he almost felt courageous, capable of anything.
Now that the grim truth of his situation was apparent, he could only wonder who the woman was, and what had happened to the tall American.
It seemed impossible that Matt Cooper had simply run away and left Guzman to fight alone. He had to have had some strategy, but so far—
Even with the other din, Guzman picked out a gunshot from one side, off in the dark field to his right. Cooper had run in that direction when the Fiat came to rest, not long ago in real-world time, although it felt like hours with the bullets snapping past Guzman.
He wondered if his car would ever run again, after the hits that it had taken and was taking, even now. He doubted it. Cars were such fragile things, despite their bulk and high price tags. A single loose wire ruined everything, and now his little ride was taking bullets like a target in a shooting gallery, most of them through the hood and grille.
Stranded, he thought, then almost laughed out loud.
What did it matter if his car was broken down when Guzman died? Where did he plan on driving, with his brains blown out?
That image made him angry, spurred his need to fight and leave the other bastards bloody, hurting, when he fell at last. Blazing away from cover, Guzman emptied his pistol’s magazine and actually thought he’d seen one of his targets fall before the weapon’s slide locked open on an empty chamber and he fumbled to reload.
He slapped his next-to-last clip into the receiver, knowing that it might as well have been the very last, since he would never have a chance to take the third one from his pocket. Once he rose, exposed himself, and charged the hostile guns, his life span would be timed in nanoseconds.
Still, the Latin concept of machismo said he had to do something, take some action that did not involve hiding and waiting for the enemy to root him out. If he had to die this night, at least it would be as a man and not a cringing worm.
Guzman lunged to his feet, snarling through clenched teeth as he felt the air ripple with bullets zipping past him. One of them would find him soon, but in the meantime he was firing, choosing targets, giving each in turn the double-tap that a policeman friend had taught him at the firing range. Advancing without hope that he would see another sunrise.
And, incredibly, his enemies fell back from Guzman’s wrath, reeling as his rounds sought their flesh and blood. It didn’t quell the hostile fire, but at the very least it spoiled their aim, sent some of the incoming bullets high and wide.
Amazing!
Guzman bellowed at them now, his rage echoing to the sounds of gunfire. He was vaguely conscious of new weapons firing on his left and right, joining their voices to his IMBEL’s hammering reports, and while he knew one of them had to be Cooper’s pistol, one of them the unknown woman’s, Guzman felt as if he had the battlefield all to himself, charging his enemies with more courage than common sense.
The bullet, when it found him, had the impact of a giant mailed fist, slamming viciously into the side of Guzman’s skull. He staggered, felt the earth slip out from underneath his feet, then saw it rush to meet him in a wave of darkness as he fell.
BOLAN SAW GUZMAN DROP but couldn’t help him at the moment. Only finishing their other adversaries would allow him to examine, and perhaps to treat, his contact’s wounds. Meanwhile, he also had to figure out who else had joined the fight, and why a total stranger would risk death to help him.
Nothing made sense yet, in the chaotic moment, and he couldn’t stop to mull it over while five or six gunmen were trying to kill him.
Bolan circled toward the Benz through darkness, ready with the IMBEL .45 for anyone who challenged him. His first clear shot, after the blonde he’d left behind him in the junk-yard, was a short and swarthy shooter with some kind of AK-looking weapon, firing from a fat drum magazine.
The gunner didn’t see him coming, likely never knew what hit him when a single round from Bolan’s autoloader drilled his skull behind the right ear, dropping him as if he was a puppet with its strings cut.
Forward from the crumpled corpse, between the dark Mercedes and the Volkswagen, three shooters bobbed and weaved, rising to fire at Guzman’s Fiat, crouching again for someone else’s turn. Two of them had the same short rifles as the man Bolan had killed a heartbeat earlier; the third carried a sleek pump-action shotgun with extended magazine.
Bolan came in behind them, wasted no time on a warning, caught one of them turning to investigate the sound of his last shot. He drilled that shooter through the left eye, swung a few feet to his left and gave the survivor a double-tap before the target realized that anything was wrong.
The shotgunner was turning, quicker than the others, ratcheting his weapon’s slide-action. Bolan wasn’t sure that he could beat the other man’s reflexes, but it didn’t matter.
From Bolan’s left, a gunshot sounded, and the side of his adversary’s head appeared to vaporize. The dead man standing looked surprised, but if the killing shot had caused him any pain, it didn’t register in his expression. He stood rock-still for a few heartbeats, then folded at the knees and toppled over backward, sprawling on the pavement.
Bolan had already swiveled toward the source of that last shot, the IMBEL automatic following his gaze. The woman who had saved his life—he saw her clearly now, and there could be no question of her femininity—held up an open hand, as if to block his shot, then nodded toward the other gunmen who were still blasting at Guzman’s car.
Split-second life-or-death decisions were a combat soldier’s stock-in-trade. Bolan made his and nodded, turning from the woman who could just as easily have killed him then, returning his whole focus to their common enemy.
Bolan had no idea where she had come from, who she was, or why she’d risk her life to help him in the middle of a firefight, but those questions had to wait. There would be time enough for talk if both of them survived the next few minutes.
Part of Bolan’s mind, condemned to deal with practicalities, wondered if he’d need Guzman to translate his conversation with the woman. And if Guzman died, how in the hell would they communicate?
Focusing once again on here and now, Bolan moved up toward the Volkswagen, with the woman flanking on his left. As far as he could see, two gunmen still remained. One was a short mestizo like most of the others, while the second was a dirty-blond white boy, stamped from the same mold as the one Bolan had left behind him, in the waste ground.
Bolan took the shooter nearest to him, offered no alerts or other chivalrous preliminaries as he found his mark and drilled the rifleman between his shoulder blades. The gunner went down firing, stitching holes across the trunk of the Volkswagen, while his Nordic-looking partner ducked and covered.
Rising from his crouch, the sole survivor caught sight of the woman first, and raised his pistol to confront her. She was faster, snapping off three rounds in rapid fire, stamped a pattern on her target’s chest and slammed him to the ground.
Bolan advanced with caution, made sure that the dead were all they seemed to be, then took another risk and let the woman have a clear shot at his back, while he ran to examine Jorge Guzman’s wounds.
Guzman was grappling back to consciousness as Bolan reached him, tried to raise his pistol, but he didn’t have the strength to stop Bolan from taking it away. Blood bathed the left side of his face and stained the collar of his shirt.
“Wha-What?
