Bolan considered his arsenal situation. He had refilled the Beretta's clip in his hotel room there were still fourteen rounds left in the box magazine. He was also carrying the big silver AutoMag, but the heavy cannon was unsilenced and he didn't want to draw too much attention to this private battle.

But there was only one way to finish it quickly.

Attack! He waited until the stoplights released another parcel of traffic, then he used the noise of the passing vehicles to mask his own movements, bellying his way beneath the Citroen until he was looking out at the grille of the panel truck. The shooting from the Saab behind it had stopped. Bolan sprang upright by the truck fender and dashed, not across the sidewalk into the shelter of a doorway, but out into the open, in the center of the roadway.

The second killer, on his feet beside the Swedish sedan, with his gun questing left and right in search of his target, was taken completely by surprise. He whirled, the Executioner's menacing figure registered on his peripheral vision. Too late.

Bolan triggered the 93-R, a 3-shot burst. The 9 mm parabellums drilled through the hardman's forehead. Bolan saw a momentary cloud of crimson in the diffuse light, as the gunner's skull disintegrated. Then he dropped into forever, hidden from sight behind the Saab's hood.

Bolan ran to the car's front window.

His first shot had scored. The man who had opened fire was dead, too, his faceless body sprawled over the blood-spattered seat.

At first glance there was nothing on either of them to show who they were or who had sent them. Bolan could not wait for a second glance. Although the exchange had been virtually noiseless, passersby had already gathered at the traffic lights. Several cars had stopped. Across the road the doorman was shouting and there was a wail of sirens in the distance.