she decided. But why? If that was the case, they had given her something of an edge.
She was free to shoot to kill. No problem, she would live or die by that.
A pall of silence descended behind her as she stopped, peered around the corner of a Jaguar. It was as if they had vanished, no sight or sound of them. They were close; she could feel them, probably moving to outflank her. She looked to the service stairs, maybe a dozen yards or so away, but it might as well have been the dark side of Jupiter. She looked back, glimpsed a shadow about six cars down, the Browning jumping in her hand as she rode the recoil, blasting out two rounds, vandalizing a Mercedes.
Price was ready to bolt for the service stairs, looking back at the gap she would have to sprint across, when three more of them materialized, black leather trench coats flowing behind them as they marched through the door, MP-5s leading the way. She peered at the tall dark one in the middle, wondering where she’d seen him before. Then it hit her. Despite the long black hair, swarthy complexion, figure some plastic surgery, it was Cramnon.
And they had a hostage, she saw, tossing still more critical mass into the equation. The woman was honey-blond, slim, the one on Cramnon’s right flank holding her to his chest, hand over her mouth, muffling her cries. Had they snatched what could pass as her twin on purpose, or was it just a fluke?
“I know who you are, cupcake,” Cramnon said. “Make it easy on yourself. Hey, I promise, Babs, I won’t let my men savage you. I’m a gentleman when it comes to the fairer sex.”
She was torn between watching her six, Cramnon and his goons, when she heard the woman scream. A short burst of subgun fire, and Price saw the victim flung to the ground from the burst up her back.
Oh, God, Price thought, squeezing her eyes shut for a dangerous second, sickened at the sight of cold-blooded murder, as she slumped back against her SUV cover. The sound of Cramnon’s laughter echoed through the garage, as she heard the monster warn her he still had a few more victims on tap.
THE EXECUTIONER KNEW he couldn’t spare a second indulging anger or grief over the carnage he found inside the terminal. He discovered two of Brognola’s people were down by the lockers, blood pooling around their skulls. The killer opted for head shots, bypassing body armor.
“Clear the building! I want a perimeter, no less than three blocks out!” Bolan shouted at the Justice agent kneeling beside the bodies of fallen comrades. “You copy?”
The agent looked at Bolan, eyes burning with rage, nodded past him. “I heard you. The last son of a bitch went in the men’s room!”
“Get out of here!” Bolan said, then wheeled, got his bearings as he marched for the men’s room. A quick sweep of the terminal, and he figured ten, fifteen civilians cut down. Where they weren’t surging out the nearest door, a stampede of flailing bodies, the soldier found walking wounded limping for exits, the air pierced by screams and shouts of terror and panic. The last one? he thought, then spied the heap near the westbound gates, the New York Dragons cap beside his tattered carcass with doomsday bags. Two helmeted, armored FBI agents toed the body, secured the ordnance. That left Grand Rapids Rampage, he knew.
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