When he looked, Johnson was nowhere to be seen.
A fatigue-clad arm, its hand twitching spastically, was barely visible at the edge of a wooden crate. He couldn't tell whether it was Johnson or the other man, and he didn't know whether he'd gotten them both. But that was not the question.
Where was Harding?
That was the question.
"Ten seconds, Belasko. Nine... eight... seven..."
And he broke for the far wall, the catwalk swaying beneath him like the deck of a plunging boat in high seas.
"Kill him!" Harding shouted.
Gunfire, as near as he could tell from only two weapons, ripped at the metal slats, punching holes in the aluminum and scattering sharp slivers in every direction.
He was willing to bet they expected him to take the ladder. Bolan reached the far wall and ran toward the ladder a few steps, then stopped. He cut back, remembering the thick bundle of canvas. He spotted it, nearly twenty-five feet on the ladder's far side. One of the huge doors rumbled open, then an engine sprang to life.
The jeep raced its engine, then jerked into gear.
"You hear that, Belasko? It's over, sport. Time's up."
The jeep's tires squealed on the concrete, and a burst of gunfire echoed through the warehouse as Bolan leapt. Before he touched down, he heard the jeep slam into the wall, its engine racing under a lead foot, the tires screaming against the cement, then the engine died.
Bolan hit and rolled. As he came up, Johnson and the other man turned their rifles on him, but Bolan was just a little quicker. He emptied a clip, then jerked the wasted clip free and jammed in another.
Bolan sprinted past the twitching bodies and careered around a corner. He caught a glimpse of Harding just before the man vanished. Someone fired a shot, and Harding returned the fire with two quick ones from an automatic pistol. Bolan reached the aisle and ran into Carlos, nearly knocking him over, just as Harding rounded the far corner. In surprise, Bolan turned, reaching out to steady the young Filipino. Behind him he saw a bright flash of light, then it went dark.
The clunk of the master switch echoed through the warehouse.
"Carlos, what are you doing here?" Bolan whispered.
"The police are coming soon. Senora Colgan, she said you needed help. She led me through the tunnel. When we came up, I saw the jeep starting to leave. It was Cordero."
"Was?"
"I killed him, Senor Belasko." That left Harding himself. Swat him like the bug he was, wipe your hands, and walk away, Bolan thought. That's all there was to it.
But first he had to find Harding. And that wouldn't be easy in the dark.
Bolan heard the footsteps, and clapped a hand over Carlos' mouth. "Shhh. Listen, you find Senora Colgan, and you stay with her. Sit on her if you have to, but don't leave her alone. And whatever she says, don't let her talk you into anything. Understand?"
Carlos nodded, and as Bolan relaxed the pressure, Carlos whispered, "Si, senor."
He heard Carlos move away, back down the aisle toward where he'd seen Marisa just before the lights went out. The concrete underfoot, covered with sand and hunks of wood, papers and the usual sort of litter, made too much noise under his soles. Bolan unlaced his boots and kicked them off, then moved toward the wall. He hadn't had time to check the warehouse, and Harding had a distinct advantage in knowing the layout. When his outstretched fingers brushed against the rough metal of the wall, Bolan hesitated.
Which way should he go?
Harding was an unconventional strategist. And if that weren't enough, he was also desperate. Behind him he heard a strange sound, almost like running water, and he wondered whether something might be happening in the tunnel beneath the warehouse. But there was no point in worrying about what might happen. He had a ruthless killer loose somewhere in the dark, and at the moment, that was the only thing that mattered.
Bolan groped along the wall and nearly shouted when he stepped on something sharp. The pain shot through his foot, and when he lifted it, he felt a piece of crating come off the floor, pinned to the foot by a nail.
He bent the leg, cradled the foot against his knee and, balancing on one foot, jerked the slat free. He set it down gingerly, then tried to put some weight on the punctured foot. A fierce stab of pain shot up the calf, and he balled his toes instinctively to take some of his weight off the wound. It would slow him down.
But it wouldn't stop him.
Only one thing could do that, and he wasn't ready for that yet.
He continued along the wall as footsteps scraped on the sandy floor somewhere in the distance.
Again, that gurgle, and again he pushed it out of his mind. Concentrate, he whispered first things first.
Concentrate, damn it. He ignored the pain in his foot, the aching shoulder. In his mind, a white-hot light, like the headlight of an approaching freight train, burned brightly. Outlined in that brilliant glare, he could see Charles Harding. There was nothing and no one else.
Bolan stepped on the corner of a piece of lumber, and the point stabbed at the puncture wound.
He convulsed instinctively, bending to grab the foot, and it saved his life. A sharp crack resounded throughout the warehouse, right behind the awful crunch of a slug punching through the rusty metal wall right where his head had been. Bolan dove to the floor, forgetting about the pain, and wondered how in the hell Harding could see him.
He scrambled forward several feet, slithering like a lizard, then jumped to his feet. Moving faster, he heard footsteps scrape across the floor, and that strange gurgling again. His fingers bumped against a metal box mounted on the wall. It echoed hollowly like a drum, and he knew immediately what it was.
Groping along the box, he found the handle and wrenched it up with a jerk of his wrist. The fluorescents flickered overhead, strobing a moment, flashing a strange blue-grey light before snapping fully on.
Bolan blinked away the glare and turned. He saw Harding and ducked just as another shot sailed past him. And Bolan's gut clenched like a fist.
He knew now how Harding had seen him. The night-vision glasses vised the man's head, sprouts of grey hair shooting up like weeds under the pressure of the elastic band.
In Harding's right hand, he saw a big Colt .45. Its blued steel gleamed under the light.
But that wasn't the problem.
Harding's left hand was clenched tightly over Marisa Colgan's mouth. She struggled, but Harding was too strong for her, dragging her along in his powerful grip, with just her toes scraping the floor.
Bolan waved his Beretta back and forth, the mesmerising sway of a flute before a cobra.
But he didn't have a clear shot.
"Let her go, Harding."
Harding laughed. "Not in this life, Belasko," he spat. "Not in this life." Marisa continued to struggle, but it was useless.
Harding was just too strong. The big Colt cracked again, this time punching into a crate just in front of Bolan's shoulder. The slug glanced off something inside the crate and ricocheted out through the side of the thin wooden container.
A shot cracked behind him. As Harding turned, momentarily relaxing his grip, Marisa chomped down hard on the slack fingers. Harding howled as Marisa spun away, and Bolan fired once.
The bullet slammed into Harding's skull, leaving a small black hole in his temple, then blasting a softball-sized exit on its way out the other side. Marisa lay there moaning as Bolan charged forward. He checked to see that she wasn't hurt, and she reached for him.
"I'm all right?" she said. "Really, I'm all right."
Bolan helped her up and supported her weight, feeling the frightened tremble.
He glanced at the bloody shambles that had been Harding's head, then turned away. Down the aisle, Carlos, a pool of blood from his slashed throat already coagulating on the concrete, stared back at him with glazed, sightless eyes. His fingers still curved around the pistol, but they no longer felt it.