The Dixie capo was a secondary target now.

Downrange the submachine gunner was backing across the lighted porch, still firing through the doors and holding back pursuers with his fusillade. Bolan raised the sleek Beretta and stroked the trigger lightly, riding out the recoil, never wincing as the weapon kicked back solidly against his palm.

The parabellum mangler took its target just below the jawline, boring through the mask. The ninja's head snapped back and he was momentarily airborne, making solid impact with the flagstones a second later. He was dead before he hit the porch and still he never let the Uzi's trigger go. The stubby little autoloader emptied out its magazine in one sustained stream of fire, raking the front of the ranch house and shattering one of the twin floodlights before the hammer fell upon an empty chamber.

The two surviving ninja saw their companion fall, but they could not divine the source of Bolan's silent shot. They assumed someone in the house had dropped their comrade so they put on the speed, dragging their hostage toward a waiting Lincoln, whose engine purred softly in the semidarkness.

Bolan swiveled, sighting swiftly.

He had a moving target, with the girl still in the line of fire, but there would never be another chance. The play was now or never — for himself and for the captive. Bolan took a breath and held it, squeezing the silenced Beretta's trigger... once, twice. And he could see the parabellums strike his human target, rippling the fabric of the black costume, boring in to find the man inside.

The ninja on the woman's left side stumbled, sprawling facedown on the flagstones, motionless.

His partner reacted with the smooth instinctive timing of a true professional. Before the woman could react he secured his grip upon her arm, preventing her from breaking free. With measured strides he kept the woman close beside him, using her as an effective shield until they gained the little flight of steps.