Shaken by the wild ride and her recent brush with death, the woman did not budge from under the dash. Bolan caught her staring at him and he recognized the hunted look in her eyes. He pitied her.

Except there wasn't time for pity now.

"Leave the car," he commanded. "Get off the highway and find a place to hide. Don't come back until I call you."

She was trembling, slow to move, and he had to snap at her to break the trance.

"Now!"

She moved, scrambling up and out of her hole, pausing in the door for a backward glance.

"Thank you," she said. And that was all.

The man in black didn't watch her go. He was occupied with killing, and the woman-child would have to fend for herself.

Bolan eased the door open and crouched behind it with the AutoMag resting on the windowsill. It was a shaky bench rest, but the only one he had. The door would serve him as a shield when the action started.

Unless the enemy was firing Magnums.

Or, unless they rammed him head-on in the darkness.

Unless...

Headlights were coming now, and Bolan waited, watching as they closed the gap.

At fifty feet he turned on the Caddy's high beams, swung the big .44 out and onto target. He squeezed a quick double blast through the grille, and another through the windshield, seeking flesh this time. He was rewarded as the broad arch of glass exploded in a thousand pieces.

Without its driver, the crew wagon swerved off the road, rearing up and climbing an embankment. It never had a chance in the contest against gravity, and Bolan watched it sliding back down again, ending on the shoulder with the driver's side down.

He circled the dying tank, nostrils full of dust and the stench of gasoline. Clinging to the darkness, he was careful to avoid the glare of headlights from the Cadillac.