get me there.”
“Your tickets will be waiting at the counter,” Brognola said. “Good hunting, Striker.”
And that had been that.
Now, Bolan was in another cab, a world away from the streets of New York, in the middle of a bustling city that was no less vibrant—and far more dangerous, for him.
“Mr. Cooper,” Rosli said, breaking Bolan from his reverie, “I believe we have a problem.”
“The two taxis following us?” Bolan asked. He had been watching through the side mirror. The two cars had been trailing them since they left the airport.
“Yes,” Rosli said, grinning. “You do not disappoint me, Mr. Cooper. They are moving up.”
The two trailing car increased their speed, suddenly, horns bleating to clear other traffic as the twin vehicles moved up on either side of Rosli’s cab. Bolan glanced left, then right, and had just enough time to see the muzzles of the submachine guns poking from the open windows of the two cars.
“Break left, now!” Bolan ordered.
Rosli shot him a glance, not understanding.
Bolan reached out and grabbed the steering wheel.
As the cab’s tires squealed in protest and the vehicle careened toward the fender of the leading enemy, the submachine gunners in the trailing cars opened up, spraying Rosli’s cab with gunfire.
The crash was deafening.
2
The sound of rending metal and shattering glass was nothing the Executioner hadn’t heard before. As Rosli’s cab ground its nose into the side of the closest of the pursuing cars, Bolan kicked at his door savagely. It took three kicks to force the tortured passenger-side door open, but then he was hitting the pavement rolling as the two crippled vehicles shed their momentum, limped across the street and collided with the far-side curb. Bolan’s .44 Magnum Desert Eagle was in his fist as he rounded on the wrecked enemy vehicle.
He caught sight of movement from inside the taxi and began triggering 240-grain hollow points into the passenger compartment. The heavy rounds tore through the vehicle with merciless efficiency, pulping the gunners who were struggling to bring their automatic weapons to bear.
Bolan advanced. As he neared the taxi, now a tomb, he heard Rosli shout.
“Cooper! Down!”
He hit the ground without hesitation. A burst of automatic fire burned the air where he had been standing. The second taxi was coming around for another pass, the shooters inside spraying and praying as their driver cut across traffic with reckless abandon.
The Executioner was only too aware of the civilian traffic filling the busy city street. This was no place for a firefight. They were near an alley, the space between two large colonial-style buildings. He ran and reached into the open passenger door, grabbed Rosli—who was still behind the steering wheel crouched as low as he could get—and dragged him by his shirt through the opening, to the street.
“Back! Back!” Bolan shouted. Rosli got the idea fast enough and, with his revolver in his fist, traded fire with the drive-by gunners while Bolan dragged him into the alley.
“It will not take them long to—”
“No, it won’t,” Bolan said, cutting the man off. He was already holstering the Desert Eagle and drawing his Beretta 93-R machine pistol. He slapped the 20-round magazine to be sure of its fit and extended the weapon’s small forward grip, flicking the selector switch to three-round burst.
Bolan brought the Beretta up. The gunners weren’t terribly smart. Their unsuccessful vehicular assault had told him that much. The enemy cars had outnumbered Rosli’s taxi and were of at least equal power and weight. It should have been a lot harder to defeat them than it had been. The shooters inside the car had been too slow on the mark, as well, or he’d never have been able to stop them all before they could effectively return or preempt his fire. He didn’t know who the enemy was, though Brognola’s warning about the Padan Muka kept rolling around in his brain. If these were the best Prime Minister Fahzal could field for brownshirts, the Executioner wasn’t very impressed so far.
He raised his mental estimation of them a moment later when the first of the gunners entered the alley, one high, one low, already shooting. He realized they were armed with mini-Uzis. The deadly automatic weapons spat tongues of flame in the relative shadow of the alley. The sound of the brass spilling onto the pavement was lost in the roar of the guns.
Pressing himself against the wall of the alley, Bolan gave Rosli a helpful shove to push the man against the opposite wall. Rosli was smart enough to crouch low and take careful aim with his revolver. He picked off one of the shooters as Bolan extended his right arm, back against the wall, and took aim at another of them, feeling the automatic gunfire whistle past his face mere inches from his flesh.
The Executioner triggered a tri-burst that stitched the second man center-of-mass. The gunner fell without a sound, dead before he hit the ground. Bolan began to back up, sliding along the wall, aware that his movement would give him away and that he would have to be ready for that.
Two more gunners ducked into the alley, first firing blindly around the corner with their Uzis, then following the guns and rounding the corner. Rosli fired but missed. Bolan caught one man in the face with a three-round burst, then tracked and shot the next man. A grenade pinged off the far wall, thrown from the alley mouth, and bounced down the narrow space toward them.
Rosli was closer. He saw the grenade and, without hesitating, stepped forward and planted a firm toe-kick with impeccable accuracy. The grenade whipped back the way it came.
“Down!” Bolan ordered.
The grenade exploded in the alley mouth. Bolan counted to three, his ears ringing from the blast, and popped up with the Beretta 93-R in both hands.
He was concerned about shrapnel, about any civilians nearby who might have caught that grenade blast. He couldn’t fault Rosli for his fast action; the man had saved their lives. Had Bolan been closer he would have tried to direct the grenade farther up the alley rather than toward the open street, but he would not criticize the CIA operative; there was no point in second-guessing life-or-death combat decisions made in the heat of battle, done and over.
He advanced on the alley mouth. The bodies of the shooters he and Rosli had already killed were splayed in gruesome wreckage, torn by the explosion. Bolan had seen enough carnage in his lengthy personal war that the sight did not unnerve him, but he would never truly be used to it. The Executioner simply did what he had to do, and took in measured stride the dead men he left in his wake—men who had tried to take his life, or the lives of good men, women and even children.
He saw the third car before its occupants saw him. The four men within carried more submachine guns, Uzis all. Bolan braced himself against one wall of the alley, leveling the Beretta and letting his eyes flick left, then right, to check the immediate area for civilians. The streets of Kuala Lumpur were densely traveled and much traffic still sped by, but he saw no pedestrians nearby. There were only the shooters, still unidentified.
Bolan figured they were agents of Fahzal’s unfriendly government, determined to prevent an outside interest from interfering in the nation’s affairs.
He
