Jessup's apprehension turned to all-out fear and he bolted for the car, his mind consumed with visions of the radio, the riot gun, escape. If he could put the cruiser in reverse before they shot the tires off or inflicted damage on the engine block, he had a chance. He never gave a second thought to Elmo Bradford, who had obviously been very dead before he hit the ground.

Ten feet or less separated him from the vehicle and he was close enough to taste it when a voice behind him said, "Don't hurt the car." What kind of crazy fucking thing was that to say when you were killing people? Jessup had no time to mull it over because a giant fist slammed home below one shoulder blade, and he was falling, falling, with the echo of another gunshot ringing in his ears.

He tried to move, to reach his service pistol, but his flaccid arms would not respond to orders from his brain. Behind him came the sound of footsteps closing in the darkness, crunching over gravel, clicking on the blacktop. One of them was wearing taps, and he could not believe that anybody went in for that macho bullshit anymore.

Rough hands reached out and turned him over, lighting flares of agony along his spine. Above him, silhouettes like looming towers blotted out the stars.

"He's still alive," one of them said.

Another stooped in close, his stainless-steel automatic pistol filling Jessup's field of vision,

"Wanna bet?"

1

His car had given up the ghost at 2:20 a.m., and Bolan had been walking ever since. Three hours, give or take, and yet it felt like days on end. The fading darkness was his only proof of passing time, his movement and the constant pain the only proof that he was still alive.