Don Pendleton - Day of Mourning

Her shoulder-length raven hair was mussed, and she wore a bruise on her right temple that had turned purple. But Susan was just as foxy as Bolan remembered from that long-ago Cleveland action.

Susan's eyes darted rebelliously between the two men in front of her. Then she tried to glance over her shoulder at the guy behind, but she was too damn tough inside to show these creeps any fear.

One of the men reached over and stroked her face, then his hand drifted lower as he squeezed her breast roughly. He laughed when she didn't cry out.

Bolan saw red.

The man sneered, "A tough baby. I like 'em tough."

"Miller will skin you bastards alive when he gets back and sees what you've done," she snarled in his face.

"Maybe Miller ain't coming back," grunted the other man who faced Susan. He reached over as he spoke and idly flicked her skirt up around her waist, revealing smooth, panty-hosed legs that became beauty-queen thighs and sheer panties. "And if Miller comes back, maybe we'll be gone."

The hood behind her guffawed and started unbuckling his trousers.

"After we have some fun with you, bitch."

"I give you nothing," hissed Susan Landry.

Planting her feet firmly, she leaned forward in the chair, lifting its two back legs off the floor. Then she plunged backward. The chair landed with bone snapping impact upon the feet of the jerk who'd been so anxious to take his pants off.

"Oh, shit," he howled as he stumbled back, hopping about the room on one foot.

The other two started to laugh at their friend's misfortune.

Bolan aimed through the wispy bedroom curtains. The laughter was suddenly cut off as the Beretta whispered once. A 9mm slug drilled through the laughing mouth of one would-be rapist, creating a cavity that no dentist could ever fill. The man had not even begun to fall when the 93-R spit fire again, and the two hardmen toppled to the floor.

Susan Landry's eyes opened wide at the tall, icy-eyed man who suddenly appeared in the room.

The third hood forgot about his bruised toes and his unbuckled pants. He drew his .357 Magnum and had time to trigger off a shot at the darting figure who broke from the open window. The explosion reverberated like a nuclear blast in the close confines of the bedroom. The projectile whistled wide past Bolan's right ear.

The Executioner triggered another round from the Beretta, and the third punk joined his deceased friends in the corner.

"Holy Mother!" exclaimed Susan Landry. From her awkward position tied to the chair, she could not escape the drifting stench of burned cordite that stung her nostrils. She looked around at the three dead men who an instant ago had been about to harm her.

The big man chuckled as he holstered the 93-R and bent to yank loose the knots of the clothesline that bound her. "The name is John Phoenix, Ms Landry."

She stood up when she was untied and briefly rubbed wrists chafed raw from trying to break free. She did not take her eyes off this stranger, studying him intently.

"How do you know who I am?"

"Call me a regular reader of your newspaper columns," Bolan replied truthfully. He snapped a fresh clip into the Beretta and held the pistol out to her. "Can you handle one of these?"

She nodded and took the pistol in a practiced grip.

"Thank you, John Phoenix. I have a car downstairs. I drove into my own trap, you see. We can drive out of here."

She did not recognize Phoenix as Mack Bolan. There was no reason for her to. Plastic surgery had altered Bolan's appearance.

They hustled from the bedroom death chamber like a well-rehearsed team, Susan looking no worse for wear from her ordeal.

They hit an upstairs corridor and approached a wide staircase that led to a large foyer downstairs.

Susan and her rescuer were at the top of the stairs when they heard the clatter of footfalls somewhere below.

They saw two guys coming up at them along either side of the stairway. The two hardmen at the bottom grabbed for hardware then had time to do nothing but die.

Susan snapped off a coughing round from the Beretta that pitched one hood backward. If the slug did not kill him, then there was no mistaking the sickening crack as his skull hit the marble floor.

The Executioner triggered Big Thunder, sending hood number two into oblivion. A headless body flew backward as if tugged by an invisible string. Blood splattered the wall as high as the ceiling, then the body crumpled into a heap near the closed front door.

They left the house through a corridor that led to a side exit.

Bolan allowed Susan to lead the way.

They emerged into the night and into a parking lot on the blind side of the house from the floodlit fountain out front.

A half-dozen vehicles occupied the area, including a Datsun station wagon.

Susan led him to it.

"Any idea how many men we're up against?" Bolan asked.

Susan yanked open the door on the driver's side and slid behind the wheel. She reached for keys that were in the ignition as Bolan jumped in alongside her.

"Miller took the main force with him."

The car roared to life.

"Miller took them where?"

They sped along the driveway, hugging the tight curves. They raced past the fountain lights that illuminated the front courtyard.

"I don't know where they went," Landry told him. She wheeled into the straightaway toward the iron gates. "But I overheard him giving orders. There are two men at the gate. Hang on."

"You do the same," grunted Bolan. "Good luck, lady."

Landry aimed the vehicle on a direct course for the iron-grille gate, where the two guards stood with shotguns, alerted by the sound of the revving engine.

The stunning brunette twirled the steering wheel hard to the left. The tail end of the wagon skidded to the right, gouging the trimmed edge of the turf. The Datsun stopped its slide, the passenger side parallel to the guards' left flank.

The sentries spun in Bolan's direction. Too late.

Bolan's AutoMag spoke.

The sentries were kicked backward from the impact of the .44 headbusters.

Susan left the car. These fresh kills were still shuddering in their own blood as Susan dashed to the guardhouse and activated the mechanical gate release.

She dashed back into the Datsun wagon and trod the gas so hard that the rear end of the subcompact danced from side to side as it sped through the gate.

The investigative journalist sped into the Maryland night.

Leaving Mack Bolan to wonder.

A fireball from his past named Susan Landry had reappeared.

It was all coming down.

Tonight.

A night of blood.

The vehicle driven by Susan Landry flew along the dark county road away from the Miller place.

Bolan bolstered his AutoMag in its fast-draw rig on his hip. He reclaimed and holstered his Beretta.

"My car is in that clump of trees," he told her as they approached the spot where he had concealed the vehicle. "I suggest you come with me. This car is your death warrant if these people have the connections I think they do."

Susan cut her speed and guided the Datsun over the gravel shoulder and among the trees that Bolan had indicated.

"Miller has connections," she acknowledged. "You're right, of course. Care to give a lady a lift?"

Bolan's rented wheels were right where he left them.

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Bolan assured her, already climbing from the station wagon.

Landry briskly kept pace with him, easing into the passenger seat as he kicked the engine over, backed out and continued their course toward MacArthur Boulevard and D.C.

He felt her eyes appraising him in the darkness as he drove.

"Thank you for saving my life," she said.

Those were the exact words Kelly Crawford had used less than two hours ago.