of 5.56mm hornets and died, spasming in death dances before they toppled.
In the truck's rearview mirror Bolan caught sight of a dozen or more vehicles giving hell-for-leather chase after the supply carrier.
Soviet pursuers poured from the main gate a quarter mile back, many of the vehicles smaller, faster than the military transport vehicle. The Kabul night rumbled with motorized fury.
Bolan kept the carrier's pedal to the metal, giving the deuce-and-a-half everything she had but knowing it would not be enough to outdistance those snapping hounds of hell closing in too damn fast.
Also Bolan played out his only option. He downshifted, pumping the brake at the same time.
When he had the decreased speed he wanted, still moving fast, he wheeled the supply carrier into a bone-rattling sideways skid, gripping the steering wheel to hold himself steady. Lansdale held onto the frame of the truck's cab for dear life.
The truck slewed to a shuddering halt across the narrow street, where it would effectively block the pursuers at least long enough to give Bolan and Lansdale a good start on foot.
Bolan ejected himself from the cab while the vehicle was still sliding, landing in a combat crouch to fan the escape route with Big Thunder. Wary combat senses were on alert, probing the night.
The dark street appeared deserted. For now.
8
Lansdale trotted up.
"Good play, big guy. If it works."
Bolan took off in a rapid, surefooted trot along the road, away from the truck and the rapidly approaching clamor of Soviet pursuers. Lansdale kept pace.
"You're good at ad-libbing a script," Bolan told the guy. The Texan chuckled as they covered distance.
"You oughta hear my one-liners. What have you got in mind now? There's a woman, Katrina... a friend."
"I met her. She's the one who told me where to find you."
"She's a good woman, Bolan. You must know that if you met her. The KGB and the GRU... they found out about her association with me. Damn, I shouldn't have messed with her."
They had gone several hundred yards when they heard the Russian chase vehicles screech to a halt. Shouts in Russian reached Bolan and Lansdale at the far end of the block where a side street intersected. The Executioner and the CIA man dodged around that corner with microseconds to spare before a volley of automatic gunfire blistered the night.
"We can reach Katrina in time to warn her before we leave Kabul," Bolan assured the guy. "Does she have transportation?"
Their jogging picked up. Lansdale kept the pace set by Bolan. "She does," Lansdale acknowledged. "The tough part's gonna be shaking those yahoos back there. That truck won't stop those cowboys but a minute or two. What do you reckon, pard?"
"I reckon you were easier to take when you were from Boston," Bolan said. Then he froze in his tracks and held up his hand. "Hold it!"
Lansdale stopped and tossed a nod in the direction of engines accelerating in the near distance.
"I hope you've got a miracle handy in your back pocket, big guy," he said.
Bolan tracked his Ingram on shadows up ahead where his NVD had outlined a parked automobile, a battered Czech Tatra, a stubby four-cylinder job not unlike the old VW bug.
The Tatra's engine started; its headlights blazed to life. Lansdale shouted in surprise.
"That's Katrina's car!" Then Bolan saw the woman herself move hurriedly from her side of the vehicle. She waved them toward her.
"Let's go," Bolan growled to Lansdale, not lowering his guard or the AutoMag. "Be careful."
They advanced.
The cacophony of approaching vehicles from the street a block away told Bolan the Russian troops had negotiated the barrier of the supply carrier and were racing to close the gap, "We don't have to be careful with Katrina," Lansdale whispered to Bolan as they approached the woman who held open the passenger door. "Katrina's all right. You've got to trust some people."
"Be careful," Bolan repeated low enough for the Russian woman not to hear. He and Lansdale reached
In the truck's rearview mirror Bolan caught sight of a dozen or more vehicles giving hell-for-leather chase after the supply carrier.
Soviet pursuers poured from the main gate a quarter mile back, many of the vehicles smaller, faster than the military transport vehicle. The Kabul night rumbled with motorized fury.
Bolan kept the carrier's pedal to the metal, giving the deuce-and-a-half everything she had but knowing it would not be enough to outdistance those snapping hounds of hell closing in too damn fast.
Also Bolan played out his only option. He downshifted, pumping the brake at the same time.
When he had the decreased speed he wanted, still moving fast, he wheeled the supply carrier into a bone-rattling sideways skid, gripping the steering wheel to hold himself steady. Lansdale held onto the frame of the truck's cab for dear life.
The truck slewed to a shuddering halt across the narrow street, where it would effectively block the pursuers at least long enough to give Bolan and Lansdale a good start on foot.
Bolan ejected himself from the cab while the vehicle was still sliding, landing in a combat crouch to fan the escape route with Big Thunder. Wary combat senses were on alert, probing the night.
The dark street appeared deserted. For now.
8
Lansdale trotted up.
"Good play, big guy. If it works."
Bolan took off in a rapid, surefooted trot along the road, away from the truck and the rapidly approaching clamor of Soviet pursuers. Lansdale kept pace.
"You're good at ad-libbing a script," Bolan told the guy. The Texan chuckled as they covered distance.
"You oughta hear my one-liners. What have you got in mind now? There's a woman, Katrina... a friend."
"I met her. She's the one who told me where to find you."
"She's a good woman, Bolan. You must know that if you met her. The KGB and the GRU... they found out about her association with me. Damn, I shouldn't have messed with her."
They had gone several hundred yards when they heard the Russian chase vehicles screech to a halt. Shouts in Russian reached Bolan and Lansdale at the far end of the block where a side street intersected. The Executioner and the CIA man dodged around that corner with microseconds to spare before a volley of automatic gunfire blistered the night.
"We can reach Katrina in time to warn her before we leave Kabul," Bolan assured the guy. "Does she have transportation?"
Their jogging picked up. Lansdale kept the pace set by Bolan. "She does," Lansdale acknowledged. "The tough part's gonna be shaking those yahoos back there. That truck won't stop those cowboys but a minute or two. What do you reckon, pard?"
"I reckon you were easier to take when you were from Boston," Bolan said. Then he froze in his tracks and held up his hand. "Hold it!"
Lansdale stopped and tossed a nod in the direction of engines accelerating in the near distance.
"I hope you've got a miracle handy in your back pocket, big guy," he said.
Bolan tracked his Ingram on shadows up ahead where his NVD had outlined a parked automobile, a battered Czech Tatra, a stubby four-cylinder job not unlike the old VW bug.
The Tatra's engine started; its headlights blazed to life. Lansdale shouted in surprise.
"That's Katrina's car!" Then Bolan saw the woman herself move hurriedly from her side of the vehicle. She waved them toward her.
"Let's go," Bolan growled to Lansdale, not lowering his guard or the AutoMag. "Be careful."
They advanced.
The cacophony of approaching vehicles from the street a block away told Bolan the Russian troops had negotiated the barrier of the supply carrier and were racing to close the gap, "We don't have to be careful with Katrina," Lansdale whispered to Bolan as they approached the woman who held open the passenger door. "Katrina's all right. You've got to trust some people."
"Be careful," Bolan repeated low enough for the Russian woman not to hear. He and Lansdale reached
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