Bolan feigned amazement.

"Hey, listen now..."

Growing nervous, the "sergeant" snapped, jabbing the air with his scattergun for emphasis.

"Shut up, and let's see those hands," he ordered.

"Okay, Jesus," Bolan stammered, "just don't shoot, all right?" '

His left hand was already shoulder high when the right hand poked through the open front of his overcoat. Downslope, his huddled targets had but a heartbeat to read the death message in his eyes before Bolan stroked the trigger.

The Ingram man-shredder fires at a cyclic rate of 1,200 rounds per minute, rattling off a clip of thirty-two 9mm parabellums in a second and a half. Bolan held the trigger down, and few of his bullets missed flesh inside the narrow stairwell.

He took the "sergeant" first, neutralizing his deadly riot gun. A line of steel-jackets zippered him from crotch to throat, opening his stolen uniform and releasing his stuffing in a surging, liquid rush. The hollow man tumbled backward, dead fingers triggering a blast that released a rain of plaster.

The other uniform gave a startled cry and swung his Walther up, tracking his target. His hands were shaking, and his first shot gouged the wall a foot to Bolan's left.

Bolan hung a wreath of parabellum manglers around the gunner's neck, watching face disintegrate. The uniform's cap was blown away, his scalp inside it, sailing down the stairs like a bloody discus.

The third man was still groping for his weapon when the headless corpse hit him, knocking him off balance. Already smeared with blood, he swatted the thing away, half turning and tugging harder at reluctant gun leather.

Bolan's automatic fire hit him in a blazing figure eight, and the half-turn became a jerky, spinning dance of death. His trench coat rippled with the deadly drumming impact, releasing a crimson tide, mingling with his partner's blood. A final burst swept him off his feet and pitched him headlong down the staircase, joining the others in a tangled heap of arms and legs.

In the sudden, ringing stillness, Bolan heard the building come alive. Doors banged open, sleepy voices shouted questions. Bolan fed the MAC-10 a fresh clip, moving past the bodies toward the back door.

Bolan knew enough of Minh's strategy to expect a backup outside. If the sounds of battle hadn't carried to the street, there was still a chance for him to take the backup by surprise. With luck, he might even learn the whereabouts of Amy Culp.

He gave Minh credit for the suck play. The man counted on his enemy returning to the nest, and it worked... almost. Another moment either way, and it could have been Bolan sprawling in his own blood at the bottom of the stairs.

He gained the back alley, melting into darkness as he circled cautiously around the building. If Minh was running true to form, a car and driver would be waiting for him on the street in front. Whether he could take the guy alive, whether such a hostage would know anything about the girl, remained to be seen.

He was running on the numbers now knowing only moments remained before police received a call about the shooting. They might be on their way already, and he had no desire for confrontation with legitimate authorities.

In Bolan's eyes, police were soldiers of the same side. He never fired on them, even at the height of his war against the Mafia, when they pursued him as the most-wanted criminal alive. His uncompromising stand won the Executioner a host of secret friends in law enforcement, and more than once his freedom depended on an officer who looked the other way.

To all but a few, the Executioner was dead, consumed in the grim finale of his last Mafia campaign. There were no more friends and allies now; San Francisco's finest would respond at full alert to a report of shooting in their streets.

Bolan reached the avenue and found the Caddy sitting at the curb with engine idling. He drew the silent Brigadier from side leather, moving to take the driver on his blind side. Misty darkness hid him as he passed along the street with hurried strides.

The driver was distracted, straining for a view of the apartment house, ablaze with lights. As Bolan reached the car, the front door of the building opened, spilling yellow light and frightened, shouting tenants into the street.

The guy was torn between an urge to run and the desire to help his crewmates. Bolan made the choice for him, reaching in and tapping him on the shoulder with the Belle.

The driver's head whipped around, eyes widening and crossing as the pistol hovered inches from his nose. Bolan let him stare at it for a moment, ticking off the numbers in his head.

"Wha... what the hell..."

"Nice and easy," Bolan told him. "Move it over,"

"You're the boss."

But the man's eyes were darting, shifting, seeking something over Bolan's shoulder in the fog. Something dark and dangerous stirred in the back of Bolan's mind, setting off alarms.

The soldier risked a backward glance and saw the trap closing.

A limousine was cruising slowly toward him from the east, running without lights. Across the street, dark figures were approaching through the fog, flashlights probing, feeling for him.

A classic suck play, and the Executioner had walked into it with his eyes wide open, never thinking his adversary might deploy a secondary backup.

A fumble, sure, and potentially a lethal one.

He was out of numbers now, running on guts and nerves of steel. The warrior knew that when the odds were insurmountable, you took the only course available.

You attacked, with everything you had.

Bolan sprang into action as the flashlights spotted him. The driver panicked, disengaged the parking brake, and Bolan chopped him hard across the temple with his pistol. The guy folded. Bolan opened the door, pushed the driver's slack form across the seat and slid behind the wheel.

Downrange, the limo's headlamps blazed forward, blinding in the fog, and the tank leaped forward with a screech of tortured rubber. Across the street, foot soldiers were advancing in a line, firing as they came. The Caddy was taking hits, lead hail drumming on the doors and fenders.

A bullet struck the window behind him, ricocheted and burrowed into Bolan's headrest. Tiny fragments stung his cheek, drawing blood below his eye. Angry bullets filled the car's interior, buzzing in one side and out the other.

Bolan dropped the Caddy into gear and floored the accelerator, tires smoking into a collision course with the limousine. He also kicked on the high beams, giving the enemy driver a taste of his own medicine. He caught a glimpse of angry faces, blinded by light.

The two cars stormed toward each other, engines snarling. Bolan saw guns bristling from the limo, dirty orange flame winking madly from the muzzles. The rounds were on target, blasting paint off the hood and fenders of his car. One of Bolan's headlights exploded, but the tank rolled on, a speeding cyclops.

At the last instant, with a heartbeat to spare before collision, Bolan cut the wheel hard left and veered across the limo's path, barely skimming past. Startled faces swiveled toward him as they passed, and Bolan snapped off a quick double-punch from the Beretta. One of the gunners grew an extra, sightless eye in the middle of his forehead, his face going slack as he melted out of sight. The Executioner was past the limo, gunning the Caddy toward open road as the enemy driver stood on his brake, fighting to bring his car around.

At his back, the firing faltered, trailing off as the limousine came between him and the skirmish line of soldiers. Bolan seized the opportunity to make his break, squeezing yet another ounce of speed from the crew wagon's straining power plant.

Beside him, Bolan's captive groaned, shifting on the seat, stirring fitfully. The Executioner dismissed him with a glance; the guy was out of it for now, and even if he came around, there was no place for him to go at their present speed. He was with Bolan for the duration of the ride.