Now he could be on his way and about his business. About the mission. He only had a few short hours. And those numbers had already started falling, even before he'd been sent in on this job. But the coming confrontation was to be inside that walled estate. Not out here. Not playing voyeur on some girl from the household or staff who had chosen this moment and this place for a romantic assignation. Bolan would rather have all civilians out of range anyway.

He began unscrewing the Startron's window clamp when everything changed. And Bolan suddenly knew that this was the time.

Yes, by God.

He heard a loud squeal of braking rubber back up where the couple were and brought his eye back to the scope.

A '78 Malibu had swerved into the curb, blocking in the Datsun's front end. Four big dudes came barreling out of the Malibu and charged the couple on the sidewalk. The guy with the woman swung away from her to meet the onslaught, shielding her with his body. Then he died. Silenced saffron flashes licked out at him from four different angles, and the way he fell told Bolan that the man was dead when he hit the pavement.

Two of the hefties stooped and lifted the body, toting it back toward their car.

The other two grabbed the woman before she could run, also dragging her toward the Malibu. The blonde fought and twisted wildly in their grip, but it did her no good. She was their prisoner.

Bolan was already swinging into action, tossing the Startron into the compartment behind his bucket seat and gunning the Corvette to life. He stomped on the gas pedal, tugged the steering wheel, and brought the sports car around in a fishtailing U-turn that momentarily included the opposite grassy shoulder.

Only seconds had passed, but even as he straightened the Vette out from the turn, Bolan could see that the four men had moved with stopwatch precision. The man's body and the woman had been loaded into the Malibu. The heap executed its own U-turn and sped off into the distance.