Mack Bolan was a seasoned, savvy warrior. He had baited many traps of his own during his career as a soldier, both in Vietnam and against domestic foes and world terrorism, and he was fully aware that this could be a diversion intended to draw him away from the estate. There was that chance, sure. But that wasn't Bolan's reading. The woman's struggles and the fear in her face had been too real. The way the slain man had fallen — yeah, too real.

One human being was dead.

Another was in obvious, serious peril.

Bolan saw no choice in the matter. The mission would have to wait.

The Malibu negotiated a corner a quarter-mile up the road and, its tires screaming, skidded out of view into the moonlit evening.

Bolan fed the Vette more gas and eased into third. The sports car's gears shifted with a smooth, purring sound like that of some living thing.

With lights off, Bolan tailed the Malibu around the corner onto another rural stretch that a street sign told him was Persimmon Tree Lane. The Malibu's taillights winked at him from a quarter-mile down the road. The driver had slowed down to legal cruising speed. Bolan decreased his own speed accordingly, holding his position at the quarter-mile mark, still running blind.

Apparently the guys in the Malibu didn't know they were being tailed.

Sure.

Unless it was a trap.

The track continued south on Persimmon Tree, out of estate country, through an area of ritzy developments that bordered the road, and finally into the grassy, hilly outer reaches of Maryland suburbia.

Bolan saw plenty of spots along the way that would have been ideal for hot contact with these boys, had this been taking place under ordinary circumstances. But the idea here was to save the lady's lovely hide, not expose it to the vagaries of a firefight. He would have to wait and choose his time and place carefully.