have leaned out the window and triggered a blast of autofire because the rear-door window shattered as Crosse opened it and leaped inside. One of the rounds ricocheted and struck Stein in the meaty part of the shoulder.
The agent yipped like a dog. Bolan shoved him inside the relative safety of the vehicle and then followed. “Go!”
Encizo, the gearshift already in Reverse, tromped the accelerator before Bolan could close his door. A retaining wall smashed into the door and nearly knocked it from its hinges. Thankfully, the solid metal body held under the torsion and it only managed to rip away a good part of the vinyl interior panel. Bolan got a viselike grip on the door, ignoring the shards of broken glass that bit into his callused hand, and yanked it close.
“Sorry…” Encizo said, head over shoulder, eyes glued to the rear window.
“Let’s try shooting out their tires!” Grimaldi suggested.
Bolan shook his head. “No. We might hit one of them.”
“Who the hell are you guys?” Crosse finally demanded.
“Later,” Bolan said as he pulled a thick gauze pad from one of the slit pockets of his blacksuit and slapped it on Stein’s bloody shoulder wound. He instructed Crosse to apply pressure, then pulled out a second one and wrapped his own hand.
“Well, if anyone’s got an idea, now would be the time to speak up,” Encizo said.
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