Four more kidnappers remained on his side of the Cherokee and their return fire now zeroed in on Bolan’s sides. He rolled to the ground again, angling toward the Cherokee’s rear, the rounds exploding in his ears. One bullet cut through the sleeve of his blue chambray shirt, scorching the skin on his arm as it passed. The Executioner barely noticed it as he pulled the trigger, sending another pair of rounds into the blurry mass of camouflage that whirled past his eyes. As he continued to roll he caught another flash picture.
But this time the picture was of Charlie Latham. The Texan had indeed exited the Cherokee. Somehow he had even made it to cover beneath the vehicle.
Coming to a halt on his stomach, the Executioner extended the big .44, gripped in both hands. The four men still in front of him had expected him to rise to his knees and their auto-volleys raged high over his head. Bolan pulled the trigger back once more and watched a man wearing a mud-stained yellow T-shirt take the result between the eyes. The top of his head disintegrated from the nose up.
Three down, three to go. But that didn’t count the attackers on Latham’s side. Or the two men posing as auto accident victims to his front. In the back of his mind, as the front dealt with the more immediate crisis, the Executioner registered that the phony drivers seemed to have disappeared.
Bolan swung the .44 left again, letting the front sight fall onto a burly, bare-chested Filipino wearing nothing but camouflage pants. His long, straight black hair was tied back from his face with a white cloth. The white made a perfect target. The Executioner let the sight fall on the bright strip across the man’s forehead then pulled the trigger. The would-be kidnapper lost the top half of his head the same way his friend had.
With four of the assailants on his side now down and out of the game, the Executioner rolled behind the Cherokee and came up onto his knees, his head just above the bumper. On Latham’s side of the vehicle he saw two men firing at the Cherokee. One .44 Magnum round took out a clean-shaven kidnapper wearing blue jeans and a BDU blouse. A second after he’d pulled the trigger, the Executioner saw a faint red dot appear on the black T-shirt of another man. The sun was too bright for Latham’s laser sight to be at its best, but at close range it could at least be seen. He heard a boom from beneath the car and the man in black went down.
Bolan smiled inwardly as he fought on. The red dot meant that both the Crimson Trace laser sight and Charlie Latham were still working.
Another massive Magnum round from the Desert Eagle took out a young Filipino with an acne-pocked face. Now, with both sides temporarily clear, the Executioner dropped the near-empty magazine from the Desert Eagle, jammed a fresh load between the grips and transferred the big gun to his left hand. As he drew the Beretta 93-R with his right, rounds continued to pepper the vehicle from the front.
Bolan took advantage of the short pause in the action to evaluate the situation as it now stood. He didn’t know how many men Latham had been able to take out. He did know if Latham was still alive. The man might well be wounded but he had to find out the Texan’s status before he went on. Latham’s condition would have a major effect on his next moves.
The Executioner leaned down under the bumper. “Charlie!” he yelled over the cacophony. “You all right?”
“I’m not hit if that’s what you mean!” Latham yelled from beneath the vehicle. “But ‘all right’ might be stretching it a bit. I’ve been—” Yet another barrage of rifle fire drowned out whatever else he had to say.
Bolan had ascertained Latham was unharmed, but that could change at any second. There were still two men with pistols in front of the Cherokee. Still a pair of AK-47s blasting away near the front on the Cherokee’s passenger’s side. To reexamine his battle plan, it was imperative that he find out exactly how many men were still in the fight.
Round after round continued to bombard the Cherokee. Jamming the Desert Eagle into his belt, the Executioner quickly unscrewed the sound suppressor from the Beretta. There were times when you needed a quiet weapon. Other times you wanted noise and confusion. This situation fell into the latter category.
Bolan’s arm snaked around the rear bumper, firing a blind burst of three 9 mm rounds toward the two men still on the passenger’s side. Then, without hesitation, he leaned the other way and triggered the Desert Eagle twice.
Then he stood.
In the fraction of a second during which he was forced to make himself a perfect target, the Executioner saw three bodies on the ground—one he remembered shooting himself, the others evidently fallen to Latham’s Browning. Two other men stood near the corpses. They started to swing their AKs his way as the Executioner’s eyes skirted to the other side of the vehicle.
The two men he had left standing on that side still fired away full-auto. More shots—slower, from pistols—came from behind the parked cars in front of the Cherokee.
Bolan nodded to himself. That had to be where the phony accident victims had taken cover.
Bolan hunkered down behind the Cherokee a half second ahead of a thunderstorm of 7.62 mm rounds that now sailed his way. Dropping to his belly, he saw Latham’s shadowy form still under the car. The Texan turned to look at him as the Executioner squirmed beneath the bumper toward the right rear tire well. Latham lay on his back, the Browning Hi-Power aimed toward the passenger side of the vehicle. As the Executioner moved beneath the Jeep, his head passed within a foot of the Texan’s.
Latham turned to face him in the shadows. “What I was trying to say earlier, before we were so rudely interrupted,” he said, “was that I’ve been better.”
Bolan grinned as he moved in farther beneath the Cherokee. T. J. Hawkins had been right. Latham could definitely keep his cool under fire.
When he’d come as close as he dared to the edge of the vehicle, the Executioner could see two sets of legs from the knees down. Without hesitation, he extended both hands. The man on the right caught a .44 Magnum round in the shin. The man on the left took a 3-round burst of 9 mm rounds in an ankle. Both men fell to the ground, screaming. Mercy rounds from the Beretta ended their suffering.
The Executioner crawled backward again.
“How many left?” Latham whispered as he passed.
“Two to the right,” Bolan whispered back. “And the two guys faking the accident. Behind their cars.”
“I hit one of them on my way down here to this hobbit hole,” Latham said, looking up at the Jeep’s undercarriage. “Don’t think it killed him, though.”
Bolan emerged from beneath the back bumper, his brain taking in the fact that the quantity of return fire from the kidnappers had withered considerably. Part of that, he knew, came from the fact that many of the riflemen had been killed. But there was more to it than just that.
The kidnappers—if that’s what they really were—had outnumbered the Executioner and Latham twelve to one when the gunfight had begun. They’d planned on an easy snatch of two unarmed foreigners if ransom was their game. Or an easy kill if Subing had sent them to assassinate him. But now, regardless of their motives, within sixty seconds or so, they had lost three-quarters of their manpower. That had a way of playing on the mind and they had to be wondering just what kind of men they’d run into. Which, in turn, was causing them to hesitate.
Bolan leaned down beneath the bumper once more. “Roll out on the driver’s side and cover me,” he ordered Latham. “On three. One, two—”
The Executioner rose up as he said, “Three!” stepping out to the side of the Cherokee. The final two men who had emerged from the jungle on his side of the car had indeed been hesitating. But they had obviously made their decision.
They were one step away from returning to the brush when Bolan shot them