She screamed, "Mack!" as her chopper erupted, the fire going toward a point on Bolan's blind left side.
The weapon was too much for her and she was fighting to keep that bucking muzzle down, but to no avail. Her fire-track was a chaotic sweep skyward — but it was evidently soarey enough to send her target diving for cover after one wild shot at Bolan. Meanwhile the guy on the right had gone for Evita. He was running across the yard and firing from the hip, the heavy slugs from the revolver chewing up the doorjamb behind her.
Living large, a lot of life could be packed into a single second.
And a lot of death.
All of the foregoing had been playing upon the background of Bolan's consciousness, reeling out in frozen sequences of peripheral awareness; perhaps, he reflected later, it was the awareness of that submerged human side of man-in-combat.
From the moment of first blood, however, back at the vehicle, Bolan's single overriding consideration was for the safety of Evita Aguilar, Big Eve. The combat order was as single-minded, and the panoramic action outside that cabin was telescoped into a single moment in time and as a continuous movement in attack-mode.
His first burst caught the front man and sent him beyond the lens of that mental telescope. The second burst unfalteringly found its track onto the gunner at the right, and the guy's last couple of rounds toward Evita were probably no more than the dying reflex of his trigger-finger. He was stopped in mid-stride and punched back for several yards loss before touching down — and already Bolan was swinging into the threat from the left.
The guy over there was diving away from that harmless confrontation with Evita's Thompson, and Bolan's next burst added measurably to that movement, sending the guy into a somersaulting roll into the bushes.
A snap-glance toward the cabin assured Bolan that the girl was okay. He went quickly from body to body, verifying the results, then he slung the heated Thompson across his back and went to the woman.
Her eyes were wild but exhilarated as she let the heavy weapon droop and then fall to the steps. She crumbled into his arms and he pulled her in close.
"You okay?" he asked anxiously.
"Yes, yes, okay," she panted.
"You were great," he told her.
"Great, no. Out of mind, yes. Why would anyone build a locogun such as this one?"
Bolan strangled off a chuckle as his fingers encountered the unmistakable sticky warmth of blood. "You're hit," he announced calmly, and spun her about for inspection.
"It was wee a sting of the bee," she said raggedly. "It is nothing?"
He grunted and replied, "Well, almost nothing. But you'll have a souvenir to show your grandchildren."
A .38 slug had plowed a shallow furrow along the soft underside of her left arm, just below the armpit. Another inch toward center and it would have been a fatal wound. By such insignificant dimensions of mass were the measurements of life and death.
He pulled her into the cabin and quickly washed the wound with soap and water, then he applied a disinfectant from the kitchen cupboard and bound the arm with gauze.
"We have to hurry," he said rightly.
"I am all right," she assured him.
"Okay, get your clothes on. Those guys are part of a coordinated sweep."
Evita nodded her understanding and finished dressing, wrinkling her nose at the torn blouse. "I put back on the stink of Glass Bay," she commented lightly.
Bolan did also, hastily donning the slacks and shirt he had worn, there. Then he told the woman, "Go through this place with a fine comb. Make sure there's nothing left behind to show I've been here."
He started for the door but she reached out and stopped him, laying her cheek against his chest and encircling him with her arms.
Bolan said gruffly, "It'll be okay."
"Mack, I… all this death. It does not bother you?"
Of course it bothered him. He told her, "How much choice is there, Evita?"
She shivered and lifted the troubled face to peer into his eyes. "I am just now realize… this terror, this bloody struggle… it is all of your life. It is never ending, is it? I can give you a choice, Mack. Surrender to me. Go with me to San Juan. I promise you, there is feeling for you in this commonwealth. I have friends, high friends. I will fight to keep you in Puerto Rico."
Bolan sighed and told her, "You're not thinking straight, Evita. First item, you told me yourself that the law wants me dead in Puerto Rico. I'd never see the inside of a police station. Second..."
"I will guarantee you differently!" she cried. "I swear!"
"All right, even if you could guarantee something like that — I've never heard of a jail or a prison that was secure against the reach of the mob. They'd love nothing better than to have me boxed in and defenseless, and they wouldget to me, Evita."
"There could be designed a suitable protection," she replied stubbornly.
Bolan shook his head. "Not a chance. As for keeping me in Puerto Rico, I am wanted for capital crimes in a dozen states and two foreign countries, not to mention that I'm an army deserter and also top man on the FBI's list. Assuming that I could get tried and released in all those places, which would be a wonder equaled only by the second coming of Christ, I would still have years of court battles to look forward to, and with Johnny Matthew dogging me every step of the way."
"Who is this Johnny Matthew?"
"The non-existent Mafia," he said whimsically. "If you're wondering about my chances with legal justice, just consider that weird fact. The mighty U.S. government has backed down to the point of using a cover name when referring to Mafiosi. They are Johnny Matthew now."
"Yes, I have heard of this timidity," she said quietly. "It is shameful."
"Anyway," he added, smiling soberly, "I am not ready to throw down my gun and walk peacefully away. I'm my own Pentagon now, my own war department, and my own executive branch of government. I make the decisions and I carry them out. And it's war, Evita. War to the bloody end."
"It is your choice," she murmured, taking a wooden step backwards.
"It's no choice at all," Bolan told her. "It's the only way to go."
He spun away from her and went outside.
When Evita joined him there moments later, the jeep had been pulled into the yard and the three bodies were piled into the rear. Bolan was carefully collecting the ejected shells from the Thompsons. She helped him round up the fallen enemy weapons, and these were added to the collection in the jeep.
"What is your plan?" she asked him.
"I'm taking this load of garbage out of here," he replied. "There's a car just up the lane, also another dead soldier. I'll pick him up, and you follow me out in their car."
"We will abandon the jeep?"
"That's the idea. I noticed a strip-mine up along the foothills. Do you know the place?"
She nodded. "It is Aggregates Limited. About three miles from here."
"Okay, then I'll follow you. Come on, let's hit it. Too much delay already."
Bolan drove her to the other vehicle, where he picked up the fourth body and gave Evita a snub nosed .32 from the shoulder holster of the first victim.
"This one I can handle," she assured him, spinning the cylinder with an expert touch.
He said, "I'll bet you can," and went to inspect the Chevy.
She followed close on his heels and announced, "It is a Glass Bay company car. But something has been added."
"The radio?"
"No." She ran a hand across the top of the car. "This."
She was pointing out a peculiar design on the roof. Four circular plastic decals were placed along the centerline, each colored a bright orange. Bolan had noted the design earlier, but had thought nothing of it.