exposed steel, shattered windows and charred brick. The alley had come to an end. Bolan braked hard, steered left. The big tires screamed in protest as the SUV spun 180 degrees before finally coming to rest. The stench of burning rubber and the roar of approaching motorcycle engines filled the SUV’s interior as Bolan regrouped.
Slamming the Jeep into reverse, he backed onto a nearby curb, then cut the wheel right to straighten the vehicle. Thumbing the electric window’s switch, the warrior grabbed the MP-5’s pistol grip, hefted the weapon and jammed it through the open window. Bolan pushed the stock into his shoulder and steadied the weapon. Rytova had opened her own window and aimed the Beretta’s muzzle ahead.
The motorcyclists emerged from the alley, weapons spitting flame and lead as they raced their way to Bolan’s position. Two more motorcycles approached the Jeep from either side.
The Executioner triggered the subgun, sweeping the muzzle across the alley and hosing down the approaching bikers. Return fire smacked into the windshield and burned past Bolan’s arm as he continued laying down sustained blasts of hellfire. Hot shell casings from the MP-5 flew, and bounced across the windshield and hood. Gunsmoke swirled in Bolan’s face, stung his eyes.
The night burst into thunder and flames as a round from Bolan’s subgun ignited one of the motorcycles’ fuel tanks, the resulting blaze immolating the driver in a spontaneous funeral pyre.
Bolan’s peripheral gaze caught another of his original pursuers bearing down on the Jeep. Before he could react, Rytova unloaded a 3-shot burst from the Beretta. The Parabellum rounds pounded into the man’s chest, and his dead fingers simultaneously released the SMG and the handlebars. The rider fell backward from his two-wheeler while momentum carried the bike onward until it collided with a wall.
The soldier took down two more bikers with the MP-5 before it locked dry. In the same instant, Rytova’s weapon ran empty. Bolan extracted two more 20-round magazines for the Beretta and tossed them to Rytova. He reloaded his own weapon. Just as he prepared to resume fire, the remaining attackers turned nearly in unison and fled.
Bolan and Rytova shared confused looks.
“They ran?” Rytova asked.
A sinking feeling told Bolan otherwise.
“More like a strategic retreat,” he said. “That can only mean something bad for us.”
The beating of helicopter blades in the distance told the Executioner he was right.
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