them. Step one was blacking out the other light before it marked his place and someone on the sidelines made a lucky shot.
He saw the glaring beam wash over his position, even though it couldn’t find him in the shadow of the small communications hut. It wouldn’t take the sentries long to close around him, pin him down, and numbers could defeat him then. He wasn’t Superman, wasn’t invincible. A storm of fire would drop him where he stood, like anybody else, unless he found a way out of the trap.
Lights first.
Taking a chance, he stepped into the open, raised his weapon, sighting down the beam of that all-seeing eye. Before the startled hunters could react, Bolan triggered another burst and blacked out the floodlight, toppling one of its minders from his lofty perch into a screaming swan dive to the earth below.
The sudden darkness covered him, but not for long. On orders from their chief, the camp’s guards were advancing, still maintaining discipline of fire, but it would only take one glimpse of Bolan in the shadows, one stray shot, to spark chaos.
Why wait?
Bolan fired two quick rounds toward the west, then pivoted, already moving, and triggered two more to the east. He was running south toward the command post when someone to the east returned his fire, immediately echoed by a weapon to the west.
Good hunting, Bolan thought, and left them to it. Gunfire popped and crackled through the compound, drowning out the gruff voice of the officer who tried to shout it down. The leader would have a rough time with control, Bolan calculated, but the danger hadn’t passed, by any means. A stray shot could be just as deadly as a sniper’s well-aimed bullet, and the sudden crash in discipline meant sentries would be trigger-happy all around the compound.
Bolan concentrated on his first task, pushing on through firelight and shadows toward the command post. If the object he sought wasn’t there, he was stumped—and that boded ill for his mission.
Where was it?
What was it?
Bolan had hoped he’d recognize the object when he saw it, but so far the camp had yielded nothing even close to what he sought. If he struck out at the CP, he’d have to seek another source of inside information that could put him on the track.
Inside.
Someone from Camp Yahweh might do the trick, but that would mean escaping with a hostage under fire. It would be risky, at the very least, perhaps impossible. A last resort, in any case.
Bolan stayed focused on his first priority. The camp CP was fifty yards in front of him, with two men posted on the porch. He saw no trace of the leader, guessing that the bearded officer would be among his troops.
So much the better.
Closing from their right-hand side, the Executioner drew the 93-R from its armpit rig and triggered two quick shots. The nearer guard collapsed as if he were a puppet and someone had snipped his strings. The other spun to face a danger he couldn’t identify, and Bolan dropped him with a quiet Parabellum round between the eyes.
He left them there, shrouded in shadows, and passed through an unlocked door into the boss man’s private quarters. They were neat enough, but still possessed a kind of musky odor that he couldn’t place.
Ignore it, he thought.
Bolan swiftly checked any hiding places he could think of in the Spartan quarters: closets, footlocker, beneath the sturdy cot. He checked desk drawers, in hope of finding sketches, plans, perhaps a note that would direct him to a secret cache.
Nothing.
Bolan retraced his steps through empty rooms, back to the porch. The two dead guards were lying where he’d left them, but they weren’t alone.
Five gunmen ringed the porch, all watching Bolan over weapons pointed at his chest.
“DROP THE WEAPON! Raise your hands! Don’t move!”
The shouted orders echoed from behind Simon Grundy, causing him to turn and squint through firelight toward his quarters. Several of his men were clustered there, pointing their weapons at a tall man on the porch.
A tall man dressed in black, faces and hands painted with combat cosmetics to match.
“Hold up, there!” Grundy shouted at them. “Don’t—”
Before he could complete the thought, a burst of automatic fire blazed from the stranger’s weapon, toppling one of Grundy’s troopers from the porch. At the same instant, as if propelled by his weapon’s recoil, the trespasser sprang backward, slammed the door with his free hand and disappeared.
The others started pouring fire into the bungalow, as fast as they could pull the triggers on their AR-15 carbines. Bullets drilled the wall, blew out the windows, rattled the vibrating door in its frame. Grundy imagined his belongings in there, shot to hell, but he was focused on the stranger.
“Cease-fire, dammit!” Rushing among them, he grabbed first one rifleman and then another, wrestling them off target, shouting in their faces to be heard above the small-arms racket. “Hold your fire! I want that bastard breathing!”
“Too late, Major,” one of them replied. The youngster grinned and giggled.
“Oh, you think so?” Grundy shoved him toward the bullet-scarred front door. “So, get in there and check it out.”
The skinhead hesitated, then put on his war face, nodded once and rushed the door. He didn’t think to try the knob, but kicked it open, Grundy waving others in behind him as he rushed the living room.
There was no body in the living room, no blood to indicate that any of his men had scored a hit with their wild firing through the wall and windows. They fanned out, checking the corners, even though they offered no concealment for a man-sized target.
Stalling.
Grundy led them to the bedroom door, which he knew he had left ajar. The trespasser had closed it, and two bullet holes marked the painted surface, as if peepholes had been carelessly installed, off center and at different levels.
“Nowhere else for him to go,” one of the soldiers said. They moved in closer, ringed the door with scowls and steel.
Grundy was trembling, but he couldn’t order one of them to go ahead of him this time. What would they think, if he sent someone else to check his sleeping quarters, maybe check under the bed for bogeymen.
Clutching his piece one-handed, Grundy turned the knob and shoved the door back with sufficient force to make it strike the wall, crouching as it swung open. Reinforcements crowded close behind him, leaning in to aim above his head and shoulders. If they fired, he would be deafened, but he didn’t mind the company just then.
The empty room made nonsense of their melodrama. Grundy rushed the closet, threw it open to reveal his extra uniforms, but no intruder hiding there. As he turned back to face the room, two of his men were peering underneath the cot from different sides and making faces at each other.
“Nothing,” one of them declared.
“The window’s unlocked, Major.”
Grundy saw it closed,
