But this time he had a line on the enemy position.

Among the parked vehicles, four were immediately opposite Nielsen's frontage a Volvo station wagon, a Citroen, a panel truck and a Swedish Saab sedan. Bolan had at first suspected the truck maybe an opening concealed in the lettering along its side but as soon as he scanned the row he saw that he was mistaken. In the half light, reflected illumination from the far street lamp gleamed dully on paintwork and veneered the windows of the parked vehicles.

Except for the window above the driver's door on the Saab. Instead of the faint sheen of glass, here there was simply an empty space.

No one would leave the driver's window of a parked car open on a chilly evening like this.

As Bolan watched, his suspicions were confirmed. A black shape materialized in the open space above the door. Its outline was definitive. An ambusher popping up for a snap shot before he dropped back out of sight and out of range.

Bolan was ready. He fired first. His Beretta was equipped with a suppressor. A sharp cry came from the other side of the street and the silhouette vanished.

A red light at an intersection two hundred yards away changed to green.

Traffic surged forward. The Executioner was on his feet, dodging for cover behind a cruising taxi, racing for the far side of the roadway. He flung himself down between the Volvo and the Citroen. It was too dangerous to approach the Saab without checking first. He might only have winged his assailant; the guy could be playing possum, waiting to get in a close-up sucker shot as Bolan approached; there might even be two of them.

There were.

Fragments of stone stung Bolan's face as a hail of slugs hosed down beneath the Citroen and into the space between the two cars. Heavy-caliber shells flattened themselves against the pavement, bounced up against exhausts and the underside of the engines and whined away into the shadows. The second gunman was aiming to score with a ricochet if he couldn't make a direct hit.