He swerved to aim directly for the closing gap, uncertain if the Phantom’s six-foot-six-inch width would clear.
Almost.
He scraped the stone and concrete gatepost on the driver’s side, got roughly halfway through, and then the gate crunched up against the Phantom on his right. Cursing, he tried to power through, flayed paint from both sides with a high-pitched grinding sound that resonated through his teeth like talons on a chalkboard.
Stuck.
He couldn’t force his door to open, but he powered down the window, wriggled through with difficulty with his web gear, then leaned back inside to grab his M-4 carbine from the seat.
Barely in time.
Bullets were pinging off the Rolls and off the gate as Bolan pulled his weapon free and spun to face his enemies. He saw the RPG man lining up another shot and Bolan didn’t hesitate, slamming a burst into his target’s chest, then ducking as the guy pitched over backward, triggering the rocket. It cleared the gate by about six inches, hurtling off into the night.
And then the rest of them were firing, Bolan spraying them with 5.56 mm manglers as he dodged behind the gatepost. It was solid, but it wasn’t huge. His enemies could flank him easily, set up a cross fire that would root him out and cut him down.
Or they could simply open up the gate.
How long before one of them thought of that? Five seconds? Ten?
When life was measured by a stopwatch counting down, it clarified the mind. Bolan was ready for the flame-out, reaching for another frag grenade, determined to eliminate as many of the shooters as he could before he fell.
With all the gunfire ringing in his ears, he almost didn’t hear the Porsche Boxster approaching, only recognized it as the jet-black convertible slid to a halt on the road some twenty feet from where he crouched. There was a woman in the driver’s seat, leaning across to shout at Bolan through her open window.
“Need a lift?”
He didn’t hesitate. Pulling the frag grenade’s pin, Bolan lofted the bomb over the gate and sat tight for six seconds until the charge blew. Then he broke from cover, firing backward with the M-4, one-handed, not looking or caring to see where his bullets might strike.
The Boxster’s passenger door swung open to greet him. Bolan dropped into the deep bucket seat, slammed the door and felt sudden acceleration press him backward into leather.
Glancing at him while she drove, the woman said, “I’d call that quite a cock-up. Wouldn’t you?”
CHAPTER FOUR
New Jersey Turnpike, northbound
“I didn’t catch your name back there,” Bolan said when they’d covered several miles with no sign of pursuit.
“Natalia Volkova,” the lady said.
That pegged her accent. Russian.
“Okay,” Bolan replied. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful that you helped me out back there. But could you tell me how you happened by?”
She glanced at him around a spill of auburn hair that draped the shoulders of her conservative suit. She hardly needed makeup, but she wore dark lipstick and some eye shadow. Bolan couldn’t be sure of colors in the red-orange dashboard light.
“I did not, as you say it, ‘happen by,’” Volkova corrected him. “I have been watching these Albanian mudaki for nearly six weeks.”
“Mudaki?” Bolan echoed.
“A figure of speech,” she replied with a hint of a smile. “My point is that I am investigating them, not saving you. You understand?”
“I’m getting there. One thing’s still a little hazy, though. Which agency is it you’re representing here, again?”
She lost the smile, so tenuous to start with. “You would argue jurisdiction now? Perhaps I should deliver you back to the place I found you, eh?”
“Relax,” Bolan suggested. “I just want to know where I should send my thank-you note.”
After a silent mile, she said, “I am not from your country, yes? I think you know this.”
“It was sinking in,” Bolan agreed.
“Lorik Cako and those he serves are not only a problem in your great New Jersey and New York. They plague a list of countries, mine among them.”
“Which would be?” As if he didn’t know.
She missed a beat, then said, “The Russian Federation. Are you frightened now? You wish to jump out of my car?”
“I’ll stick at least until we hit a Waffle House,” Bolan said. “So, what are you? FIS or FSB?”
“FSB,” she replied, in a voice that almost made it sexy.
“Aren’t you supposed to operate primarily inside the federation?”
“Primarily,” she said. “But like your FBI, we are empowered to pursue domestic cases when they lead abroad.”
“So Washington knows that you’re here, and what you’re doing?” Bolan asked.
“I’m an investigator, not a diplomat,” Natalia said. “I follow orders, leaving all negotiations in the hands of my superiors. And you?”
“No one’s ever accused me of diplomacy,” Bolan replied.
“From what I saw tonight, you are a man of action. Not entirely legal action, granted. But I envy you a little.”
It was Bolan’s turn to frown. “Be careful what you wish for,” he replied.
“Sorry?”
“Forget it. After what you saw and heard tonight, why did you pick me up?”
“Perhaps because you’ve done what I have wished to do since I began tracking these animals. Perhaps I hoped that we could share intelligence and bring them down together. That sounds foolish, I suppose?”
“Not necessarily,” Bolan said. He’d collaborated with the FSB before, but had to ask, “What will your people say?”
Volkova shrugged. “Sometimes, what they don’t know won’t hurt me, eh?”
“I hear that,” Bolan said. “It’s risky, though.”
“You seem to favor risk.”
“The calculated ones, at least,” Bolan stated. “I’ve never cared for jumping off a cliff blindfolded.”
“Did you know what to expect at Cako’s house tonight?” she asked.
“An auction.”
“Da. That bastard sells women and children as if they were
