He rounded the corner and moved quickly along the street in a cautious withdrawal toward the war-wagon — a very special vehicle he'd acquired in New Orleans an eternity or so ago. The unconscious girl was draped over his left shoulder — not much of a burden at a hundred pounds or so but a bit slippery. It was the dress that was causing the problem, a silky little chemise sort of thing that seemed to have no reference whatever to the body beneath it — a rather delectable body even under such strained circumstances.

It was that high-rise bottom, Bolan realized, that was the center of the problem. His carrying forearm was locked in just below the swelling buttocks as the most practical point of purchase — and the elusive dress, which barely covered the point, anyway, simply was not playing ball with the situation.

Fifty paces off the wharf he elected to sacrifice a bit of female modesty in the interests of the practical realities of the matter, pausing to readjust the load and get a better handle on it, moving the slippery material up and over the problem area and placing a hand where it did the most good.

No sooner had that problem been righted than another presented itself. A twin beam of automobile foglights was moving along the street toward him, close to the curb and cruising slowly with a spotlight probing the sidewalk along Bolan's side of the street. Cops, was Bolan's first reading — primarily because he had been wondering about the apparent lack of response to the gunfire on the wharf.

He quickly slid the girl down into a frontal embrace, positioned flopping arms about his neck, and held her there with her back against the wall of a building.

It was not much of a play, and he knew it, but it seemed the only thing available at the moment. The fog was not all that thick up here off the water, either; if it was cops, the thing could be touch and go. Mack Bolan did not gunfight with the law.

The spot of light had not touched them by the time the vehicle drew directly abreast, and Bolan was breathing easier as it moved on past into the mists. But there was something ominous about that car; from what Bolan could see, it did not have the appearance of an official police vehicle.

As if to substantiate that gut feeling, it halted one car length beyond Bolan's position, a door opened and a cautious voice with a most decided East Coast inflection quietly commanded, "Run the spot back along that wall."

Another door opened and Bolan heard heavy feet hit the pavement.

The spotlight danced rearward, momentarily catching and illuminating two figures on the sidewalk beside the vehicle.

And, no, it was not cops.

It was a hard force, and the two guys on the sidewalk were carrying Thompson subs without stocks — very ornery weapons, from any point of view.

Suckered!

He should have scouted the area better before committing himself to a fight on this turf!

Bolan did not — nor could he afford to — make many mistakes. In a game like his, every number was vitally important. But, yeah, he'd goofed on this one — miscalculated the enemy.

What hurt the most, in that realization, was the knowledge that this maneuver was a simple SOP for the mob. They frequently worked this way, in a "layered" operation. They'd used a front line force, "goats" for the actual work at the warehouse. Then a set crew just up off the scene, for direct support — Flora and Trinity. Finally a "saver" force cruising the backdrops, playing the rear — like a football defense with linebackers and safety backs playing a zone defense.

These dudes with the choppers were the saver force.

They'd heard the gunfire — and cruised, wondering, waiting, looking for a way to save the play in case it'd gone sour.

And these boys would be the cream of the defense.

All this flashed through Bolan's peaking combat consciousness as he lowered the girl onto her back and moved catlike to the street in a single bound. He came lightly to rest on the balls of his feet, poised and ready to strike with Big Thunder up and ready.

Trick shot time again, sure, and with no room whatever for anything less than absolute precision targeting. Each round would have to unerringly find a "death spot" — leaving not even a dying twitch to the trigger fingers. A defenseless girl lay sprawled unconscious in the shadow of those guns.

And now the spotlight had found the girl, revealing also bulky human shapes at the fringe of illumination — one slightly bent forward over the unconscious figure, the other stationed in firing readiness, head swiveled uprange, tense and alert.

Then a surprised discovery: "Hey, Mario! It's that broad!"

From the car: "What broad?"

"That Webb chick! You know, the — "

"Dead?"

"Naw. Out, though. Now how the hell ...?"

"So it wasn't cops! Get 'er in here and let's go!"

Perhaps ten seconds had elapsed since Bolan left the girl's side. He sighed into the hair trigger as the guy bent over to grab her, the big slug hurtling forth under tremendous energy to rip into the ear and topple its victim in a grotesque headfirst sprawl. The blazing muzzle of the AutoMag executed a small arc and bellowed again, the two reports coming together as a stuttering borbooml as the other machine gunner spun off into dark oblivion with 240 grains of instant dispatch thundering up his nose.

The third round came out of a whirling dance that put the attacker in the center of the street directly opposite the idling vehicle, and this one splattered through glass to find human flesh and bone, sending a shower of departing lifeforces spraying onto the man at the far side — one "Mario" who was then reflexing into probably the final "save" of a misspent career.

Round four overtook him at the doorpost as he was spilling groundward in hasty retreat, helping him along, punching him down in a tumbling descent that rolled him over and laid him face up on the cement.

The wheelman had lost the top of his head to round three.

End of saver force, and nothing saved. Almost.

"Mario" was groaning and jerking around over there.

Bolan took the direct route — sliding over the roof of the car and coming down at the guy's feet. He kicked a fallen pistol out of reach and knelt beside him.

Round four had removed a chunk of shoulder then gone on to whittle at the neck near the base of the ear. Blood was spurting from the neck wound. More was soaking the fancy silk suit through the shattered shoulder. The guy's eyes were open and aware of his situation. Bolan guided the good hand to the pressure point on the carotid artery as he quietly advised, "Keep a pressure there. You may save something yet."

The guy's eyes thanked him, even while damning him.

"Mario who?" Bolan inquired. The torpedo tried to say something but the machinery would not work.

Bolan showed him a bull's-eye cross then dropped it to his chest. "If you make it, Mario, tell your bosses they're not going to work it here. Not until they get past me."

He left the guy lying there in his blood and went to the girl, who was lying in someone else's blood. Lucky for her, she was still unconscious — it was quite a mess she was soaking up.

The distant wail of police sirens was now in the air. The girl was growing rapidly as a direct liability. She was going to slow him, perhaps fatally, but still he could not leave her there like that.

Bolan plucked her from the gore and returned her to his shoulder, examining her quickly with his hands to make sure that the blood glistening on her backsides was not her own. Then he quickly crossed the street and took off on a trot for his waiting vehicle.

From the sounds of those sirens, the whole area was becoming a death trap. He'd already overplayed his numbers — and he was very quickly, now, running out of them.