Don Pendleton - Patriot Strike

He needed a line on his targets, of course.

And he had to reach cover alive.

* * *

“GET OUT! OUT! OUT!” Bryar Haskin shouted, shoving Folsom when the driver moved too slowly to suit him.

“Jesus, man! I’m go—” Folsom’s words were cut off as he spilled from the Yukon, Haskin crowding out behind him on the driver’s side, the steering wheel bruising his ribs. He nearly stepped on Jesse as he fell.

Cursing a blue streak, Folsom kicked back at him, almost brought him down, and in the process accidentally saved Haskin’s life.

The impact made Haskin stumble and drop to one knee just as a bullet smashed the Yukon’s right-front window, passing within an inch of Haskin’s head. He could have sworn he felt it graze his hair before it whispered off into the darkness. Another bullet hit the open driver’s door a heartbeat later, spraying Haskin’s face and neck with jagged bits of steel and plastic.

“Agh!”

He slammed the door behind him, cutting off the Yukon’s dome lights, staying low in case the rifleman kept shooting through the SUV.

“Shoot back!” he ordered. “What in hell’d we bring these guns for, anyway?”

It took another second, but his boys got in the spirit of the thing, returning fire. Haskin angled his Ithaca across the Yukon’s hood and fired a blast toward the parking lot, seeing a figure drop and roll out there but having no idea if he’d been hit. Doubtful, in the confusion, with his own guys firing wild and ducking back before a lucky shot could pick them off.

Speaking of which, Haskin felt too exposed aiming across the Yukon’s nose, so he went prone and aimed his twelve-gauge underneath the SUV. Not hiding, get that straight; being crafty, with a bid to cut their adversary’s legs from under him, leaving him helpless on the blacktop. Might have worked, too, but it seemed as if the guy was gone now. Likely over by the nearest of the semitrailers, lining up another shot.

And what about the lady Ranger? Where was she?

Haskin had little time to think about it, as his first guess was confirmed. A muzzle-flash winked at him from the darkened space between two trailers, fifty yards or so away, and Haskin heard slugs punching through the Yukon’s right-front fender, hammering the engine.

Shit!

Damned inconvenient for them if they had to leave their ride behind, although its registration wouldn’t lead investigators anywhere. That was the beauty of a holding company, something Haskin had heard about but never really understood until it was explained to him in simple terms, of late—a paper trail that led the cops in circles without yielding any information that could hang him or his friends if anything went wrong.

Like now.

As for escaping, they could always take the other guy’s Toyota once they’d finished with him. And the Ranger. Couldn’t forget her, since she’d started this whole fouled-up business in the first place. Kent still wanted her alive, but Haskin wasn’t sure he could deliver on that order, given how things stood right now.

How long before the shooting brought a prowl car, followed by a SWAT team? He wasn’t sure, but every passing minute made their prospects worse. He tried to picture Kent’s reaction if they all wound up in jail but didn’t like where that was going, so he pushed the image out of mind.

More bullets slapped at the Yukon. “We gotta flush that bastard out of there,” Haskin told his men.

“Go for it,” Jackson answered, making no attempt to move.

“You scared of goin’ out there?” Haskin challenged him.

“Damn right!”

“Well guess what?” Haskin snarled, jabbing his shotgun’s muzzle into Jackson’s ribs. “You’re goin’ anyhow.”

“Son of a bitch!”

“Move it!”

Still cursing, Jackson waddled toward the Yukon’s tailgate, braced himself and charged into the open, firing as he ran. And covered all of ten feet, maybe less, before a bullet brought him down.

And that left three.

* * *

BOLAN HAD DROPPED the runner with a head shot, easy, and his friends were clearly having second thoughts about an all-out rush to finish it. He glanced back toward the RAV4, saw no sign of Granger and hoped she’d keep it that way while he finished up the skirmish. Bolan’s chance of capturing a shooter for interrogation seemed less likely now, but any hope remaining would require the gunmen to be driven out from under cover, where he’d have an opportunity to pick and choose.

How best to do it?

While they popped off wasted rounds—some scoring hits on semis, others squandered on thin air—he sighted on the SUV’s fuel tank. The Yukon carried twenty-six gallons of gasoline when it was filled to the brim, but Bolan didn’t need a full tank for his purposes. Three rounds fired through the right-rear quarter panel were enough to set it dribbling, a small lake forming underneath the vehicle.

Now all he needed was a spark.

The cornered gunmen didn’t seem to see where he was going with it, firing back at Bolan for the sake of making noise, the nearest of their shots missing him by two feet or more. Meanwhile he concentrated on the Yukon’s right-rear wheel. He flattened its tire with one shot, then directed three more at the rim, trying to strike a spark.

He was rewarded by a puff of flame, the gas fumes catching, then the spilled gas on the blacktop came alight and sent its head back to the leaking fuel tank. Bolan waited for combustion, heard one of his hidden enemies growl out a warning to the others, but it came too late. The gas tank blew, lifting the Yukon’s rear end on a bright cushion of fire, some six to eight feet off the ground.

That sent them running. One man, in flames, broke out to his left with staggered steps, wailing, then dropped to hands and knees, trying to roll the fire out as it bit into his flesh. His two companions ran the other way, toward the silo stacks, firing in Bolan’s general direction as they fled.

A pistol cracked from somewhere to his right, distracting Bolan for a split second before he made it out as a .45. Granger was pitching in to help, her second shot dropping the forward runner in a boneless sprawl. His sidekick skidded to a halt, couldn’t decide which way to turn his automatic rifle, so he swept the parking lot at large with crackling fire, hoping to score a lucky hit. He drew more fire from Granger, off the mark this time, and ran toward the stacks again.

They’d lose him there, and Bolan couldn’t have that, even if he gave up the chance for an interrogation. Lining up his shot, be put a round between the shooter’s shoulder blades, the impact lifting Bolan’s target and propelling him some six or seven feet, shoes churning empty air. He landed facedown on the asphalt, rifle skittering away from lifeless fingers, and lay still.

All done...except that one of them was still alive and whimpering.

Bolan crossed to stand by the shooter who had been on fire a moment earlier. Reached down to pluck a pistol from the burned man’s belt and to toss it out of reach, into the shadows. Crouching down beside him, breathing through his mouth to minimize the stench of roasted flesh, Bolan asked, “Who sent you after us?”

“You...get...nothin’...from...me.”

“A name, that’s all,” Bolan replied. “You don’t owe them a thing.”

“What the hell...do you...know?” Wheezing smoke came from the man’s mouth and nose.

“I’m guessing Crockett,” Bolan said.

“Screw...you.”

“Or maybe Ridgway?”

One eye widened slightly, or the other might have narrowed. With the scorching on the shooter’s face, Bolan couldn’t be sure. A wink? He doubted it. More likely pain, sending a tremor through seared flesh.

“So, nothing?”

“Uh...uh.”