The two men had completed setting up the RPG-7. They were sighting and preparing to fire.

For the first time they heard the approaching sports car and in unison swung startled glances over their shoulders.

Bolan could feel the steering wheel furrowing his palms, just as the tires were digging furrows into the grassy ground beneath him.

It would be tight, yeah.

Yazid and Pouyan exchanged frantic words.

The Corvette came on relentlessly.

Bolan spared a sideways glance.

The Mercedes also was eating up time and space. Bolan calculated its present distance from the STOL at about thirty yards and closing fast.

Real tight.

Seconds flew by like the last grains of sand dropping through an hourglass — impersonal, oblivious to human drama or even life itself.

As Bolan's vehicle swallowed up the distance between him and the van, the big soldier reached across and grabbed the Uzi from where it had been riding on the seat beside him.

He was practically on top of the men by the van now.

They, too, had readjusted their priorities. The general and company seemed temporarily forgotten. The two Iranians in commando black hurriedly began shifting the RPG-7 around in an arc to line up on the approaching car.

When he was about seventy feet from the van, and while the two were still hassling with their gear, Bolan wrenched the Corvette off course yet again.

The car swerved in a wide half-circle, bringing Bolan abreast of the two men and still sailing.

With his right hand only, he continued steering while with his left he swung the Uzi up until its stubby snout was pointing out the window at the two men like an accusing finger.

The Iranian on the left moved faster than his buddy. He took a dive away from the rocket launcher and fell loosely into a roll that continued under the van and out of sight. Bolan had guessed from watching the two that this was Yazid. He had been giving the orders. And he moved with the grace of a desert snake.

Out in the open, Amir Pouyan dropped into a crouch, grabbing for a side arm.

As Bolan sped past, the blurred impression of the Iranian's eyes and mouth flying open wide with the awful realization of approaching death registered for one instant.

Then the Uzi was chattering madly in Bolan's ears, and the hail of 9mm slugs was doing its work, rendering Pouyan's facial expression into exploding matter.

Amir Pouyan executed a wild jig of death as the Uzi ended his career as an Islamic assassin. Some of the bullets riddled the van behind him, splashing the side of the vehicle with a running mosaic of blood.

The Corvette sped by, missing the nose of the van by fractions of an inch. Bolan got a view of the other side of the van for the first time.

Karim Yazid had not remained under the van.

The last remaining terrorist of the commando team had moved around, retrieving the RPG-7 from the fallen Amir. He was now up on one knee in the classic bazooka firing stance, with the RPG-7 propped over his left shoulder.

Waiting for Bolan.

Bolan spotted Yazid at the exact moment that his car roared into the rocket launcher's range.

Bolan dropped the Uzi. He dropped the steering wheel. He dropped everything. He bent low and, with the car still roaring, propelled himself across the Corvette's front bucket seats, stiff-arming the passenger door open and rolling from the speeding vehicle at precisely the same moment that he heard the booming of the RPG-7.

Bolan hit the ground hard but rolling, keeping his perfectly conditioned body loose and relaxed, carrying through with a roll that ended with him upright on his feet and running at full tilt, the mighty .44 AutoMag under his arm seeming to leap into his right fist of its own volition.

But even as Bolan was rolling, then running, the ground shook beneath him. The rocket launcher's report was echoed and swallowed up by the second, louder, explosion of the moving Vette being blown into a wild ball of orange-red fire and noise and fragmenting automobile.

Bolan felt chunks of debris flying by him, but he didn't pay attention to that.

He was looking for Yazid.

There was no sign of the guy.

The commando leader had not waited around to confirm the hit. The Iranian had been sure of himself, and with damn good reason.

A worthy adversary, yeah. A deadly foe.

The engine of the van roared to life. Yazid was apparently aborting the mission, forgetting about the general and everything else except staying alive and getting the hell out of there. He was not the martyr type, apparently. The guy knew impossible resistance when he saw it, and all he wanted now was out.

The van lurched into gear and started pulling away, doing a U-turn that would take it back out the same way it had entered the airfield.

Bolan squeezed off a round intended for the van's left rear tire, but the vehicle jolted across a rut in the turf at that precise moment, and the slug only kicked up a clump of dirt inches to the left.

The Executioner was sighting for another shot when assistance arrived from a decidedly unexpected quarter.

The Mercedes carrying General Nazarour and his group came barreling in full speed from left field, literally. The driver pulled the car around in a sharp turn so that the Mercedes effectively blocked the van's intended route of retreat.

Yazid tried to avoid the collision by swerving to the left.

Bolan found himself tensing a split second before the inevitable crash filled the air with the sound of impacting metal on metal, mingled with shattering glass and human sounds.

The van hobbled away from the collision, slowing to a halt, while the Mercedes didn't seem to have sustained much more damage than a slightly dented front right fender.

The car had slewed away from the impact and also come to a stop.

Bolan moved fast toward the driver's side of the van. There was no movement from inside the cab. No silhouette of Karim Yazid's figure behind the wheel.

That was because Yazid had attempted Bolan's own maneuver, dropping out through the passenger side of the cab, which was facing away from Bolan.

The Iranian hit leader suddenly appeared from behind the van's tail. He held his Ingram. The deadly weapon was spraying the area where Bolan should have been.

Except that opponents don't fool Bolan with Bolan's own tactics.

At the first blur of movement from behind the van, before Karim Yazid had even been a discernible figure, Mack Bolan had dropped forward onto his belly in a prone firing position, his right fist supported by his left, both elbows propped up, and an iced blue eye as cold as death itself sighting along Big Thunder's stainless-steel barrel.

The two hundred and forty grains of Judgment turned Karim Yazid's skull into a bloody, collapsing thing and his life into nothing but a bad memory. The impact of the head shot lifted what was left of the hired Iranian assassin up off his feet and deposited him in an impossibly tangled heap of bones and dead flesh six feet away.

Mack Bolan rose to his feet, that smooth combat movement honed as always to a tight edge. The eyes were still iced. The .44 shifted from the dead man to the parked Mercedes.

Minera, still clad in his head honcho security guard outfit, emerged from behind the steering wheel. The guy was playing it very cool. He was not unaware of the fact that the .44 was now drawing a bead on the area directly between his eyes. But he kept his voice steady.

"Relax, Colonel. No need to point that thing at me. I figured I owed you for the help you gave me and my boys back in Potomac."

"Step forward," Bolan instructed, and Minera obeyed.

An angry sound that Bolan could not identify came from the back seat of the Mercedes.

Minera chuckled as Bolan approached and came up close. "The general isn't quite as appreciative as I am," he told Bolan. "He said that you were a good diversion. He wanted us to climb aboard the plane and beat it and let you and Yazid take care of each other, I didn't see it that way."