Most of the small businesses and gas stations along this stretch were closed at this hour except for the occasional convenience store.

The driver of the Lincoln fed that vehicle all the power at his command, as did Bolan...

as did the police cruisers zeroing in from behind, their rooftop flashers spiraling surreal blue-and-red patterns across the night, their sirens wide open.

Bolan heard the squeal of their tires as the cop cars, abreast of each other, shuddered into the rough turn through the intersection and continued on along this street, chasing the Vette and the Lincoln like hounds after hares. Bolan knew the men in both those patrol cars would be radioing in for backup, which would arrive from all directions at any moment.

That was when things would get real hairy. The cops would be satisfied with what they could get. In this case, maybe it would be the Vette and a Most Wanted fugitive named Mack Bolan, even if the Lincoln with the fighting lady disappeared into the night. Then Bolan would be in a situation he always tried his best to avoid: a confrontation with police, whom Bolan regarded as soldiers of the same side.

The officers in those two cars behind, gaining on the Vette with every block this four-car-chase gobbled up, were simply doing their duty. Bolan had long ago sworn to himself that he would never fire on, or risk the life of, an honest cop doing his job.

He did not consider the police his enemy. Anything but. One of the supreme ironies in Bolan's life was that he was hunted by the guardians of the very civilians he fought to protect.

The tank was about a block ahead of the Vette now, making the most of this straightaway.

The police cruisers were gaining. Bolan considered his options when another look in the rearview told him the odds were being cut down for him.

A pickup truck waiting to pull out of a 7-11 parking lot had held its place first as the Lincoln jetted past, then as the Vette flew by. Now the driver stupidly decided to try and get across the street before the cop cruisers sped by.

The pickup's driver misjudged the speed of the pursuing squad cars.

One of the cruisers sailed by unscathed, but the front fender of the second clipped the bumper of the pickup. It was a grazing blow that did no great damage to either vehicle, Bolan could see, but both the truck and the cruiser slewed into wild spins. The police vehicle slammed sideways into a light post that snapped in two and fell across the cruiser's hood. A plume of steam shot high into cold night air.

Bolan saw the drivers of both vehicles emerging unhurt to survey the damage as the chase continued away from them. The delay caused the other cop car to slack off its speed long enough for the men inside to ascertain in their own rearview that their side had suffered no casualties.

Bolan saw this squad car pour on the power again, climbing back up to high speed, but those few seconds had given the man behind the Vette's steering wheel enough time to widen the distance between himself and his pursuers.

The Vette's superior power plant closed the distance between Bolan and the Lincoln, which at that moment raced into the curve leading north on Lakeshore Drive, heading away from Chicago's downtown business Loop. This principal artery was usually more traveled than the secondary streets but still not that busy tonight.

Howling exhausts again pierced Bolan's eardrums as he fought to keep the Vette from drifting off the road and onto the stretch of sandy beach running along Lake Michigan.

Bolan goosed the Vette up past one hundred miles per hour, finally shortening the spread between him and the Lincoln to three car lengths. He continued steering with his left hand while with his right he reached across to grab the Beretta 93-R, flicking it onto 3-shot mode.

He knew he could not fire into the Lincoln but there was a chance the luxury vehicle's bulletproofing did not extend to its tires.

At these speeds, Bolan understood he was risking the life of the woman held hostage in the crew wagon...

if they hadn't killed her already, he reminded himself grimly.