The limo screeched away from there before the man was fully inside, the car door slamming shut behind him under the car's momentum.

The crew wagon picked up some steam, swerving into a tire-shrieking one-eighty, the driver playing the wheel and pedals like an Indy champ.

The big machine rocketed toward the street.

Bolan left the shadows of the building for a better line of fire.

The Executioner triggered the AutoMag three times, pausing between each shot only long enough to ride out the hand cannon's mighty recoil.

Sparks of each of those projectiles spanged off the Lincoln's bulletproof body.

The speeding tank fishtailed into a skid onto the street and zoomed out of sight, heading north, by which time Bolan had already made it down the terraced incline separating the building from the parking lot.

He jogged across to the Vette, taking only one precious moment to glance beneath its hood and body. He found no suspicious-looking wires or packages planted to detonate when he pulled away.

In the confusion of his lightning strike on this Mafia front, the car he had arrived in had apparently gone unlinked by Parelli's responding security team.

He leaped behind the Corvette's steering wheel and gunned the car to life, popping the clutch and rocketing away from the parking lot in pursuit of the Lincoln.

The Vette swerved slightly, sliding across the spreading pools of slick blood from the remains of the dead doorman and the other hood.

The Lincoln's taillights were still visible a block or so away.

Bolan upshifted, speeding away from the New Age Center, which looked somehow unreal behind him in the night, what with corpses strewing the parking lot and tendrils of smoke still pluming from the broken glass doors of the lobby.

He steered with one hand, holstering the AutoMag. Then he unleathered the Beretta, setting it down beside him as he fingered the spoke of the steering wheel to take a corner on squealing tires. He floored the gas pedal in hot pursuit along the deserted residential streets.