The guy skidded as he tried to get up the slippery bank. If he fell and landed on the pack, the explosives would likely blow. The guy would be gone, sure, but Bolan would be locked in.

Tight. The chopper would call for backup, and the place would crawl with security. Bolan aimed high, a head shot. It was risky, but he had no choice. He waited until the man reached the fence and then he squeezed the trigger. The guy lost his head as the big Weatherby's boom rolled into the night. The chopper was only five hundred yards away now. Bolan knew they couldn't have heard the shot, but there was no way they'd miss the busted fence.

Or the large body plugging the hole.

Bending low, and sprinting, Mack Bolan reached the fence. The chopper was hovering, both searchlights focused on the same spot. They had seen something.

Or someone. Bolan didn't know. It bought him some time, and that was all that mattered. The chopper's engine roared, and it started to climb. The searchlights went out just as he stepped through the fence.

He paused long enough to kick some snow over the headless corpse and loose earth. Grabbing some scorched wire torn loose by the blast, he pulled the two ends of the fence together. It wasn't great, but it just might give him extra time.

The chopper was hovering about three hundred yards up the fence. As he ran into the trees outside the plant, he heard the engine roar. The searchlights snapped back on. A burst of automatic weapon fire turned them right off again.

Permanently. The engine sputtered, roared and died altogether. Spinning wildly, the chopper plunged behind the trees. Whoever it was the chopper had flushed obviously didn't want to be caught.

Any more than Mack Bolan did.

The darkness ruptured, and tongues of orange flame climbed above the trees. It was too late to help the soldiers in the chopper. But not too late to nail the ones who were responsible.