Tires were smoking, and the headlights blazed on to high beams, pinning Bolan as he stood in the car's path. Carter's face, a twisted mask of panic, was visible above the dash.
It was do-or-die now, and Bolan had only a split second for decision. He could risk a shot, maybe kill Carter at the wheel and end it there, or...
He moved quickly, diving headlong across the Caddy's hood, bouncing once before slithering off the other side. Behind him, Carter's tank met the crew wagon in a shuddering collision, scraping down its length with a hellish grinding sound.
Bolan hit the ground rolling and came up in a crouch, already moving toward his own sedan. He saw the battered Continental veer away, plunging across the lawn and churning grass under the tires, shearing off a length of picket fence before reaching the street. With a screech of tortured rubber it gained the pavement, taillights winking like glowing eyes. Then it was gone.
Lights were coming on across the street, sleepy citizens responding to the battle sounds. Bolan reached his car and slid behind the wheel, pulling on the Nitefinder goggles as he fired the engine. He was on the Lincoln's track, without lights, when the first door opened three houses down.
There had been no choice at all in his decision. Mitchell Carter had to live, at least until the Executioner learned his role with Minh. Premature execution would have closed the channels, canceled all bets before Bolan had a firm idea of who was in the game.
The guy was KGB, no doubt about it. His reaction to the Bolan stimulus marked him as a well-conditioned "comrade." Punch the right buttons, and he jumped.
To a point, anyway.
At the moment he was frightened, confused and running for his life. He had a choice to make before he ran much farther.
If he was buying Bolan's act, he faced a grim decision.
He could touch base with his control and try to make amends for almost running down a fellow agent on assignment. If he took that route, Bolan was prepared to track him up the ladder of command, taking out the rungs as they appeared.
Or, he could burn his bridges, take the loss, and throw in his lot with the "traitorous" Minh and his Universal Devotees.
Either way, the Executioner would have his reading, know the parameters of his problem. Either way, there would be another shot at Mitchell Carter.
It was inevitable.
The guy stood for everything Bolan hated, everything his New War was designed to counteract. He was a traitor and a cannibal, feeding on the vitals of a nation that sheltered him since childhood. He repaid kindness with a cold-blooded reign of terror.
The warrior brought his mind back to the here and now track. Carter was leading him along a winding course, crossing Chinatown and homing on the business district south of Market Street. Bolan hung back, never running close enough to give himself away.
Five minutes into the pursuit, he knew where they were going. Given Carter's course, there was no doubt about the destination.
Bolan broke off the track, running parallel and letting the sedan unwind. With any luck, he would arrive ahead of Carter.
He was on the numbers once again, running with the wind at his back.
It was the wind of war, sure, and it smelled of death.
8
Amy Culp, working on her third cup of coffee, moved restlessly around the small apartment. Physically exhausted, she was afraid to sleep in the strange place, never knowing when danger might arise. A shower might have helped, but it would also prevent her from hearing the telephone, or someone at the door.
The old apartment house was full of sounds. The muffled ringing of a telephone, doors opening and closing, a toilet flushing somewhere overhead. Each noise spoke to her of secret enemies coming to recapture her, or worse.
It was good to be away from Minh, away from the dark atmosphere of the Universal Devotees. Amy felt relief, freedom, but her feelings were tempered with fear. She was not beyond the church's reach, nor was she certain of her safety in the new surroundings. Her rescuer — God, she didn't even know his name — seemed to be a decent man, but he was one hell of a dangerous man, and that left Amy with a host of unanswered questions.
Who was the man in black? How did he know her?
What was he doing at the Devotees' retreat? Who was he working for, and what was that business about a phoenix nest?
Amy dropped into a chair. Wearing out the carpet wouldn't bring answers to her questions.
What she needed was a way out, an escape hatch away from Minh's army and the stranger with his guns. They could play war games, but she didn't plan to be the prize.
Amy started weighing her options.
She knew where she was. She had checked street signs along the way, working out directions from her spotty knowledge of the city. Amy knew she was in Haight-Ashbury, and she knew the name of the street and the number of the house.
So far, so good. But transportation was a problem.
Under the circumstances, walking was risky so she saved it as a last resort. She had left Minh's estate without a dime, thus eliminating taxis and public transportation. If she had access to a car...
Amy stiffened in her chair, suddenly alert. Someone was moving in the corridor outside, footsteps approaching from the direction of the stairs. In a moment they were at her hiding place, hesitating.
She held her breath, afraid to make a sound. Her eyes never left the doorknob; she would scream if it moved.
Keys jingled across the hall. A door opened then gently closed. Amy slowly released her breath, letting go of her grip on the chair. Her hands were trembling and she clenched them into angry fists, her knuckles whitening. A single tear marked her cheek.
It was ages since she cared enough or felt enough to weep.
The moment passed. Amy's mind returned to thoughts of freedom, of escape. If she couldn't reach transportation, it would have to come to her. She had a telephone, but whom could she call?
