"It's all right, kids," she told them in a choked voice, tears running down her face. "It's okay now."
Bolan stood at the rear of the truck, the Ingram ready, waiting for the next wave of violence to come at them. He felt eyes watching him and glanced over.
One of the kids, a little boy no more than six or seven, was staring up at him, seeing a tall, grim-faced giant in black, weapon ready, features grimy from powder smoke. Bolan tossed a wink at him and the little boy's face broke into the widest gap-toothed smile Bolan had ever seen.
A bullet slapped past Bolan's head and made him spin around. The Ingram chattered and two more of the enemy were punched back down the steps before they could make it halfway up.
Lana started to stand and join Bolan.
"Stay there!" Bolan rapped, motioning her back. "Stay with the kids. Are they all there?"
Lana looked around and got several nods in answer to the question.
"I think so!" she breathed.
Bolan loosed the Ingram, returning it beneath his right arm. Then he drew Big Thunder.
"Everyone hug the floor and stay toward the front," he instructed.
Lana's eyes widened as she realized what he was going to do.
They had to get out of there. The truck's metal trailer was good cover, but the heat from the fires was intensifying and it wouldn't be long before the gas tank of the vehicle exploded. It made sense to take the kids and the truck out together.
Bolan leaped down from the dock and ran toward the front of the tractor trailer truck.
The heat from the flames, together with the diminishing ranks and the lack of enthusiasm of the Mafia soldiers now that their boss was dead, had caused the remaining force to withdraw toward the fence surrounding the trucking company. But now they spotted Bolan and opened fire.
Projectiles ricocheted harmlessly from the cab and body of the truck.
A burst of autofire caught the windshield and shattered it into myriad cubes, the broken glass covering the interior of the cab.
The driver's door was open.
Bolan stretched his arm and gripped the window, hoisting himself up behind the steering wheel, feeling the door shiver under his hand as a bullet thudded into the metal.
The truck's engine was still idling.
Bolan booted the clutch and the gas together and upshifted the big rig away from the loading dock with a tremendous surge of horsepower.
He hauled the wheel around, steadily increasing his speed. The roar of the diesel engine filled the cab, and cold wind whipped through the blown-out windshield as Bolan put the pedal to the metal and pointed the truck's radiator toward the closed mesh gates in the front fence.
Several of the dispersing Parelli hardforce were gathered in front of the gates where they had been about to withdraw.
When they saw the truck barreling at them, some of the men scattered and two of the dumber ones held their ground and opened fire, pouring lead at the oncoming truck.
Bullets whistled all around Bolan and he hoped none of them found their way through to the back of the truck where Lana and the kids huddled.
He steered with his left hand and unlimbered Big Thunder with his right. He opened fire through the blown-away windshield, the AutoMag thundering as he sent high-caliber fire toward the gunners who tried to dive aside at the last second.
They were not fast enough, and the big semitrailer truck slammed into them, their screams lost to Bolan beneath the truck's engine roar and the sounds of tearing metal as the truck smashed through the front gates.
The two barriers were hurled into the air as the tractor trailer barreled on through and away from the flaming chaos behind it. The big rig's diesel engine roared like the battle cry of some prehistoric beast... right into a swarm of flashing red and blue lights that seemed to be racing toward the Parelli property from every direction, as if following some sort of cue to block any escape route for the truck.
He hit the brakes, hearing the hiss of air blending with the whining sirens everywhere.
Slowly, the truck rumbled to a stop.
Police cars surrounded it while other official vehicles swerved around it and headed toward the fires.
Bolan heard heavier sirens bringing up the rear.
Fire-fighting equipment and ambulances.
Orchestrated, yeah.
He cut the truck's engine and opened the door. He swung down from the cab and strode to the back of the vehicle. He looked in on the frightened but safe kids.
Sitting on the dirty floor of the trailer with them was Lana Garner, her face wreathed in one of the happiest smiles Bolan had ever seen.
"You see," she said to the rescued kids, "I told you it would be all right."
Her eyes met Bolan's.
Whatever happened from here on out, these children were safe.
He heard the distinctive sound of pistols being cocked and looked carefully over his shoulder.
"I figured it was you, Bolan." Detective Lester Griff and another plainclothes officer had their service revolvers drawing a bead on him from less than ten feet away. "It's time we had another talk. You're under arrest. Drop your weapons."
21
Bolan stayed where he was.
"Don't you think you'd better find somebody to take care of these children?"
Griff turned his head, still covering Bolan with the pistol, and shouted to an officer running past. "Mitchum, get some guys over here to look after these kids!"
The cop nodded and took off toward uniformed men, many carrying rifles, pouring out from a cluster of squad cars.
Bolan had not expected it to end like this.
Lana emerged from the rear of the truck, gracefully swinging down to stand at Bolan's side, facing Griff and the other detective.
"You too, young lady, drop your weapon," Griff ordered, motioning to the Beretta 93-R Lana held at her side, pointed toward the ground.
"But you don't understand," she told Griff in an anxious voice, "we just rescued these children..."
"We'll come peacefully," Bolan said, going with what his gut told him was right.
He handed over his ammo belt and weapons to the second cop, who also relieved Lana of Bolan's Beretta.
Griff nodded.
"Over to the car," he said, indicating his vehicle with a flick of the weapon's barrel.
Bolan and Lana walked over to the unmarked police cruiser.
The four of them walked through the bustling activity of men with rifles comforting the children, while the ambulances stopped and medical personnel came running.
The fire-fighting equipment raced on toward the burning trucking business, and some sporadic gunfire carried from that direction as police encountered the remnants of Parelli's withdrawing forces.
"All right, Bolan, that's far enough," Griff said when the four of them reached the car.
Bolan looked quizzically at Griff, who seemed to be calling the shots for the uniformed officers, including Chicago police and a sprinkling of federal marshals.
Some cops were checking sprawled bodies.
Griff followed Bolan's gaze.
"What's the body count going to be?" he asked Bolan harshly. "Twenty-five or thirty?"
"Not enough," Bolan grunted. He felt a weariness settling into his neck and shoulders, the pressures of this night and all he had done catching up to him at last. "Do what you have to and get it over with," he told Griff tiredly.
The cop studied him intently for a long moment.
"What should I do, Bolan? You tell me. I know what happened here tonight. I've known about the Parellis and this child thing for more than a week now."
"If you knew," Lana blurted angrily, "why didn't you do something about it?"