Fire Zone. Don Pendleton

air was making it difficult to breathe. The atmosphere looked like L.A. on a smog-alert day and tasted like the inside of a barbecue pit. Over the loud crackling of fire dogging his every step, he heard the whup-whup of a chopper overhead. Bursting into a small clearing, he saw the small helicopter and waved.

      The pilot saw him and came lower, buffeted by strong ground winds kicked up by the fire. Landing was out of the question because takeoff would be impossible. The pilot gestured frantically, pointing to a spot away from the road, then he gunned the engine, rose vertically and beat a hasty retreat.

      Bolan wished the pilot had tried for the pickup. No guts, no glory, but the pilot was not a military flyer, and Bolan could not hold his caution against him. It just made his own evacuation more difficult, but the only chance he had was to trust the pilot’s judgment…even if the man might be one of the mercs who had stolen the gold.

      The idea died almost as it formed in his head as a working hypothesis. If he had been another of the force that had robbed the gold mine, all the pilot needed to do was leave. Bolan would stumble about until the fire eventually overtook him—unless he was actually on his way clear of the fire. Knowing the danger of analysis paralysis, Bolan lowered his head and, putting every ounce of energy into the run, headed in the direction the pilot indicated. He burst into another clearing before he realized he was leaving a heavily wooded patch and saw a half-dozen firefighters setting up a small camp. Dressed in their bright yellow fire-retardant gear and respirators, they looked like creatures from another planet.

      One turned and pushed up his face mask, letting his oxygen line drape down, so he could shout, “What the hell are you doing here?”

      â€œHad a car wreck.”

      â€œYou from the mine?” The man gave Bolan a quick once-over and dismissed him as an idiot who let himself get caught by staying too long after the evacuation warning had been issued.

      â€œJust out for a drive when the fire cut me off from the main road.”

      â€œThat fire was set,” the firefighter said. He looked more intently at Bolan. The Executioner did not have to be a mind-reader to know the firefighter thought Bolan might have set the new fire.

      â€œSomething exploded behind me. A truck,” Bolan said. “The fire’s coming this way fast.”

      â€œWe know.” The firefighter turned to glance at a laptop showing an aerial view of the area. Bolan got his bearings and realized how lucky he had been sticking to the road in his escape. If he had veered to either side of the road for long, he would be fried by now. The detonation had sent out flames in a V pattern.

      â€œGet him out of here,” ordered another firefighter with three bright orange stripes circling the arms of his yellow fire suit.

      â€œYou in charge?”

      â€œI don’t know who you are, but a helo recon pilot just reported you were trying to get away. Said he saw a blown-up truck and a car in the middle of where the fire originated.”

      â€œMy car,” Bolan said.

      â€œBuck, get this guy out of here. We don’t have time to worry about civilians. We gotta clear as much brush as we can to slow the advance, and we’re running out of time.”

      The one who had spoken initially reached out and took Bolan’s arm.

      â€œYou heard the man. We go. You stay out of the fire, and I get to come back and do my job.” The bitterness in Buck’s voice told the story. He was a dedicated firefighter, and Bolan took him away from his job.

      â€œPoint me in the right direction. I can find my way out.”

      This easy way out appealed to Buck. He rubbed his lips with a gloved hand, made a face, then inclined his head toward the far side of the clearing.

      â€œI’ll get you on a trail leading downhill to the command station. Masterson only told me to get you out of danger. He didn’t say anything about nursemaiding you all the way into Boise.” He pointed and started walking clumsily as he fumbled with the dangling respirator.

      â€œYou want to stay in your rig?”

      â€œTakes forever to get it on and take it off. Just don’t go too fast for me to keep up.”

      Bolan and Buck walked side-by-side toward the far edge of the clearing. Bolan turned around once to see the towering flames a quarter mile behind. The fire spread faster as it found more dried underbrush. The treetops were exploding with a sound like distant bombs.

      â€œThe crowns of the trees are catching fire,” Buck said, obviously worried. “That’s bad. The fire spreads faster jumping from treetop to treetop than when it burns along the ground.”

      â€œYou see anybody in the area?” the Executioner asked.

      Buck stopped and stared at him. Bolan was sure the firefighter saw the butt of the Desert Eagle in its shoulder holster under his left armpit but said nothing about it.

      â€œJust other firefighters. Two of us have already gotten caught by it.” He saw Bolan’s expression and explained. “The fire. It’s like some wild, uncontrollable beast. Two friends of mine were treated for smoke inhalation and are on the way to the hospital. More of us will join them before it’s over, since this fire covers such a wide area.”

      â€œArson,” Bolan said. “I caught two of the firebugs, but they got away.”

      â€œYou a cop? FBI?”

      Bolan had no problem verifying that if it helped him find out more from the firefighter. Stony Man Farm specialized in counterterrorism, and setting such fires counted as terrorism, but the mercenaries he had already brought down only used the forest fires to cover their tracks. Gold theft was their primary mission in spite of the havoc they created.

      â€œHomeland Security,” he said, which was close enough to the truth to be believable.

      â€œYou’re doing a piss-poor job of policing the borders,” the firefighter said unexpectedly.

      â€œOne job at a time.”

      â€œYeah, look, keep going in this direction. You’ll reach a creek. Follow that downstream until you see our base camp. There’s a couple hundred people there, so it’s hard to miss.”

      Buck started back to his crew to fight the fire, but his radio crackled and the frightened voice sounding from it caused him to grab it frantically.

      â€œCome in, Masterson. Repeat. Repeat. What’s your report?”

      â€œYour team got caught and is surrounded by the fire,” Bolan said. He had experience enough to decipher almost any message coming through intense static and dropping words.

      â€œGo, get out of here,” the firefighter said. He worked at the walkie-talkie but got no response.

      â€œI can help. You can’t do anything by yourself.”

      â€œI can get to them. We have to evac now.”

      â€œIt’ll be with casualties,” Bolan said. He had a mission to complete, but he wasn’t going to let Buck try to save the others in his crew alone. That would only add one more death to the impressive list of destruction the gold thieves had already racked up.

      â€œThey’ll chew my ass good for this, but you’re right. I need help, and I don’t care if you’re only a civilian. Come on!”

      Two of them doubled the chance of rescuing the trapped firefighters.

      â€œI’ll need some equipment in your camp,” Bolan pointed out. He did not give the firefighter a chance to argue. Seconds mattered. They retraced their steps, but Buck did not slow when they came to the