vehicles. The foliage was sparse, with none of the clinging vines or heavy vegetation he had encountered on so many other hellfire trails around the world, and he reached the edge of the woods without incident.
When he came to the road, Bolan paused for a second to gauge the degree of his enemies’ resistance. Occasional bursts of sporadic automatic fire could be heard coming from below, but the pattern of gunshots was not indicative of an organized assault or defense. Hal Brognola had thought there were fewer than two dozen armed guards at the monastery. A quick calculation told Bolan that he and Zagorski had already dispatched approximately half that number.
Most of the smoke from the M-18 canisters had dissipated, but the residual tendrils, in combination with the inky black night, severely limited visibility as the soldier ran down the curvy road. Pulling his goggles over his eyes and switching into IR mode, he was able to quickly pick out Dr. Zagorski as she zigzagged like a running back sprinting toward the goal line.
Approximately twenty yards behind her, two guards were firing their submachine guns in her direction, their hot barrels glowing incandescently through Bolan’s IR-enriched lenses. With the hand holding his Beretta, he thumbed the selector switch, aligning the arrow with the three white dots. Without breaking stride, he sent a triburst of 9 mm rounds into the head and neck of one guard while simultaneously firing his Desert Eagle at the other. His action drew reciprocal gunfire from a guard ten yards or so farther down the road, causing Bolan to immediately adopt a zigzagging pattern similar to Zagorski while he engaged the gunners.
With both hands dispatching death, Bolan sprinted through an IR-illuminated shooting gallery, the deep-voiced roar of his hefty Desert Eagle drowning out the lighter patter of the Order of Raphael’s weapons.
By the time Bolan caught up to Zagorski, they were close to the bottom of the hill. The only concealment available was from the flimsy cloak of darkness.
Holstering his weapons, the Executioner jumped onto the wired all-terrain vehicle, yelling for Zagorski to get on behind him. While she was climbing onto the wide seat, they came under fire from a position close to the stairs leading up the hill to the monastery. When Bolan flipped the ignition switch and the ATV leaped to life, Zagorski returned fire, hosing the area at the base of the hill with a steady stream of rounds until her magazine ran dry.
Her rounds found their mark, causing the guard to dance and jerk. She released the spent clip, replacing it with the final one she had taken from the fallen guard in the lab. Bolan plied the throttle, propelling them at breakneck speed through the vineyard between two rows of vines, leaving the noise of battle behind.
Bolan gunned the ATV’s engine while keeping his eyes on the skyline where the darker density of the woods bordering the vineyard converged with the night sky. He was searching for a specific spot along the top of the trees where the peaks of four centuries-old maples came together, pointing inward to form an easily recognizable pyramid pattern. They were drawing close, and he eased up on the throttle.
“What?” Zagorski yelled, her eyes probing the darkness for enemies.
“We’re close to the car.”
His eyes scanned the intersection of sky and trees as they proceeded forward.
“Here!”
He braked to an abrupt stop, flipped the power toggle switch to its off position and dismounted.
“Come on,” he shouted over his shoulder as he began crossing through the rows of vines. “Watch the wire,” he added, referring to the zinc cable running the entire length of each row.
When they passed through the final set of vines and reached a paved road between the vineyard and woods, Bolan ran directly across to a small stand of scrub pines where a silver Porsche 911 Turbo gleamed dully in the night. Zagorski was steps behind, carrying her submachine gun at port arms as she ran to the passenger door.
The instant Bolan’s fingers wrapped around the driver’s door handle, the car’s rear-mounted engine came to life, purring powerfully under the curved frame. He increased his pressure on the handle, and Zagorski’s door unlocked and swung open. She jumped in, holding her gun at an angle between her legs, with the hot barrel inches from the window.
“Who are you?” she asked as her door closed and Bolan pressed the accelerator to the floor.
The Porsche fishtailed out of the woods onto the paved highway, leaping forward like a pouncing panther when its tires met the tar surface. Bolan upshifted quickly through the powerful automobile’s second and third gears, swiftly accelerating to a speed in excess of 120 miles an hour as they zipped on a path as straight as an arrow down the highway, leaving the ancient L’Abbaye de Raphael in the rearview mirror.
“We’ll be at the tunnel in less than five minutes,” was all Bolan said.
Zagorski nodded, knowing he was referring to a mile-long tunnel under a section of foothills that rose to become the Pyrenees Mountains separating France from Spain. The customs checkpoint, where according to Brognola, Bolan’s vehicle would already be cleared for a direct nonstop drive through, was another five miles down the road.
“Thank you, whoever you are. They were going to kill me.” Zagorski paused, swallowed hard and added in a voice more appropriate for a confessional than the interior of a sports car, “The work they made me do is evil. I tried to go as slowly as I could.”
“You did okay,” Bolan replied, keeping his eyes glued to the front. “There’s a plane waiting for us in San Sebastian.”
The road was wide and smooth, with two lanes in each direction separated by a center median in which a row of red maples had been planted at intervals of approximately twenty feet. At the speed they were traveling, the small trees whizzing past in Bolan’s peripheral vision took on the appearance of a continuous hedge.
When they reached an area in the foothills where the road turned curvy, Bolan downshifted into the first S-curve while checking the rearview mirror.
“You think they’re coming after us?” Zagorski asked. “You keep looking into the mirror.”
“We don’t want to be surprised,” he answered as he accelerated into the curve, then quickly downshifted as they raced into the next bend. Displaying the timing and reflexes of a race car driver, Bolan alternated between downshifting and accelerating, negotiating one hairpin turn after another at speeds that caused the vehicles’s high-performance tires to smoke and squeal in protest. When he entered the last S-turn ending in a straightaway that covered the final half mile leading into the tunnel, two lights characteristic in size and shape of those designed on the front fuselage of a Bell 206 helicopter jumped into his rearview mirror.
The chopper was incoming fast, at close to twice Bolan’s speed, closing the gap between them at a rate that would place the aircraft on top of the Porsche before it reached the tunnel.
Bolan slammed his foot onto the brake and jerked the steering wheel to the left, causing the sports car to slide into a tire-smoking sideways skid that painted wide rubber stripes down the center of the highway.
The helicopter pilot was not anticipating Bolan’s maneuver, and he whizzed straight past, strafing the road inches in front of the Porsche’s reinforced bumper. The .20-caliber machine-gun rounds blazing from the helicopter’s underside left deep pockmarks in the highway’s smooth surface.
As Bolan straightened his car and accelerated toward the tunnel’s entrance, the pilot pulled the nose of his aircraft upward, attempting
