Don Pendleton - Doomsday Disciples

Bolan swept the porch with a stream of tumblers, chopping through the ranks, toppling a handful of men and putting the rest to flight. He followed up the lead with a blazing high-explosive round; the front steps erupted into flying chunks of stone and tumbling bodies.

He neared the littered steps, homing in on the broad front doors. Twenty paces out, he fed the M-203 a can of high explosives, dropping to a crouch as he sighted on the target, squeezing off.

The doors blew open with a smoky thunderclap, one flying off its hinges, clattering across the marble floor inside. Bolan quickly loaded a canister of tear gas and let it fly through the yawning doors. In an instant, thick, choking clouds rolled out to meet him.

Shouting, cursing came from inside as gunners searched for a target and battled for their next breath. Bolan was about to join them when bullets started eating the steps around him, spraying shards of lead and shattered stone.

The warrior spun to face his enemies, covering his flank. Half a dozen "elders" approached on the run, firing as they ran, searching for the range and finding it. Bolan tracked the nearest "elder" with his autorifle, squeezing off a short burst, watching as the target twisted and toppled in an awkward sprawl.

The other guns sought cover, dodging to escape the line of fire. Bolan took advantage of the momentary disarray, probing with controlled bursts of fire from his M-16. One by one, the hostile guns fell silent and failed to answer the challenge from Bolan's stuttering weapon.

An eerie, ringing silence fell across the battlefield. Bolan scanned the lawn, picking out the huddled, lifeless figures scattered there. Behind him, smoke mingled with the tear-gas fumes as the manor house began to burn. Inside, the shouting now took on a note of panic.

Bolan straightened and turned toward the house when the sound of a screaming engine reached his ears. A black limousine shot around the side of the house, tires crying into the curve. There was no time to intercept, but he did catch a glimpse of Minh, leaning back against the rear seat.

The bastard was doing it. He was escaping. There was still a chance...

Bolan raced down the steps and in a moment reached a waiting Lincoln parked in front. The "elders" were regrouping, closing in as he reached the car, but there was no time to face them or answer the oncoming fire. He had to follow Minh or lose it all. He had come too far and spilled too much blood to let it go without a chase.

He wrenched the driver's door open and slid behind the wheel, offering a silent prayer to the Universe as he reached for the ignition switch.

The keys were gone. Of course.

It was the ultimate in long shots, counting on luck to see him through.

He gambled, sure, wagering heavily against the odds, and he crapped out.

A bullet whispered past his ear, taking out a jagged section of the windshield as it exited. Other rounds were coming in, smashing safety glass and punching through the bodywork, the hostile fire increasing intensity as gunners found their target.

Bolan quit the Lincoln, moving in a crouch and firing at the muzzle flashes as he backed around the car. The autorifle emptied out, and he ditched the empty magazine, reloading in a single fluid motion and never breaking stride in his retreat toward the mansion. He returned the hostile fire selectively, refusing to spend his ammunition in an aimless spray.

He reached the corner of the house and ducked around it, briefly out of sight from his pursuers. Bullets raked the wall where he had stood a heartbeat earlier, spraying chips of stone.

Bolan paused and caught his breath. He recognized the danger he was in — cut off, surrounded by the enemy while his enemy slipped away. He knew the bitter taste of failure and realized he could very easily die here, his mission unfulfilled.

Above the din of battle, he heard another sound — that of an engine, drawing closer. Bolan turned to find a crew wagon bearing down on him, gaining speed, two dim faces gaping through the windshield.

The troops saw their leader cut and run, deserting them. They were now bailing out as best they could, leaving any stragglers to their fate.

Bolan snapped his rifle up, making target acquisition even as he squeezed the trigger, stroking out a three-round burst. The Caddy's windshield misted over with a spiderweb design. The driver's head snapped back, driven by the force of impact, his face dissolving in a crimson mask.

A dead foot missed the accelerator pedal and found the brake in a spastic reflex action. The Cadillac pulled hard right, rocking to a halt. Bolan heard the engine choke. Splutter. Die.

Beside the driver, his companion slid over, jerking at the door handle and finally opening it. With a desperate shove, he dumped the lifeless body in the drive and took its place, pumping the accelerator and twisting the ignition key. The engine groaned, nearly turning over, then died again.

Bolan fired another burst, and the milky glass window imploded, blinding his assailant. Hot steel-jackets took the "elder's" head off in a spray of mangled flesh and bone fragments.

In his dying spasm, the gunner's hands froze on the steering wheel. Bolan pried him loose, dragged the headless body out and left it draped across the other corpse. He got behind the wheel, sliding on the blood-slick upholstery.

The flooded engine took its time, resisting ignition. Bolan kept grinding at it as his enemies appeared around the corner of the house, edging into range. They spotted him, swinging automatic weapons onto target as he fought to get the motor running.

Bolan drew the silver AutoMag and thrust it through the open windshield, allowing a heartbeat for target acquisition before squeezing the trigger. He dropped the point man in his tracks. Another round drove the others back out of sight as they scrambled for a safe haven.

The engine finally caught, coughing to life. Bolan cranked the steering wheel around, putting the Caddy back on course, gathering speed along the curving drive. A spattering of lead raked his flank as he passed the crouching gunners. Then he was running free, and in hot pursuit of Minh.

Hoping, yeah, that the game had not already been lost.

Bolan gunned the Cadillac along the drive, racing flat out through the drifting fog and battle smoke. The checkpoint was straight ahead. He braced himself for another confrontation with the enemy; he could not afford to let them stop him now.

The "elders" manning the gate were recovering from Minh's hasty, unexpected exit. Moving sluggishly, they were torn between their duty to defend the place and a growing urge to simply get the hell out. Most stood in the open, listening to distant gunfire and debating the point.

Bolan decided to help them choose.

Flooring the accelerator, he leaned on the Caddy's horn and held it down going into the approach. The noise was enough for most of them, and they scattered from his path like exploding shrapnel. Two of the gunners stood their ground, firing for effect and missing by a yard. Their nerves snapped at the final instant as they leaped away, peeling off in opposite directions.

The driver of the plug car was slow reacting. He didn't make his move until the Executioner was almost past him. The impact was jarring all the same, and Bolan grappled with the steering wheel, clenching his teeth against the sound of metal grinding, tearing. Bumpers locked and held. He felt the rear tires spinning, smoking, before something gave with a loud metallic twang.

Running free, Bolan automatically turned north once past the gate. He was betting that Minh would not run south toward Tiburon and the dead-end tip of the peninsula. It was a natural trap, and he sized up Minh as a canny warrior who was cool under fire and who would not deliberately paint himself into a corner.