Patriot Strike. Don Pendleton

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.”

      “Okay then.”

      He rose, backed off a pace and plugged a mercy round into the shooter’s blackened forehead.

      “Jesus God!”

      And turned to find the Ranger watching him, a grim expression on her face.

      “We’re done here,” Bolan told her. “Time to go.”