China White

The Executioner made it harder for him, cranking through a U-turn that maneuvered him away from the location where the Ford had stalled and left his Camry with its nose pointed uphill, back toward Canal Street. That way, if it started taking hits, the bullets ought to spend their force inside his trunk, or in the backseat, without doing any damage to the rental’s engine. He’d be able to evacuate the scene, at least—if he was still alive and fit to drive.

That was by no means certain, with the automatic fire already hammering the park, no more than thirty yards from where he took the battle EVA. Pursuing the Trailblazer any further would have made the fight a demolition derby, likely leaving him afoot when the police arrived to spoil the party. And since being jailed was not on Bolan’s list of things to do that afternoon, he opted for audacity to shift the odds a bit.

Audacity, and maybe just a little bit of luck.

The MP5K wasn’t heavy. Truth be told, it weighed about the same as the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle autoloader Bolan often carried as a backup piece. Add roughly a half pound for the Beta C-Mag and it still came in below six pounds, lightened a fraction of an ounce with every 3-round burst unleashed. He wasn’t firing at the moment, though. The soldier was covering ground instead, closing the gap between himself and six men trying hard to kill one another in the middle of the park.

The Executioner came at the Trailblazer from its blind side, more or less, half crouching as he sprinted across the sloping turf. The shooter in the backseat tried to get an angle on him, squeezing off a burst to get the range, but rushed it so that half his bullets struck the inside of the tailgate, peppering the grass while Bolan ducked and rolled aside.

He squeezed off two short bursts in answer to that fire and saw his target flinch from the incoming rounds. Wounded? It was impossible to say, but when the Afghan fired again, his rounds tore through the Chevy’s roof, a reflexive act accompanied by what Bolan assumed to be a shout of profanity.

Closer. The SUV’s tailgate and left rear quarter panel were his cover now. They wouldn’t stop a rifle bullet, but they kept the shooters in the Trailblazer from spotting him until he showed himself—which, as he saw it, couldn’t be put off for any more convenient time.

Nine blocks from the Fifth Precinct and he was running out of time.

Bolan reached up, holding his SMG one-handed, and unloaded through the Chevy’s left rear tinted window, spraying the interior with Parabellum rounds and shattered glass. A cry from somewhere near at hand told him he’d scored at least one hit before the SUV lurched forward, roaring off to make another sweep around the Ford sedan.

Leaving Mack Bolan totally exposed.

* * *

“DAOUD? DAOUD!”

Ahmad Taraki, bleeding from his scalp where shards of glass had stung him, swiveled in his seat when Daoud Rashad refused to answer him. The reason for his silence was revealed immediately. Fresh blood spattered the backseat of the SUV; Rashad was sprawled across that seat with half his face and skull sheared off.

Taraki still had no idea who had attacked them from behind, but he could see the bastard now, as Kazimi took them on another run around the crippled triad vehicle. The stranger was a white man, not Chinese, and he had fired on both cars during the pursuit along Canal Street, which made no sense in Taraki’s mind.

The answer: kill the attacker now before he harmed them further.

But the three Chinese were firing at Taraki and Kazimi was swerving enough to spoil Taraki’s aim as he tried to return fire on the drive-by. His magazine ran dry after unloading half a dozen rounds, but he was satisfied to see one of the triad gunners stagger, clutching at his chest before he fell. Taraki fumbled to reload the rifle, cursing his clumsy fingers, and then his driver had them lined up to charge directly at the white man who had killed Rashad.

“Run over him!” Taraki ordered. “Smash him into pulp!”

“I’m trying!” Kazimi snapped.

Their unknown adversary stood his ground, waiting, some kind of machine pistol held steady in his hands. Taraki snarled a curse and started firing through the Chevy’s windshield, scarring it with spiderwebs before a chunk of glass the size of his own head broke free and slithered off the hood, clearing his field of fire. By then his enemy was firing back, not panicked as might be expected, but squeezing off precision bursts.

Kazimi croaked out a dying gasp as he slumped back in the driver’s seat, his hands sliding off the steering wheel and down into his blood-drenched lap. His foot was still on the accelerator as he slid down in the seat, the SUV still charging forward, though it had begun to drift off course. Taraki grabbed the wheel and tried to bring the vehicle back on target, toward the man he meant to kill, but when he tore his eyes away from Kazimi’s corpse, his enemy had leaped aside, out of the Chevy’s path.

Taraki cranked the wheel sharply, swerving to the right. He guessed it was too little and too late, but what else could he do? Firing the Bushmaster with one hand, steering with the other while a dead man held the SUV at cruising speed, he tried to salvage something out of the disaster that had overtaken him.

Too late.

