The gunners hit the ground running.
Bolan didn’t wait for them to organize. He fired a three-round burst into the nearer chase car’s windshield, where the driver’s head should be, and thought he heard a strangled cry before all hell broke loose around him.
Bolan couldn’t accurately count the muzzle flashes winking at him from behind the headlights, but he thought that there were only five. If he was right, if he had drawn first blood with the unlucky driver, then he had already shaved the hostile odds by seventeen percent.
That still left five assassins, armed and angry, throwing down at him with everything they had.
Aolani’s car would never be the same. Bullets were raking it from grill to trunk along the driver’s side, some of them coming through the now shattered windows. So far, Bolan could not smell any leaking gasoline, but that was just dumb luck. Both tires were already deflated on the driver’s side, and Bolan knew they wouldn’t leave the Punchbowl in it.
Assuming they ever left at all.
Look for Pele's Fire May 12, wherever books are sold.
No comments:
Post a Comment