Schwarz reported, "They just passed me, running hell-bent. Pol is coming around now. Do we hit them out here or allow them to close some first?"

"Let them close," Bolan commanded. "Just stay on their tail. From the moment you hit the turn-off, run dark. There's plenty of visibility out here without lights."

"Affirm."

"Watch it, Sarge," Blancanales growled.

"Name of the game," Bolan replied.

"I'll run on down about a half-mile beyond the junction, then double back."

"Okay," Bolan agreed tightly. "Watch this road.

It's a bitch."

He surged forward then, sending the Ferrari into a hot run-up on those lights ahead, then he fell back, tracking at about ten car-lengths.

"Target knows I'm here," he announced. "Report into the junction."

"Roj," from Schwarz.

"Wilco," said Blancanales. "Running past now."

A moment later Schwarz reported, "Convoy turning east."

"Have them in sight," Blancanales muttered. "Coming about and re-closing."

"Tracking eastward," Schwarz said seconds later. "Are you running dark, Pol?"

"Affirm."

"Let's mark positions. Landmark ahead. Falling-down cabin, off to right. Large boulder, scraggly tree in front. Passing ... right ... now, mark!

Ten seconds later, Blancanales reported, "Mark. I'm off you ten seconds."

"Run it there," Bolan instructed.

So there was the line-up. Two diesel rigs, moving slowly hardly a car-length apart, Bolan pacing them ten car-lengths back. About two miles back and moving up fast, the three crew wagons, bearing a total of nineteen guns. A few seconds to their rear and running dark, Schwarz in the war-wagon; ten seconds behind him, Blancanales.

Tight numbers, yeah ... damn tight.

Bolan waited until the lights of the crew wagons were showing behind him. They would be spotting him now, running just off their precious cargo, wondering and fuming ... "Didn't that damn sports car pass us back there a few miles?"

He was watching also the terrain ahead and to either side of the line of travel. A most advantageous spot was coming up, just ahead, where the road threaded low ground between pressing hillocks.

He released a fragmentation grenade from his combat belt, pulled the pin, and announced into the shoulder-phone, "Going!"

The Ferrari surged forward and up along the left flank of the mobile targets. He leaned across the seat and waved at the guys in the rear truck then moved smoothly on to run abreast of the lead tractor, tensely counting his numbers, pacing the targets into the needle, sliding far to the right and steering with his left hand ... and then the numbers were all used up.

The driver of the target vehicle was shouting something at him as he flipped the grenade, out and up, right into the guy's lap.

At that same instant he swung back to the controls of the Ferrari and sent her screaming ahead, putting three seconds of distance between himself and that doomed semi.

One of those frozen instants of time descended, a stretched-out and seemingly infinite present, with past forever behind and future looming threateningly and yet unapproachable.

The driver of that leading crew wagon had already gotten the smell and was pressing forward, leading the other two cars into a wild pass around the rear truck.

The flash of the explosion illuminated Bolan's cockpit and cast red streamers into his rear-view mirror. Something metallic whizzed past his open window and showering glass overtook him and rained on him.

The big rig weaved and veered off to the left, tried to climb the high ground over there and failed, jack-knifed, slid along on screaming rubber, overturned with a crashing-roaring-grinding and burst into flames.

The immediate aftermath of that event was sheer pandemonium. Two crew wagons and another big rig plowed into that mess, with a whole new ball game of screaming rubber, crumpling and rending metal, shoestring explosions, fireballs, the screams and shouting of men trapped in that immovable present.

Bolan's Ferrari had already come about and raced onto the high ground overlooking the hit site. He was grounded and commanding into his shoulder-phone, "Close with all speed," when the survivors down there began staggering clear of the fantastic pile-up.

The rear crew-wagon had careened into a broadside halt across the road, practically roasting in the white-hot heat of the gasoline-fed fires.

Guys were scrambling out of there and waving choppers around, looking for something to shoot at. Bolan recognized Lucasi's big house captain, the Diver. He was yelling at two other guys, "Cover our rear!"

Bolan gave them something more pressing to cover, sighting down with the impressive Auto-Mag, squeezing off three deliberate rolling booms, seeking and finding an ignition point beneath the engine hood of that as-yet undamaged vehicle. He got an ignition and a small fireball which quickly whoofed into the fumes blanketing that area, following immediately with a full-scale explosion which lifted the heavy vehicle clear of all four wheels and resettled it at an entirely different angle, engulfed in flames.

A human torch was staggering around down there near the spot where he'd last noted the Diver; Bolan felled him with a mercy-round near the top of the torch. This drew immediate return fire from two heavy choppers which sliced up the embankment just below his feet; then the lighter snare drum-roll of machine pistols entered the argument as Blancanales and Schwarz acquired station.

Bolan left the remainders to them.

But for one.

Big Little Ben Lucasi was on his knees at the side of the road, blood trickling down the side of his neck, tormented eyes gazing with disbelief at the flames and wreckage marking the final disposition of his late-budding bid for international importance.

Bolan walked slowly down the embankment to stand over the little would-be Capo. He said, coldly, "You crapped out, Lucasi."

The glazed eyes shifted slowly to the tall figure in black which towered above him. They shrank, then blazed again in a curious mixture of defiance and defeat.

"I knew you'd get to my territory sooner or later," Lucasi muttered. "So go ahead. Kill me."

Bolan replied, "All right."

And he did so, the muzzle of the AutoMag making contact with Big Ben's little skull at that critical point directly between the eyes. He squeezed off once, sending 240 shattering grains exploding into that corruption, at a muzzle energy of a thousand or so foot-pounds.

Odds and ends of bone and brains flew off into that immovable moment and what was left of Big Ben Lucasi was sent backwards for a slide into the spreading flames.

Bolan holstered the AutoMag and spoke to the flames.

"Goodbye, Howlie," he said quietly. "Bon voyage."