In front of him, the chase car had slowed, still following, but waiting now to see what Bolan had in mind. A window powered down behind the driver’s seat, and Bolan saw an Asian shooter lean out with a weapon in his hands, maybe an Arsenal AR-SF or a Micro Galil. Either way, it was deadly and had to be countered at once.
Bolan raised the MP-5 K in his left hand, angling out the Civic’s open driver’s window. Aiming wasn’t possible, per se, but with a steady hand and skilled eye he could do the next best thing.
Still set for 3-round bursts, the little SMG could fire six times before he had to switch its magazine, an operation that would mean taking his right hand off the steering wheel. In fact, he did that now, shifting the Honda from Reverse to Drive and bearing down on the accelerator, closing up the gap between himself and his pursuers.
He had a choice of firing at the driver or the shooter, but the gunman was the greater threat. Bolan squeezed off a burst, too low, and saw his bullets slash the chase car’s left-rear door. It wasn’t likely that hollow-point rounds would penetrate the passenger compartment through sheet steel and insulation, but the triple impact made his target squawk and pull back from the window without firing at the Civic, as they passed each other on the two-lane blacktop.
Now what?
He could take off, fleeing back into the maze of Atlantic City’s streets, or stay and finish it. Whichever choice he made, the time for a decision was right now.
Enough running.
Bolan hung on and took the vehicle through another power slide, coming around behind the chase car so that he was in pursuit now, and the hounds were running from the fox. It took only a second for the Yakuza driver in front of him to catch on, but in that time Bolan had his submachine gun leveled and had smashed the black sedan’s rear window with another 3-round burst.
Two faces, furious and frightened, gaped at Bolan through the open window frame, before both men raised automatic rifles into view.
* * *
“HE’S BEHIND US NOW!” Eishin exclaimed.
“I see that,” Tadayoshi answered through clenched teeth.
“Well, do something!”
“What did you have in mind?”
Before Eishin could think of anything, their back window imploded, spraying pebbled safety glass like buckshot through the passenger compartment. Pieces of it stung his scalp and neck. Something more deadly struck the windshield, halfway between him and his driver, knocking a chip out of the glass and rattling on the dashboard.
Eishin ducked and saw a mutilated bullet resting on top of the central heating vent. If it had been diverted ten or twelve inches to the left or right, he might be dead now, or the car could be speeding off course, with a corpse behind the wheel.
Yoshikage and Kanehira sat in the back, chattering like two macaques, preparing to return fire, when another burst struck home. Its bullets marched across the trunk lid, striking with the force of hammer blows, and one spanged off the lower window frame, to ricochet inside the car. The driver cried out this time, slumping, left hand clutching at his shoulder, steering with his wounded right.
Feeling foolish even as he spoke, Eishin asked him, “How bad is it?”
“I’m not a doctor!” Tadayoshi rasped, showing bad form by his tone.
“Well, can you drive?” Eishin demanded.
“Do you see me driving?”
Although fuming over the man’s insubordination, Eishin knew it might be suicide to chastise him just now. Instead, he turned to see their enemy tailgating them, his two soldiers in the back trying to recover from the last incoming fire, raising their weapons once again.
Instead of waiting for them, Eishin fired his cut-down shotgun at the Honda, making both soldiers in the back yelp and cringe as thunder filled the car, stinging four sets of ears. He saw his buckshot, double 0, take out a portion of the Honda’s windshield larger than a dinner plate, but he had missed the driver by at least a foot.
He pumped the Ithaca’s slide-action, chambering another 12-gauge round. The cartridge he’d ejected bounced off the driver’s cheek and dropped into his lap, provoking a string of curses.
They would have to talk about that later, set things straight between them and cement the clear lines of authority that governed every member of the Yakuza.
Assuming that they lived.
In the backseat, Yoshikage cried, “I’ve been hit!”
Eishin glanced at his squealing soldier, saw no blood and snapped, “You’re not wounded! Shut your whining mouth and do your job!”
Red-faced, the soldier turned away from him and aimed his stubby carbine through the car’s rear window, firing as his partner did, their muzzle-flashes visible as dusk descended on the waterfront. Eishin considered firing one more shotgun blast between them, but decided it would only spoil their shaky aim.
And Tadayoshi wasn’t helping, in the driver’s seat. He swerved the car erratically, cursing under his breath as more slugs from their quarry’s automatic weapon struck the vehicle. At least one found its way inside, clipping the rearview mirror from its post and dropping what remained of it at Eishin’s feet.
“Stop all this crazy skidding!” Eishin ordered. “How can we hit anything, the way you drive?”
“He’s hitting us,” Tadayoshi replied, shooting a quick glance toward the spot where there had been a mirror seconds earlier, mouthing another curse when he saw nothing but a chip out of the windshield’s glass.
“Drive straight!” Eishin repeated. “That’s an order!”
Tadayoshi turned to glare at him, then gave a jerky nod and straightened the steering wheel—just as their adversary’s bullets found their left-rear tire and shredded it. The car’s tail end immediately whipped around, the wheel’s rim biting into asphalt, and they went into a skid, the backseat shooters howling like a pair of lunatics.
Eishin clutched the nearest grab handle and hung on for dear life.
* * *
BOLAN RECKONED HE had been lucky with the last burst, trying it before his magazine ran dry. He eased off the accelerator as the Yakuzas’ car went into its final skid, jumping a curb off to the right, its nose crumpled against a lamppost with a granite base. He drove past, checking as the occupants began to move around inside. The left-rear door sprang open, and a dazed-looking hardman tumbled onto the pavement, still holding his carbine in one hand.
Bolan passed on three or four doors farther down the street, then swung his car around to block both lanes and bailed out on the driver’s side, keeping the Civic between himself and his would-be killers. Three of them were EVA as Bolan got his SMG reloaded, the driver seeming to have trouble with unfastening his shoulder harness.
Bolan helped him with it, rattling off a 3-round burst that turned the wheelman’s face into a bloody stir-fry. That brought in return fire, but it wasn’t organized as yet, or aimed precisely. Bolan’s car had taken hits during the final moments of the chase, and he could hear more bullets striking it along the passenger’s side, drilling the bodywork, evaporating window glass.
Somebody else’s headache, since he’d bought the full insurance package when he took delivery on the Honda. Not in his own name, of course—Mack Bolan had been “dead” for years—but on a credit card whose bills were promptly paid from Stony Man. As long as it was drivable and he could leave the scene when he was done, Bolan was satisfied.
If not? Plan B, whatever that was.
First, he had to move,