Hazard Zone. Don Pendleton

ran at all.

      The other vehicles were behind him in seconds, still shooting. Bolan whipped around a corner and found himself in a narrow lane that was crowded with wooden pallets and ended in a rusted chain-link fence. With the other cars right behind him, he didn’t have any other choices but to floor the accelerator, shift and plow straight ahead. The pallets shattered with a crash and wooden splinters flew in all directions. He ducked again as he hit the fence, which gave way before him, but not before a large section of it smashed into his windshield, spidering the glass.

      Obviously, the people living in the area were not unaccustomed to gunfire. Whereas most people would stay hidden, Bolan saw these residents running out of their homes to see what was going on. He yanked hard on the steering wheel, choosing the first street that went away from the residential buildings.

      Just as he glanced in the mirror, a burst of automatic gunfire sounded and took out the last of his rear windshield. Bullets pounded into the heavy cloth seats. Bolan accelerated until he saw a large truck blocking the road in front of him. “Damn it,” he said, tapping the brakes and looking for a way to pass. Knowing it was a risk, he started to move around, but another barrage of gunfire took out the back tires of the truck and the sudden change in speeds forced them together. Metal crunched, and Bolan slammed on the brakes, letting the truck go past, then he downshifted, popped the clutch and moved to the other side of the truck, which was weaving all over the road.

      He steered around another corner, only to see an oncoming pickup truck headed straight for him. In the bed, two men opened fire with mini-MAC-10s. “Son of a—” he said as two trails of bullets ran up the length of his hood. Bolan ducked, then popped back up, the Desert Eagle in hand. He fired off five quick shots, and the final one smashed the engine block of the truck. Smoke rolled as it skidded to a halt.

      Bolan rocketed past the slowing vehicle and slammed on his brakes as he realized he was at a dead end. He locked the car into Reverse, spinning it and spearheading his way back into the oncoming cars. The slam from the side caught Bolan by surprise and knocked his car into an apartment building.

      Gunfire poured in through the windows as Bolan shoved the driver’s seat backward and shimmied into the rear area. He opened the pass-through compartment, pulled out his briefcase and opened it in one smooth motion. The gunfire suddenly stopped, and he could hear a voice shouting, “Enough! Enough! Stop!”

      Pulling two grenades out of the case, he pulled the pins and waited three seconds. Then he popped through the sunroof like a paramilitary jack-in-the-box and tossed the bombs directly at the feet of the men closing in on his vehicle. They detonated milliseconds after impact, and the explosions ripped through the gang. Screams sounded as shrapnel tore into their bodies.

      Bolan grabbed the case in one hand as he bailed out of the car. It contained his primary arsenal and there was no way he was leaving it behind.

      He whipped around the corner and into an alley as the first rounds of renewed gunfire sounded behind him. Using the building as cover, he put the case on the ground and rapidly assembled the Tavor MTAR-21 mini assault rifle inside it. Slamming the magazine home, he risked a quick look around the corner.

      They were headed his way once more.

      “Persistent,” Bolan muttered, glancing down the alleyway. He needed to either end this or escape—and fast. The risks to his mission were mounting quickly. He couldn’t do the job if he was seriously injured, killed or captured, but these men obviously didn’t care about civilian casualties, either. They were in an area of rundown apartment buildings and a few shops. With all the gunfire, sooner or later there were going to be people hurt or dead who had nothing to do with the situation.

      He risked another look and opened up with the Tavor in short, sharp bursts. The building facades echoed with the sound, and two of the approaching posse members went down before the others found cover.

      5

      Jacob Crisp stared out the window at the small market that filled the streets below his window. He smiled as the armored police vehicles drove by and bystanders threw rotted fruits and vegetables at the intruding vehicles. The irony that they were protesting in small ways because of his supposed death and all of the things that his posse had created was not lost on him. The vehicles continued out of the square, and Jacob closed the wooden shutter, blocking out further opportunity for distraction, and returned his attention to the men behind him.

      Bastiene Durene was his most loyal companion. At six foot he was a couple of inches taller than Crisp, but leaner and meaner. Everyone called him Spook because he seemed to appear and disappear without any evidence. It made him an effective killer and an even more effective spy. He had almost left Spook out of his reincarnation, but he knew that the man would find out eventually anyway and then only see the slight as a betrayal.