Home was out, of course. Even if her father answered, if he still cared enough to help her, she guessed there was nothing he could do from Washington now that things had gone this far. She would have to seek assistance in her own vicinity. She had no reason to have faith in a city of politicians a continent away. It had to be local help, and now.
Police? Amy made a sour face. There was nothing to be gained from questions, accusations. She was getting out, and that did not include appearances as a witness in protracted court proceedings. Maybe later, when she had put some space and time between herself and the Devotees.
The man in black had left a number, but she didn't plan to use it. If her rescuer was the law, he could get along without her help. If he wasn't...
At last she thought of Sarah.
One of Amy's oldest friends was in her senior year at Berkeley, just across the bay. She mentally kicked herself for not thinking of Sarah sooner.
It was too easy to forget friends and family in the Devotees.
Sarah never trusted Minh and had never liked Amy's involvement with the church. At the same time, she never belittled Amy or verbally disapproved of her the way other friends and family had. Sarah had expressed her feelings, then left Amy free to make her own decision, right or wrong.
They had lost touch. Minh discouraged contacts outside the church, and Amy hadn't seen or spoken to Sarah in seven months. If she was still at Berkeley... if she didn't make excuses or hang up at the sound of Amy's voice...
Stop that, she chided herself, cutting off the negative train of thought. Sarah was her friend, she would help.
What was the number?
Amy racked her brain, angered by all she had forgotten in the space of a year. Ten minutes later she consulted Berkeley information and received the number she requested.
Amy felt relieved. That number, seven digits, was the key to her escape. Without it, she was lost.
Nervous, trembling, she lifted the receiver and started dialing.
* * *
Mack Bolan had parked his car in an alley off Sixth and walked
to the front of Carter's high-rise office building. He stationed himself across the street, sheltered by the foggy darkness and a recessed doorway.
Carter's suite of offices was halfway up on the twelfth floor, front. The floor plan was tucked away in the Bolan mental file.
Bolan watched the counselor nose the battered Continental down a ramp leading to the underground garage. As the taillights disappeared, he moved from cover to a corner telephone booth, slipped inside and lifted the receiver.
Able Team's Herman "Gadgets" Schwarz had visited the subject's office earlier that day, posing as a telephone repairman. In the course of his "inspection," he installed some sophisticated "extras" of his own design, improving the system in ways that would have startled Ma Bell.
Bolan punched the first six digits of Carter's office number, then removed a small pitch pipe from a pocket of his overcoat and blew a long E-flat into the mouthpiece. He then tapped the final digit.
The telephone in Carter's office didn't ring. Instead, the tone from Bolan's pitch pipe tripped a tiny relay mechanism; Carter's phones were "sensitized" and instantly converted into listening devices with an effective radius of half a mile. Bolan could hear everything in the office through a small transistorized receiver in his pocket.
Bolan kept the telephone receiver in his hand, feigning urgent conversation, but his full attention focused on the signal out of Carter's office. He waited, giving Carter time to park his car and take the elevator, clicking off the numbers in his mind. Any moment now...
A door opened, closed again. Footsteps crossed the large reception room and hesitated at the door to Carter's inner office. Inside, he tracked the counselor by following his sounds, picturing the office layout. He marked the sound of file drawers opening, papers being shuffled, stacked and briefcase latches snapping in the stillness.
Carter was cleaning house, preparing to desert the sinking ship. All he needed was a lifeboat.
Bolan pictured him, standing in the office and saying goodbye to all of it. He could feel for the guy, watching his life disintegrate around him, but it didn't change a thing.
The counselor picked his game, and it was too late to change the rules. He had to live with his decision, or die with it.
Bolan heard his target lift the telephone receiver and start to dial. The distant ringing was as clear as if the Executioner placed the call himself.
Carter got his answer on the third ring.
"Yeah?"
Bolan didn't recognize the man's gruff voice.
"Is he in? "Carter asked.
"Who's calling?"
The lawyer was impatient, angry.
"Carter, dammit. Put him on."
If his anger phased the other guy, it didn't show.
"Hang on a second."
It was more like a minute before another voice came on the line.
"Mitchell... I've been expecting you."
There was no mistaking that voice.
Nguyen Van Minh.
The counselor was burning his bridges, but cautiously.
"What's the idea of sending men to pick me up?" he asked.
"A security precaution," Minh explained. "We have encountered some, ah, difficulties here."
Bolan smiled. Minh was playing it close to the vest.
"You should call me if you have a problem," Carter said.
"We have a problem." Minh corrected him. "The telephone was considered... unreliable."
"Well, your crew isn't taking any prizes for reliability," Carter snarled.
Minh was curious, but cautious.
"Has there been a problem?"
"You could say that. They're all dead."
The Vietnamese was startled into momentary silence. When he spoke, his voice was tight but in control.
"What happened. Mitchell?"
"I had another visitor," he said. "Listen, this will have to wait. I've been here too long already."
''Very well. When should we expect you?''
It was Carter's turn to hesitate. Bolan heard the wheels turning as the counselor thought it through, weighing risks against advantages.
"I don't know about that," he said at last.
