The grim alternative was certain death, and Hannon had already come to terms with that reality. If all else failed, he was determined now to take the gunmen with him. He would smash the Buick into anything available — a bridge abutment or a semirig — before he let them lead him like a lamb to slaughter.

Suddenly it came to him.

The gunner's name was Joey Stompanato.

Hannon's memories were flooding back as if the file lay open on a desk in front of him. They called him Joey Stomps, a nickname dating back to when he used to muscle for the local shylocks, breaking legs and skulls as an enforcer for the mob's elite collection agency. He was suspected of a dozen homicides in Florida alone, but Stompanato's only time inside had been the thirty days he served for battery in the sixties.

Joey Stomps was lethal, right. And at the moment, he belonged to Tommy Drake.

That told the ex-detective everything he had to know, and it increased his grim resolve to take the killers with him as a last resort.

They were merging onto Flagler, running to the west, when Hannon spied the tail. His back-seat passenger had shifted, and Hannon saw the Firebird shadowing them. It might have been coincidence, or Stompanato was professional enough to bring a backup team, in case of some mishap. If there were other guns behind them, then his freedom leap was doomed before he made the effort. Even if the crash got Stompanato and his sidekick, number two would swerve and crush the life from Hannon as he bounced across the street.

Okay. The enemy was closing out his options, leaving him with only one alternative.

The traffic started thinning out, and Hannon took advantage of it, tromping on the accelerator. Stompanato jammed the .357 Magnum hard against the ex-detective's ribs, thumbing back the hammer.

"Slow down, goddammit! We're not taking any tickets."

Hannon grinned and kept the pedal down. Don't worry, Stomps, you bought your ticket when you came aboard. One-way, to the end of the line.

Hannon could feel the muzzle of his own Colt still jammed between his shoulders from behind, and he braced himself to take the bullet.

"Ease off, you bastard!"

Hannon laughed at Stompanato, recognized the crackle of incipient hysteria in his voice.

Stompanato's sidekick had the rearview mirror blocked, his face a twisted panic mask, but Hannon caught the Firebird in the side mirror now, approaching and about to overtake them on the left.

The starboard window powered down, and Hannon glimpsed a flash of steel inside as a pistol leveled into target acquisition. The ex-cop had a flash impression of a single, solemn face, a spill of raven hair across the forehead as the driver sighted down the barrel.

Stompanato's backup was alone, and even as Hannon registered the oddity of that, he pushed the riddle from his mind. A quarter mile ahead of them, a freeway overpass provided him with what he needed, massive concrete pylons waiting to receive the hurtling Buick.

Hannon hunched his shoulders, leaning toward the steering wheel as if his posture might extract another mile or two per hour from the straining engine. He never really felt the blow that Stompanato landed on his ribs.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Firebird's sleek nose lining up with the Buick's, and he waited for the bullet to core his skull. The backup man would panic, try to stop him with a flying shot, and the ex-policeman was gratified to know it would not matter in the least. When he died, the Buick would continue on for a hundred yards or so before his dead weight locked the steering wheel and sent them over in a devastating barrel roll.

All that flashed through Hannon's mind within a heartbeat, vividly emblazoned on the mental viewing screen — and none of it took place.

There was no shot. Instead the Firebird pulled away, outdistancing the Buick and leaving them behind.

Abruptly, up ahead, the sportster cut in front of him, its brake lights winking on. Instinctively, John Hannon hit the brakes and cranked the wheel around to avoid the collision, veering right and off the pavement. They plowed across the shoulder, and a grassy bank was looming up ahead of them before he had a chance to realize that he was losing it.

The Buick started climbing, drive wheels chewing turf and spitting gravel. They were drifting, sliding, slowly losing ground, the engine choking, stalling out.

They had him.

Hannon knew it, and something snapped inside of him. He lashed at Stompanato with a backhand, ripping his knuckles on the gunner's teeth. Then the ex-cop found the door latch, wrenching at it, spilling out onto the grass.

The Smith & Wesson roared behind him, and he felt its fiery breath against his cheek before he tumbled momentarily out of range. The heavy bullet pushed its shock waves past his face.

And he was scrambling on his hands and knees now, struggling to gain his feet and knowing if he did that he would make a perfect target for the pistoleros.

In his panic, Hannon saw the third man only as a shadow, moving up the bank with loping strides. The ex-detective tried to veer away and lost his balance, sprawling, rolling over on his back.

The new arrival reached him, passed him, breaking for the Buick with an autoloading pistol in his fist. Beyond him, Joey Stompanato was a hulking silhouette emerging from the driver's door, his Magnum probing emptying air.

The newcomer hit a crouch and snapped his automatic out to full arm's length, the weapon's silencer emitting muffled popping sounds. The Stomper crumpled backward, streaming liquid traces of himself across the inside of the windshield.

The stranger pivoted, acquiring target number two before the back-seat gunner realized exactly what was happening. A single bullet struck the Buick's window, drilled on through and pulped the hit man's face. He disappeared without a sound.

The sole surviving shooter doubled back, already holstering the autoloader underneath his jacket.

"Time to go," he said. "You ready, Hannon?"

"Do we know each other?"

Mack Bolan, in the driver's seat, glanced over at his passenger.

"We've never met," he answered.

They had never met face to face, but in the early days of Bolan's war against the Mafia their paths had crossed. John Hannon was a captain of detectives then, determined to abort the latest efforts of a hellfire warrior who was taking on the Mob alone. The captain had led the riot squad, responding after Bolan had dropped in uninvited on a syndicate convention in Miami. But the police skipper had come too late, arriving just in time to help pick up the pieces from a strike that left the mafiosi reeling, locally and nationwide.

The man who sat beside Mack Bolan now was different, aged. It showed around his eyes, in graying hair and in the hard set of his mouth. He was a man with troubles, right, and Hannon's problems were a part of what had brought the Executioner back again to southern Florida.

"You saved my ass back there," John Hannon said. "I owe you one."

"You owe me nothing."

"Well, I'd like to shake your hand, at least." They shook, and Hannon's grip was solid, firm. "At the risk of sounding like an ingrate... why'd you do it? I mean, who the hell are you?''

Bolan had the answer ready. "Frank LaMancha. And you seemed worth saving."

"Are you federal?"

"Not exactly," Bolan answered, skating in as close to candor as he dared. "I think we have a common interest."

Hannon chewed on that a moment staring out the window, finally deciding not to push it.

When he broke his silence Hannon said, "I'll have to make a call about the shooting. Metro won't take long to trace my car."

The Executioner was well ahead of him.