The Malibu swung east onto MacArthur Boulevard, a principal suburban artery that was lined with darkened businesses at this hour. But vehicular traffic was still heavy enough to finally warrant flicking on the Corvette's headlights. Bolan dropped back another few car lengths to compensate and held steady. No need to be on top of them, as long as they were in sight.

He reached behind him and grabbed the Uzi. The weapon was equipped with an enlarged, extra-capacity magazine, fastened at a right angle for speed and quick reload. Bolan knew that when he engaged these men, he would need to move fast, with maximum hard punch. The Uzi, with its relatively moderate rate of fire and its accuracy in open spaces, was perfect for the job. The odds would still be stacked; the lady's safety was still on the line (whoever the hell she was). But there would be no dicking around when Bolan took on these four — whoever the hell they were. None at all.

Both cars were moving smoothly in and out of the sparse traffic now, continuing east on MacArthur. With the Uzi nestled beside his right hip, Bolan next snatched up the small UHF radio transceiver attached to his belt, which kept him in contact with home base.

Stony Man Farm, the 160-acre nerve center of Mack Bolan/John Phoenix's "new war," was a mere ninety miles to the south, in Virginia's Blue Ridge country. As usual, there was a team sitting back there at this very moment, doing overtime on this mission. A beauty named April Rose and a damn good buddy and head fed named Hal Brognola, waiting to assist or supply backup at the sending of an S.O.S.

Bolan did not feel the necessity of bringing in reinforcements, but Stony Man had to be told. They could relay word to those awaiting Bolan in the house back within those walled-in grounds — to the people Bolan had been on his way to protect. At least the estate had its own security force, which had served adequately — up until now. They would have to hold on a bit longer.