Minh played it cagey, the hunter certain of his prey.
"Do you have a choice?"
Carter's voice betrayed his fear.
"I want it understood that I'm coming voluntarily, as an ally."
"Of course, Mitchell. There was never any doubt."
Minh severed the connection, and Carter cradled his receiver slowly, almost reluctantly. Bolan listened as he moved about the office, finalizing preparations for departure. When he let himself out, the Executioner was already moving toward his car.
The problem was defined now, his course of action set.
The phases of his strategy were falling into place.
The enemy had been identified, their purpose recognized.
By congregating at Minh's estate, they would achieve the goal of isolation on their own, without his help.
Then, only the final step remained.
Doomsday Disciples
Annihilation.
If the terrorists were gathering at the Universal Devotees' "retreat," the Executioner would join them. He owed it to his war, and to the gentle civilians. To the Universe.
Hell, the warrior owed it to himself.
9
Amy Culp checked her watch again and sighed impatiently. It was only two minutes later than the last time she looked. She was growing more nervous by the second, trying to project Sarah's ETA at the apartment house.
On the telephone, Sarah hadn't sounded as surprised to hear from her as Amy had expected. It was strange — not as though she was expecting the call, but there was something...
At the time, Amy thought she might have interrupted something — maybe Sarah had a man with her — but her friend stressed she was alone. Still, Sarah's voice sounded distant, distracted.
Amy sketched her situation, leaving out the bloody details, and Sarah agreed to come at once. Amy gave directions then settled down to wait.
That was half an hour earlier, and Amy was worrying, wondering how long it could take to drive in from Berkeley. Sarah would be coming in on Interstate 80, across the Oakland Bay Bridge, but once inside the city, any number of routes could bring her into Haight-Ashbury. What was it — ten or twelve miles at most? There shouldn't be much traffic at that hour, but Amy wasn't sure.
She tried to calm herself, running down a list of things that could slow Sarah down. She was probably asleep when Amy called: she would have to dress, brush her hair. If Sarah had company, there would have to be an explanation. There were toll booths on the bridge. She might have to stop for gas, or some coffee to keep herself awake.
It never occurred to Amy that her friend would let her down, forget about her promise and decide not to come. She would be there, given time.
For the first time, Amy was aware of her hunger. She prowled the tiny kitchenette, coming up with a soda and sandwich filling, then settled down to eat. Twice she paused, listening to footsteps in the corridor outside, and each time they passed, fading in the distance. Each time she sat waiting for her racing pulse to stabilize, willing herself to stop trembling.
Amy was clearing the remains of her frugal meal when another footstep sounded in the hallway — soft and slow, like somebody looking for a landmark in unfamiliar territory. Slowing even more, the footsteps faltered then stopped outside her apartment.
Sarah!
She was on her feet and moving toward the door when something held her back. A feeling, vague uneasiness without form or focus. She jumped at the sound of knocking on the door.
Two quick taps, a pause, and two more, separated by perhaps five seconds.
It was the signal she arranged with Sarah.
Giddy with relief, Amy reached the door in two strides and quickly unfastened the chain. She hesitated for a heartbeat with her hand on the doorknob, then turned it, feeling the locking mechanism disen...
Before she could pull it back, the door flung open with a powerful blow. It caught her in the chest and drove her back, reeling and stunned by the impact. Two men crowded through the open entrance, one taking time to slam the door.
Amy had never seen either of them, but she knew at a glance what they were. There was no time to think of Sarah, or wonder how the men found her. Amy didn't even think of screaming as the pair advanced on her, reaching out with grasping hands.
Still recovering from pain and shock, she made her move. She ducked the nearest "elder's" lunge, sliding underneath his arm and dodging toward the kitchenette. Along the way, she scooped up the telephone and hurled it at her enemies. One deflected it with an arm, cursing as he came after her.
Both were grabbing her as she reached the sink, fingers scrabbling for the knife she used to make her sandwich. As she reached it, she was struck between the shoulder blades, driven hard against the counter's edge. She gasped painfully, dropping the knife to the floor.
Blunt fingers seized her shoulder and spun her around. Amy brought up her knee, aiming for the nearest unprotected groin. Her target saw it coming and turned to protect himself. A hard-muscled thigh absorbed the blow.
Hands were clutching, struggling to pin her arms, but she squirmed free and raked her nails across a cheek, plowing bloody furrows. Her assailant cursed bitterly, backing off a step. Suddenly a scarred fist blocked her vision.
Pain and colored lights exploded in her skull. Amy felt her mouth filling with salty blood as her legs turned to rubber. She fell, hard linoleum rushed to meet her.
Drifting in and out of focus, floating in a painful darkness with a ringing in her ears, Amy heard muffled, distant voices.
"Jesus, Benny... I think you mighta busted something."
"Tough. Look what she did to me."
"Hey, what the hell was she saying, anyway?"
"I dunno. Sounded like Daddy."
Cold, malicious laughter carried her into the darkness.
* * *
From Mack Bolan's journal:
Doomsday Disciples te-49 Page 5
