A voice crowed, "He's hit!"

"Watch it, he's tricky!"

"Not that tricky."

"Well, you just waitaminnit, dammit."

Bolan had located the enemy forces, as revealed by the last volley. They were clumped into four groups of about three men each. Two groups were directly across from him, in the shadows of the opposite building; the other two were flanking him, covering from the warehouses to either side of Bolan's position. The leader was out front, as evidenced by the voice of authority; a sub-regime was off to the left flank, the cocky voice of impatience and disrespect for the Executioner's image.

The groups out front would have to cross a wide area of relative light in order to close on Bolan. Either flank, however, could move in with only a momentary exposure between the buildings. The tactical instincts of the professional soldier had instantly become aware of this truth, and Bolan was ready to exploit this single favorable factor.

"Bolan?" came the voice from out front.

The wounded Mafioso groaned again, feeble and pained, a convincing sound of approaching death. Bolan tensed and waited.

"I told you he's hit!" This from the left flank.

"Dammit you hold it!" From the center. "How you know that ain't Joe?"

"Aw shit, you know better! Joe didn't live a second, face to face with that guy! We can't wait around all night. Cops are gonna be..."

Bolan was satisfied that the time had come. He was rolling slowly toward the edge of the shadow, silently putting as much distance as he dared between himself and the building and straining toward a midpoint position toward the left flank. They would be coming in any second now.