"C'mon, already. Move this thing."
The edginess was catching, dammit, and he forced a laugh to let his loyal subordinates know that he was cool. From where he sat, the boss of Washington could almost smell the fear that radiated off of Cartwright in offensive waves.
The engine growled to life and high beams speared the darkness of the curving driveway. They were leaving fear and danger behind for a little hunting trip, with Cameron Cartwright in the role of pheasant.
"Hey, what the hell..."
The exclamation had erupted from his driver's lips, and Nicky was already craning forward, peering through the windshield as a black-clad figure seemed to rise from nowhere in the middle of the drive, his face all painted like a minstrel and the biggest silver cannon in the world protruding from his fist, the muzzle pointed square at Gianelli's nose.
The mafioso felt his bowels begin to loosen, clenched his knees against the shameful legacy of childhood, biting back the sudden fear that wrapped around his heart.
"Goddammit, Eddie, punch it! Run the bastard down!"
Bolan heard the tank before he saw it coming, dinosaur V-8 announcing its arrival with a roar. A heartbeat later, the headlights burned around a corner of the driveway, pinning him at center stage. He raised the silver AutoMag and braced it in a two-handed shooter's grip, sighting down the slide, aiming square between the dragon's glowing eyes.
Fifty yards, and Bolan waited, knowing that the limo would be armored fore and aft, perhaps impregnable. And yet he had to try. If they missed Gianelli now, if Cartwright was allowed to slip away, it might be months or years before they reestablished contact. Too much could happen in the intervening time, and Bolan would not tolerate a debt so long unpaid.
At forty yards he squeezed the trigger, riding out the Magnum's recoil, squinting in the lights and watching as his bullet etched a harmless smudge across the windshield, inches from the driver's scowling face. He dropped his sights and triggered three more rounds in rapid-fire, aware that there would almost certainly be armor plating on the grille and praying for a chink, a weak spot, anything at all.
The whining ricochets were drowned by growling engine sounds, the throb of Bolan's pulse inside his ears. At twenty yards he knew that it was hopeless. He threw himself aside before the tank could plow him under like some disoriented chipmunk caught out on the center stripe by rolling death.
He landed painfully and rolled, aware of screeching rubber as the wheelman swerved to take him, missing him by inches, almost losing it before he straightened out again and pushed it to the limit. Bolan twisted, gnashing teeth against the sudden, stabbing pain as he unloaded with the AutoMag, one bullet spanging off a hubcap, two more flaking paint from armored fenders as the crew wagon rolled on.
The AutoMag was empty, its slide locked open on the smoking chamber, and he didn't have the time to slam a fresh clip home, assuming it would make the slightest difference. He might as well have peppered Gianelli's wagon with a BB gun, for all the good that he had done.
And the man who tore Brognola's world apart, who tried to set up Bolan for a fall, was escaping.
Brognola struggled free of the clinging hedges, muddy to his knees and reeking of the dusty juniper that had already gouged his face and hands unmercifully. His complete attention was focused on the winking taillights of the Lincoln, on the bulky weapon in his hands.
The tube was made of fiberglass, designed to telescope for storage but extended full-length now and primed to fire. The LAW light antitank weapon was, in essence, a disposable bazooka with a one-shot capability and an effective range of some four hundred meters.
More than twice the distance to the armored limousine, if he was quick and sure enough to do it right.
Brognola stumbled, cursing bitterly before he found his footing in the middle of the driveway, feet braced wide, the LAW across his shoulder. One hand was wrapped around the firing lever, mounted topside like a clothespin. He was watching as the man in black bailed out, his Magnum rounds deflected by the Lincoln's armor plating.
Gianelli had them beaten if Brognola missed his one and only shot. There would not be a second chance if he muffed it now.
And he was counting down from five, aware that flankers could be closing on him from behind, a backup car with gunners meant to convoy Gianelli out of town.
He squeezed the firing lever and felt the back-flash scorching empty air behind him, blinded for an instant as his stinger sped away downrange. He held his breath and waited through an instant that extended to eternity, prepared to run them down on foot if necessary.
The rocket bored directly in between those cherry tail-lights, an explosive missile striking home between the dragon's backward-looking eyes. It detonated in the trunk, an oily ball of fire enveloping the tank's hindquarters, rolling forward through the passenger compartment, greedily devouring flesh and fabric, leather upholstery and carpeting.
The Lincoln had become a rolling crematorium, decelerating as it reached the Wrought-iron gates, already standing open, and continued to the street beyond. It stalled there, blocking lanes in both directions, settling on melted tires, and Hal imagined that he heard a single, childlike scream before a secondary detonation ripped the night apart and spilled a rippling lake of fire across the road.
The empty launcher clattered to the ground, and he could see the man in black scrambling to his feet and favoring one shoulder, working at it with his other hand. The firelight on his painted face made Bolan look mysterious and savage, like some hunter from primeval times, transported to the present day in search of mythic dragons.
They had killed two dragons here tonight, and the leaping flames beyond those open gates were rapidly devouring the hurt, the bitter memories. In time, perhaps, he would be able to ignore the scars. In time. But for tonight, the fire itself was victory enough.
Epilogue
"So, DeVries was being paid by Cartwright?"
"Or by Gianelli. Either way, it cuts the same."
"I see."
The President was frowning deeply, glaring through the windows of his limousine past Bolan and Brognola, toward the glistening Potomac.
"And the so-called evidence on Hal?"
Brognola shrugged.
"It was accurate... as far as it went. Surveillance caught me talking to or meeting with a number of our key informants on the orgcrime strike force. They were seriously compromised."
"How many have we lost?"
"One verified so far Tattaglia in Baltimore. And we've lost contact with two others. Bruno in Atlantic City and Morelli in New York. The rest have been reshuffled. Given half a chance, they should be free and clear."
"All right." The presidential scowl was lightening slowly. "So you could say we're status quo?"
"As near as possible." Brognola cleared his throat. "I feel responsible for any damage suffered by the strike force of the witness program, sir. If I had been less negligent..."
"We've been through all of that." He made a gesture of dismissal. "And the plain fact is, we can't afford to lose you at the present time. I'll hear no more about this resignation nonsense. Clear?"
"Yes, sir."
Relief was mingled with the sadness in Brognola's voice.
"And as for you..." he turned toward Bolan, hesitating momentarily before he spoke again "...I hope you'll reconsider your position."
Bolan had already reconsidered the proposal from the White House a renewal of his pardon, yet another new identity, immediate resumption of his role within the Phoenix Program based at Stony Man and he was smiling as he shook his head in an emphatic negative.
"I'm sorry, sir. It isn't possible."
"Of course, it's possible. I'll make it possible. One signature from me, and you'll be right back where you started."