Don Pendleton - Pele's Fire

Not this guy.

A revolutionary he might be, at least in theory, but a soldier trained for war?

Not even close.

Shuffling footsteps on gravel marked his progress before Bolan saw him. The stalker carried a Kalashnikov but never had a chance to use it. The Executioner nailed him with a single shot, snapping the gunman’s head back.

Easy.

When he was satisfied that no backup was coming from the shadows, Bolan closed the gap, relieved his lifeless adversary of his AK-47 and a spare clip that protruded from his pocket. Two heartbeats to check the captured rifle, and he doubled back to join his companions under fire.

And just in time.

As he arrived, one of the chase cars was accelerating toward Aolani’s crippled Datsun. It wasn’t going more than 20 mph by his estimate, but it would still cause damage on impact.

And it would provide cover for the last two shooters, coming up behind it while the high beams blazed their trail.

Bolan ignored the car, its lifeless driver, concentrating on the men behind it. They had revved the gas somehow, and maybe given the vehicle a shove to start, both of them clutching weapons now and sheltering behind the vehicle as it advanced. From Bolan’s angle, though, one of the hunters was exposed completely, and his companion was visible from the waist up.

It was enough.

He stitched the nearer of the gunmen with a rising burst, six rounds or so of 7.62 mm death leaving the AK’s muzzle at a speed of 2,300 feet per second. Downrange, his moving target crumpled as if he were made of paper, crushed within a giant’s fist. The dead man fell, firing a shotgun blast into his own foot as he dropped.

The hunting party’s sole survivor swung toward Bolan, ripping off a long burst from a lightweight submachine gun. Bolan could’ve ducked but didn’t bother, instead answering with a short burst from his Kalashnikov that nearly emptied the long curved magazine.

His target took most of it, jerking through a clumsy little dance that ended with a belly flop on gravel, while the car that he’d been following rolled on and nosed against the Datsun’s driver’s door. It wasn’t much of a collision, but it finally extinguished those annoying high beams.

Bolan advanced to find Aolani and her companion huddled on the far side of the Datsun, still staying put and keeping low. Not bad, he thought, all things considered.

She had done all right on what he took to be her first time under fire.

“It’s over,” Bolan said. “We need to leave now.”

“Leave?” she challenged him. “In case you haven’t noticed, they just shot the hell out of my car.”

“We’ll borrow one of theirs,” Bolan replied. “That one,” he added, pointing to the vehicle that stood alone now, headlights burning tunnels through the night.

“And leave mine here?”

“I’ll torch it. Take out anything you need that’s still inside.”

As Bolan spoke, he tore a strip of fabric from a lifeless gunman’s shirttail and removed the Datsun’s gas cap to insert the wick.

“Burn it or not, the cops will trace it,” Aolani said.

“No sweat. You’re out of town right now. How could you know some punks would steal your car and use it for a rumble with a rival gang?”

“Jesus. Okay, hang on a minute, will you? Let me get my purse and—”

She was scrambling, fumbling in the glove compartment, underneath the front seat, grabbing this and that before he lit the wick. They piled into the second chase car, and he had it rolling toward the Punchbowl’s exit when the Datsun blew behind them.

“This is really not what I had in mind,” Aolani informed him.

“Hey, you know the saying—life’s what happens while you’re making other plans.”

And death could happen, too.

Oh, yes.

They hadn’t seen the last of death, by any means.

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