Bolan grabbed the Uzi and catapulted out from the Corvette's passenger side, his black garb holding him to the darkness.

Two of the guys had been leaning across the Malibu's hood, taking aim at the underpass with handguns, while a third had been pointing a pump shotgun over the trunk. Number Four must have been down out of sight, holding onto their captive. Now they spun around as one to meet this unexpected maneuver, and one of the handgun boys even had time to pull off a wild round before Death came for them.

Bolan squeezed off only a short burst from the Uzi, but it was enough to take all three men in a withering hail that stitched from left to right at upper-chest level, the Uzi's muzzle flashes illuminating the darkness like some unholy strobe light.

Dead bodies were still jerking and falling when motion erupted from the nose of the Malibu. Bolan had sized it correctly. Heavy Number Four had been pinning the girl. Now he was straightening, forgetting about the blonde as he pawed for hardware beneath his jacket.

The woman kept her head. She dashed from the man's side, losing herself in the night.

The guy had his weapon halfway out when the Uzi burped again, almost discreetly. The force of the 9mm rounds smashed the man back against the car; then he pitched forward onto the grass alongside the road, his right hand still reaching under his left arm in a final statement of purpose.

The sudden silence was absolute. The car, the bodies — Bolan could see no sign of the lady.

Cautiously, he approached.

Wondering, as he did, just what the hell had gone down here.

Wondering about the mission.