He yanked the pin from the grenade. Holding it in his left hand, he came up in a crouch that let him see over the gunwale.
The boat veered away, this time to keep from smashing into the yacht, the graceful curve of the turn putting it roughly parallel to the bigger craft.
The gunners continued blasting nonstop, gun flashes lighting up the night, reflecting from the water like strobe lights.
Bolan showed himself several feet away from where the men concentrated their fire. He fired twice, Big Thunder bucking hard in his grip, before they could adjust their aim.
Both .44-caliber projectiles missed the moving speedboat, but served their purpose anyway. For a few seconds, the gunners became more interested in seeking cover than in killing Bolan, giving him time to pitch the grenade.
It hit the water a little aft of the speedboat, disappearing into the foamy wake before detonating a split second later, the explosion kicking up a plume of water.
Bolan heard a scream above the roar of the boat's engine.
As the spray thrown up by the grenade's blast hissed back down like a miniature rain shower, he spotted the speedboat banking away from the yacht, the subguns silent.
One of the gunners writhed in his seat, hands covering the bloody mask that had been his face before the shrapnel shredded it.
The other killer appeared to have lost his weapon when the explosion rocked their craft.
Bolan held the AutoMag at full arm extension and lined its barrel on the torso of the boat's pilot. He squeezed the trigger.
The boat bounced on the water, causing Bolan's bullet to miss.
He triggered the .44 again, with the same result.
Much as Bolan wanted to search this yacht, he wanted those killers even more, wanted one of them alive.
They were a direct link to Parelli.
A sure thing rather than a gamble and a hope.
He dashed to the other side of the yacht, reaching down to snag the discarded coveralls. He grabbed two more grenades and a combat knife out of the pockets.
One of his booted feet pushed off the gunwale as he vaulted it. He landed running on the dock.
The Executioner spotted some people moving around now on the other boats moored nearby, staring at him curiously.
The speedboat moored next to the Lady Denise was a four-seater, much like the one the assassins were using.
Bolan leaped into the pilot's seat.
There were no keys in the ignition. He reached under the dash, found the right wires and twisted them together.
The engine turned over, missed a few times, then suddenly caught with a throaty rumble.
"Hey! What the hell are you doing?"
Bolan looked over his shoulder. A man came running down the dock toward him, waving his arms, gesticulating angrily.
Bolan leaned back in the seat, knife in hand, and slashed the mooring line. He returned the blade to its sheath, ignoring the shouts. He started working the controls.
The prow of the boat was pointed toward the middle of the lake, so all Bolan had to do was feed power to the throttle.
The speedboat shot forward across the choppy surface of Lake Michigan.
The wind was rising, making the water even rougher now.
Bolan spun the wheel with the heel of his hand, sending the craft into a tight turn. He planted his feet firmly to maintain his balance as the little boat skimmed the waves.
Ahead of him, he could see the killer craft.
It cut through the water at a frantic clip, moving away from him.
It looked to Bolan as if the hit mission was forgotten and all those guys wanted now was to get away from the Executioner.
The mouth of the Chicago River opened to the left.
The boat with the Mafia punks headed that way, and a moment later they vanished around a headland.
Bolan fed more juice to his own craft.
It skirted the promontory and he whipped into another turn.
The killer boat came back into sight.
The engine of Bolan's craft hummed smoothly. The icy night air lanced his exposed flesh like tiny needles. He sensed his vessel had more power than the other, as he slowly closed the gap.
The Lakeshore Drive bridge flashed by overhead.
The water was calmer here than in the lake, the river wide, flat and dirty.
Both boats gunned up the long straightaway toward the Michigan Avenue bridge.
Bolan mentally reviewed the geography of the area, picking out the right place for what he felt certain was an imminent confrontation.
On the other side of the downtown area, the river split into two winding channels that flowed north and south.
If the boat up ahead reached that split, chances were good that it would give Bolan the slip.
That meant he had to take them now.
He poured on more power.
The engine of his craft began to labor, but the distance between the two vessels was narrowing. Not more than fifty yards separated them now.
Bolan saw that the injured gunner was no longer in sight; the guy must have slipped down onto the floorboards of the boat, he decided.
The second was twisting around in his seat now, lifting something, lining it up on Bolan's speedboat.
Grenade launcher!
The alarm went off in Bolan's head and he jerked the wheel all in the same instant.
With a whoosh, the grenade left its launcher and tore like a blazing comet through the night air toward him.
Bolan had the speedboat almost standing on its propeller as he zigzagged back and forth in an attempted evasive maneuver.
The grenade hissed past him, missing by several feet to starboard. The explosive plowed into the water and detonated, geysering a high fountain of water into the air.
Bolan felt the shock wave from the blast, but it caused no harm other than a sharp, high-speed lurch.
The distance between the boats was down to forty yards.
He slid the AutoMag from its holster again and lifted himself high enough in his seat to rest the stainless-steel barrel atop the boat's windshield.
The gunner in the lead boat dropped the grenade launcher and came up with a rifle.
Bolan was starting to wonder just how many weapons they had up there in that craft.
He triggered off a round from Big Thunder and was close enough now to see splinters fly as the slug impacted into the rear of the boat.
He wanted to disable the craft, to take at least one prisoner, but was not so sure he'd be able to.
If a round caught the gas tank, it would blow for certain, taking with it any chance of questioning these men who had tried to kill him.
Noise and flame leaped from the muzzle of the gunman's rifle.
Bolan heard the spang of the ricochet and saw the long ugly mark on the cowling of his speedboat where the slug hit.
Damn good shooting for a scared man in a fast-moving speedboat.
Bolan triggered the AutoMag again, not trying to hit anything, intending to keep that gunner too busy looking for cover to return any more fire.
Thirty yards between the boats now.
When he got close enough, he intended to take out the man at the controls, which would slow down the other vessel long enough for him to overtake it.
Twenty yards.
So far they had been lucky in not encountering any other traffic on the river.
The Michigan Avenue bridge was coming up quickly.
Both boats zoomed under the span.
Bolan glanced over at the south shore of the river, his attention caught by flashing lights.
Police cars were appearing on Wacker Drive, drawn by the inevitable reports of the battle at the yacht club and the speedboat chase down the river.
Ten yards between the boats.
He could see the hatred on the face of the man with the rifle as that punk raised his weapon for another shot.
Before that could happen, Bolan triggered the AutoMag again.