spilled out on his back, and if not for the sling around his shoulder he would have lost the MP-5. His head whipped down and bounced off the countertop so sharply he saw stars before his momentum swept him off the counter. He fell another five feet onto the ground, striking his knee painfully on the concrete floor under the thin, rough weave of the cheap carpet.
His outflung arm made sharp contact with something large and the object was knocked to the floor. The item landed with a crash beside him and an internal bell rang, telling Bolan he had just tipped over the store cash register. The empty door on the register shot open with a pop like a gunshot as he landed, and the flesh of his palms split as they made rough contact with the floor. He winced at the sudden sting.
Forcing himself to his feet, Bolan clung to the counter for support. Adrenaline filled him and he gritted his teeth as he forced himself up. Once he was standing he ripped off his balaclava and stuffed it inside his coat. Through the store’s big front windows he saw police lights flashing. They cycled through the dark store, illuminating the interior briefly.
Bolan hobbled into a pile of furniture and out from underneath the broken skylight. If he knew the character of the cop on his tail, the man would be there soon. He saw other cops moving out in the street, their attention focused on the building housing the mosque.
The Executioner forced himself forward, heading directly toward the front of the building, dodging around furniture displays set up to look like living rooms or bedrooms or dinning areas. He spoke into his throat mike with blood-smeared lips.
“Striker, here,” he said. “My ride is a no-go. You ready for extraction?”
“Affirmative,” Manning answered.
“Copy,” Bolan said. “As soon as it’s clear, I’ll blow the distraction.”
“I’m coming now.”
Bolan moved forward until he was clear of the furniture displays and could see out onto the street unimpeded. Five police cars were visible, most of their occupants out of their vehicles and storming toward the grocery underneath the mosque.
The soldier looked at his own Toyota 4-Runner. No one appeared to be standing near the vehicle. He looked down the street and saw a black Ford Expedition abruptly round a corner three blocks up, lights blazing.
Bolan made his decision.
From the skylight behind him a beam of bright illumination shot out from the flashlight attached beneath the barrel of the RCMP officer’s 10 mm pistol. It cut through the shadows inside the furniture store and swept around, hunting for Bolan.
The soldier dived out of the way as the light tracked toward him and the officer fired. A 10 mm round burrowed into the floor with relentless force. Bolan desperately needed something to rattle the Canadian officer’s aim. He fell into a shoulder-roll, away from the illumination of the big front windows.
He came up out of his somersault and shoved a store mannequin toward the searching light. The figure toppled and the cop triggered his gun twice. The man’s second round struck the mannequin in the head, and the soft lead slug hammered a crater into the plastic statue.
Bolan shoved a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket, grasped his key ring and pulled it clear. He looked down and located the electronic fob on the end. His thumb pressed the vehicle’s remote start option.
Out in the street the Toyota exploded in a sudden ball of flames with a deafening boom. The chassis leaped straight up, engulfed by fire and pouring black smoke. It came down hard and sent metal car parts scattering in all directions.
The ruined 4-Runner came to a rest in the middle of the street and burned like a bonfire. Up the street Gary Manning’s Ford Expedition locked its brakes with an angry squeal. Bolan swept up his MP-5 and fired at the plate-glass window. Spent shells clanged together as they rattled into his brass catcher.
The window shattered and heavy shards of glass cascaded like icicles to burst against the concrete outside the window. Bolan slung the weapon as he raced forward.
He heard pistol shots from behind him, but had no idea if they came close or not as he stepped off his lead foot and sprang into the air.
He hurtled the bottom of the window like a track star and landed outside. He heard shouts coming from his left and risked a look as he landed in a crouch. He saw a squad of Toronto uniformed policemen, most of them on the ground and disorientated by the car bomb he had just detonated.
One patrolman was sufficiently together to lift an arm and point, shouting out a warning as Bolan pivoted and began to sprint up the slushy sidewalk toward the Ford Expedition gunning straight for him. His breath billowed out in front of him in silver plumes as he charged forward. His breathing was loud in his ears, and he could feel his heart hammering in his chest.
He saw Manning clearly through the windshield of the Expedition. The Phoenix Force commando locked up the emergency brake, and the tires screeched in protest as he swung the back end of the SUV in a smooth bootlegger maneuver. Bolan dived toward the passenger door.
Pistol shots rang out from behind him.
He saw Manning lean across the front seat and open the passenger door. A bullet struck the rear windshield and pebbled the safety glass. Another round sparked off the bumper. Bolan reached the front of the SUV and threw himself inside.
Manning didn’t wait for his passenger to close the open door but instead stood on the gas. Tires screamed, turning fast, digging for traction. Then they caught and the Expedition lurched forward like a bullet train leaving the station, throwing Bolan back into the seat.
“Grimaldi ready?” the soldier panted.
“Always,” Manning stated as he sent the SUV into a power slide that took the fugitive vehicle off the street and out of sight of the policemen firing on them. “He’s put the Little Bird down on the top floor of a parking garage six blocks over. We’ll be in the air in two minutes.” He looked down at a digital clock display. “One minute,” he corrected.
Bolan nodded. He reached inside his jacket pocket and checked for Hadayet’s cell phone. If they moved fast, he thought, they just might have a crack at Scimitar.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Stony Man team switched out the Little Bird for a clean JetRanger at the Buffalo Niagara International Airport and proceeded south. In a reasonable amount of time the helicopter was following Skyline Drive along the backbone of the rugged Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia. The base for the Special Operations Group was only fifty-odd miles southwest of Washington, D.C., and dawn was breaking as the aircraft approached the installation.
A Chevy Blazer was waiting beside the landing strip where Jack Grimaldi put down the JetRanger.
“You guys go on ahead,” he told Bolan and Manning.
“I’m going to do some postflight checks.”
“Thanks, Jack,” Bolan said.
He and Manning ducked under the slowing props and crossed over to where Buck Green, chief of security, waited behind the wheel of the SUV. He smiled as the Stony Man commandos approached.
“How was Canada?”
“Chilly,” Bolan replied.
“He