Another burst of submachine gun fire blew through the Chevy’s shattered windshield, ripping through Taraki’s left shoulder and arm with stunning force. He might have squealed in pain—couldn’t be certain of it with the roaring in his head—then he was slumping to his right, against his door, as the Trailblazer tipped and rolled onto its side. Kazimi, never a fan of seat belts when he was alive, slithered across the console, settling with his mutilated face jammed underneath Taraki’s chin.

“Get off me.” Taraki’s voice grated, but he had no strength left with which to shove his former driver away, much less crawl out from under him. His left arm was a useless dangling piece of meat, his right pinned underneath his own weight and the corpse’s, still clutching the Bushmaster but now incapable of lifting it.

He heard footsteps approaching; knew that it could only be an enemy, but didn’t know whether it was the white man who had wounded him or one of the Wah Ching gunners. Cursing and weeping in frustration, straining with whatever strength he still possessed to raise his gun, Taraki listened to the grim approach of death.

At the last moment, with an effort that exhausted him, Taraki craned his neck to peer out through the windshield, focusing on feet and legs outside. He struggled impotently to free his weapon, mouthing curses as the man dropped to one knee and peered inside the toppled SUV. It was the stranger, naturally, frowning at him as he raised his submachine gun toward Taraki’s face.

Before the world went black.

* * *

A BULLET SIZZLED past Mack Bolan’s ear and panged into the capsized SUV, leaving a shiny divot in the roof where paint had flaked away. He ducked and rolled, putting the blunt nose of the Trailblazer between himself and the Wah Ching thugs who’d missed a chance to take him down.

Stalemate?

He couldn’t let it go at that, with precious seconds slipping through his fingers. Sirens would be coming at him any time now, closing off Bolan’s escape route from the battle that he’d never meant to fight in this location, with civilians in the way. He glanced around as best he could, saw no one raising cell phones yet to record the action as it happened, but the idea added one more level of concern.

His face on YouTube? Not a great idea.

Of course, it wasn’t his face. Not the one he had been born with, anyway. No one would look at him and think Mack Bolan? Someone told me he was dead! Still, going viral to the world at large would definitely cramp his style, and might require yet another session with the surgeon who had given him his battle mask.

No, thanks.

Before he made another move against the Wah Ching gangsters, Bolan pulled a roll of silky black material out of his left trouser pocket and slipped it over his head. It was a balaclava, black nylon and ultra-thin, that fit him like a second skin, with a “ninja” oval opening for eyes alone, masking the rest of Bolan’s face. Now he was ready for his close-up, if it came to that, switching out the MP5K’s nearly empty magazine for a fresh one, bracing for his move.

First step: to take the triad hardmen by surprise within the limits of his present circumstance. They had to have seen where he had gone to ground, so Bolan crept along behind the Trailblazer until he reached its rear end, pausing there just long enough scout the landscape cautiously and choose his angle of attack. Behind him, twenty yards or so from where he crouched, the Camry waited for him, still had access to Canal Street if he finished his business soon enough and wasn’t cut off by police.

Too many ifs.

The way to do it, he decided, was a plain, straightforward rush, with cover fire as needed on the relatively short run to his destination. Short was relative, of course. Ten feet could feel like miles when a person was under hostile fire. The first step could turn out to be his last. Still, Bolan had to make the effort, or his intervention in the fight had been for nothing, a colossal—maybe catastrophic—waste of time.

The best scenario would be a short dash, unopposed, to reach the Ford and— Then what? Killing at close quarters was an ugly business, where the outcome could go either way. One slip and he was done. There’d be no do-over, no second chance to get it right. End game.

But if he got it right...

His plan had changed, against his will, when the Afghans stepped in and made the hunt a firefight. Now, instead of following the Wah Ching thugs to their leader, Bolan had another end in mind, requiring him to face them and relieve them of the cargo they’d transported from New Jersey. Ten or twelve kilos of heroin that would become his lever for upsetting Paul Mei-Lun’s enclave in Chinatown, with any luck.

And what about Wasef Kamran?

Bolan planned to take it one step at a time. Survive this challenge, then move on.

A final peek around the Chevy’s tailgate and he was just in time to see one of the Wah Ching gunners rise and fire a short burst from an automatic rifle toward the SUV’s front end. Trying to pin him down so they could make a run for it, perhaps? The last thing Bolan needed now was a pursuit on foot along Canal Street, running from the park and toward the Fifth Precinct.

A distant siren got him up and moving toward the triad vehicle, clutching his little SMG and hoping that his time had not run out.

* * *

“WHO IS THAT crazy bastard?” Martin Tang asked.

“It doesn’t matter who he is,” Louis Chao replied. “We need to get the hell away from here before we’ve got pigs crawling up our asses.”

“What’s the plan?” John Lin demanded. “Are we just gonna walk away from here?”

“Unless you get the damn car running,” Chao snarled back at him.