Don Pendleton - Doomsday Disciples

Traveling north, the Vietnamese had several options. He could double back toward San Francisco, veer westward to the sea, or continue north across Marin County.

Options, yeah, and Bolan's only hope was to overtake the limousine before it reached a major highway interchange. If the road split, if he missed Minh, there would be precious little chance of finding him.

The Executioner could not afford to lose his quarry now — or to sacrifice the senator. Minh was the viper's head, and as long as he survived, the evil of the Universal Devotees would live. Anywhere he roosted, the seeds of terror and sedition would be planted and once again cultivated.

Bolan was prepared to spend his life, if necessary, to make sure Minh did not get a second chance.

If it took a warrior's life to slay the dragon, he was ready. Hell, he had been ready since his first engagement with the wars, a lifetime ago.

Bolan pushed the captured Caddy to the limit, running without lights and trusting vision to the Nitefinder goggles. Grim as death, he offered a silent plea for something, a glimpse of taillights. Anything...

Suddenly he saw them, luminescent pinpoints glowing in the mist. Allowing for the fog's distortion, Bolan gauged the intervening space at thirty yards, give or take.

He held the crew wagon's accelerator pedal to the floor, gradually closing on the limousine. When he was fifty feet behind the enemy, he kicked the Caddy's headlights onto high beam, brightly announcing his presence to the pilot of the fleeting gunship.

Startled faces turned, staring at him through the broad rear window, eyes shut tight against the headlamp glare. The driver squeezed another burst of speed from the limo's straining power plant, increasing his lead by a fraction. At the same time, he began to weave back and forth across both lanes, refusing to let Bolan pull alongside.

Bolan kept his eyes on the faces in the window, reading their mixture of fright and fury. He was expecting it when the stubby muzzle of a shotgun nosed into view above the window frame, and his reaction was planned.

He goosed the accelerator, his car leaped forward, closing the narrow gap. Bumpers met with jarring impact. The tank lurched, swerving with the force of the collision. Frightened faces disappeared momentarily as the passengers were jostled.

The enemy panicked, looking for a lead, something to run with. Bolan was determined not to let him have it.

Another lunge. Bolan fought the recoil of the crash, clinging to the wheel. Ahead, the limousine ran minus taillights, the sloping trunk bearing battle scars.

Inside the gunship, one of the "elders" recovered his composure. Bolan caught his sudden movement and saw him thrusting the riot gun against the glass before he fired.

The shot was startling, explosive. Half the window shivered, disappearing with the suddenness of smoke dispersing. Thick safety glass deflected the initial blast, but the gunner had his field of fire now. Bolan watched him work the slide action, chambering another round.

It was now or never, yeah, before the tail gunner found his range. There wouldn't be a second chance.

Bolan punched it, running close behind the limo's tail. The shotgunner saw it coming and recognized the move, correcting onto target acquisition in the time it took to blink an eye. He was grinning, right, at the damned fool who was making it so easy.

Bolan cut the wheel hard left to swerve around the limo's driver side. Suckered, the tail gunner took his shot and blew it, ventilating one of the crew wagon's doors. Paneling and seat cushions took the punishment, swallowing the chunks of deadly buckshot.

Running on the soft shoulder, Bolan felt his tires spewing gravel, losing traction for an instant before they caught hold. He was gaining ground when the wheelman saw his plan and moved to cut him off, but it was too late. With another twist of the wheel, he was back on the pavement, running close beside Minh's limousine.

A sidelong glance revealed a gunner craning hard across the tank's back seat, his elbow in Minh's face, as he angled for a clear shot. Bolan concentrated on the driver, his big silver AutoMag sliding up and out, locking onto target as he held the Caddy on a steady track, pacing the limousine.

Bolan squeezed the trigger, and the .44 exploded in his fist. The wheelman turned to face him, and his eyes widened, glazing over as he recognized the face of death. He screamed, but no sound reached Bolan's ears.

The heavy Magnum slug punched through window glass without losing any significant velocity, 240 grains of death impacting on the driver's nose. The screaming face disintegrated, vaporized. The driver simply was no longer there.

Without a guiding hand, the limousine swerved, drifting to the right. Bolan pushed it with a broadside jolt from the Cadillac. He watched as the tank jumped the shoulder, soaring momentarily, and plunged nose down into a ditch beside the highway.

Bolan slid the crew wagon to a halt a hundred feet down the road, going instant EVA with the M-16/M-203 combination primed and ready. Circling off the pavement, following the roadside gully, he cautiously approached the crippled limo, feeling his way through the fog.

The tank clearly wasn't going anywhere, but its occupants were intact, climbing stiffly out on either side. Through the Nitefinders, Bolan counted five warm bodies, at least three armed. Those would be the "elders," Minh's last line of personal defense.

Bolan recognized the other two in a heartbeat before they ducked out of sight behind the car. There was no mistaking Minh, and his captive had to be the senator.

Satisfied he had found his quarry, Bolan concentrated on the grim mechanics of survival in the hellgrounds. He would have to dispose of Minh's defenses before he could complete the strike. Although dazed and shaken, their numbers drastically reduced, the hardmen were still professionals. Still dangerous.

Two of the gunners climbed an embankment above the limousine, slipping, cursing and sliding back on the sandy soil. Finally, digging in their heels and leaning forward, they gained the high ground, moving with awkward, exaggerated strides. The third man hung back beside the car, protecting the rear and helping guard the senator.

None sighted Bolan, but the two point men would soon be close enough. The Executioner decided he didn't want to share their company.

He had loaded the grenade launcher with a round of buckshot before leaving the Cadillac. He swung the lethal weapon up and onto target, following the slope, finger tensing on the trigger of the M-203. He made the range twenty yards, with an uphill angle.

The launcher bucked and roared; a charge of shot punched through the mist, sweeping the hillside with leaden rain. One gunner took the brunt of it, dying on his feet, riddled with a dozen pellets. The force of impact swept him off balance and knocked him sprawling, the rifle he carried slipped from his lifeless fingers. The limp body slithered downslope in a cascade of sand and pebbles.

His companion dropped, wounded in the shoulder, hip and thigh. One-handed, he managed to return fire with an Uzi submachine gun, holding the trigger down and giving the little gun its head. He was dazed, and he hadn't seen Bolan's muzzle flash; his probing rounds were harmlessly slicing air a few yards to the soldier's left.

Bolan raised his autorifle, sighting quickly through the fog. He stroked the trigger, rattled off a three-round burst. The wounded gunner went slack, the Uzi fell silent.

Bolan tracked toward the lone surviving "elder." This one saw his muzzle flash. The guy was pumping lead at him from a stubby shotgun, pellets falling short, and the Executioner took his time tracking onto target.

He set the selector switch for semiautomatic, and put a single bullet in the ten-ring. At sixty feet, the shot was true, hurling his human target backward, draping him across the limo's dusty hood.