[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.This method did not, of course, account for incidental misplaced vehicles blocking the path, banks of drifted snow, a war party of enemy infantry firing wildly into the night, and various other nuisances that could crop up.The Ferrari, as it came charging blindly out of its nest, sent a pair of gun-toting pedestrians hurtling off into diverging flights, sideswiped a larger vehicle which had been idling in the traffic lane, punched down a metal post marking the turn toward the exit, and struck hard on another soldier who had been running blindly into the sounds of battle.And all along this course, the vehicle was taking repeated hits from a determined handgun fusillade; Bolan was required to pilot the car, attempt an effective return-fire, and maintain cognizance of his time-track—all with the same mind and at the same time.Incredible as this may seem, Bolan might have succeeded in making a clean breakaway had it not been for the final enemy factor—the foresight of another trained warrior, Larry Turk, and the "plug car" just outside the motel exit.Turk had left this "safety plug" in the capable hands of Willie Thompson, while he descended wrathfully upon the early sounds of confusion emanating from the parking area.It had been his angry voice demanding the cessation of horn signals from Lavallo's vehicle; Beraie Tosca had not yet had time to get his crew positioned into the trap stations, and Turk was reading Lavallo's interference as the highest form of treason.Meanwhile, Willie Thompson had exercised a prerogative of his own and ordered the plug vehicle onto station directly blocking the exit from the motel.Both he and the wheelman had then taken cover behind the street side of the car and awaited developments.It seems likely that any vehicle attempting to leave the motel area would have been accorded the same reception which Bolan received.Willie was targeting entirely on audibles, and when the Thompson opened fire, it was purely a reflexive attack upon a moving vehicle which no one could actually see.Bolan could, however, see the blazing eruptions from the chopper's muzzle and the shadowy bulk of vehicle from behind which they were emerging, and his reflexes sent him accelerating into the blockade as the only possible hope for neutralizing this latest challenge.He was lying across the front seat with one arm protectively clasping his floored passenger when the Ferrari sheared into the heavier Mafia car, and he had the passenger-door open and was snaking to the ground even while the sports car was quivering into the rebound.The chopper had fallen silent and someone nearby was groaning with pain.Bolan was collecting himself, silently calling roll on his various parts and finding them all present and functioning, though his ears were ringing and there was a numbness in the area of his left shoulder.He carefully extricated Jimi from the wreckage and slung the unconscious girl onto his good shoulder.The sounds of chaos were drifting over from the parking lot and an anxious voice very closeby called, "Willie? Are you okay?""I think my arms are broke," came a groaning response."Don't worry about me, check out that Bolan.Make sure he's dead.""You got 'im, I know you got 'im.""Bullshit, you check 'im out.Don't take nothin' for granted."The hood over the Ferrari's engine compartment was crumpled and askew.Bolan slipped the Beretta's muzzle into the opening and squeezed off three quick rounds in a searching pattern, then quickly backstepped as flames whooshed out.He collided with a fast-moving figure who was hurrying around the tail of the Mafia vehicle as the groaning man cried, "Gene! Get me outta here, we're on fire!"But Gene had problems of his own, in the form of a hot muzzle at his throat and a coldly insistent voice in his ear, demanding, "Let's find some wheels, Gene."In a choked voice, Turk's wheelman suggested, "There oughta be a couple cars right up the street.""Okay, let's go," Bolan commanded.As they trudged away, a snarling voice from somewhere inside the din of the motel parking lot was shouting, "Goddammit, hold your fire, what the hell you think you're shooting at? Bernie, where the hell are you?""Over here, Turk—I think the bastard got past us.""Are you crazy? Can't you hear anything? He's out there dueling with Willie! Get your boys out there!""Christ, boss, I can't even see where I'm at.""Fuck where you're at! You get it out there where he's at!"Where Bolan was "at," however, was now beyond the immediate reach of the headhunting crew.An expert wheelman was transporting him and his unconscious companion in an appropriated crew wagon, away from the combat zone, deeper into the jungle of survival, onward into the night.Bolan was working on his girl, and presently she roused, and found herself in Bolan's arms, and she murmured, "Are you an angel?"He smiled, remembering, and replied, "Not hardly.You got a bump on the head.Feeling okay?"She gave him a glowing-eyes nod."On and on and on," she whispered."I love you, Mack.I hope we never find the end."Bolan pointedly ignored the declaration of love.He ran a finger through a bullet hole in her ski jacket and gruffly told her, "You came that close to the end, Foxy.About a sixteenth of an inch, I'd say."Too close, much too close, and Bolan realized that the war had hardly begun.He could not expose this girl to any more of it.He would have to find a place to stow her, and then he would have to get this war into gear and—one way or another—get it finished."You're hurt," she had just discovered [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.This method did not, of course, account for incidental misplaced vehicles blocking the path, banks of drifted snow, a war party of enemy infantry firing wildly into the night, and various other nuisances that could crop up.The Ferrari, as it came charging blindly out of its nest, sent a pair of gun-toting pedestrians hurtling off into diverging flights, sideswiped a larger vehicle which had been idling in the traffic lane, punched down a metal post marking the turn toward the exit, and struck hard on another soldier who had been running blindly into the sounds of battle.And all along this course, the vehicle was taking repeated hits from a determined handgun fusillade; Bolan was required to pilot the car, attempt an effective return-fire, and maintain cognizance of his time-track—all with the same mind and at the same time.Incredible as this may seem, Bolan might have succeeded in making a clean breakaway had it not been for the final enemy factor—the foresight of another trained warrior, Larry Turk, and the "plug car" just outside the motel exit.Turk had left this "safety plug" in the capable hands of Willie Thompson, while he descended wrathfully upon the early sounds of confusion emanating from the parking area.It had been his angry voice demanding the cessation of horn signals from Lavallo's vehicle; Beraie Tosca had not yet had time to get his crew positioned into the trap stations, and Turk was reading Lavallo's interference as the highest form of treason.Meanwhile, Willie Thompson had exercised a prerogative of his own and ordered the plug vehicle onto station directly blocking the exit from the motel.Both he and the wheelman had then taken cover behind the street side of the car and awaited developments.It seems likely that any vehicle attempting to leave the motel area would have been accorded the same reception which Bolan received.Willie was targeting entirely on audibles, and when the Thompson opened fire, it was purely a reflexive attack upon a moving vehicle which no one could actually see.Bolan could, however, see the blazing eruptions from the chopper's muzzle and the shadowy bulk of vehicle from behind which they were emerging, and his reflexes sent him accelerating into the blockade as the only possible hope for neutralizing this latest challenge.He was lying across the front seat with one arm protectively clasping his floored passenger when the Ferrari sheared into the heavier Mafia car, and he had the passenger-door open and was snaking to the ground even while the sports car was quivering into the rebound.The chopper had fallen silent and someone nearby was groaning with pain.Bolan was collecting himself, silently calling roll on his various parts and finding them all present and functioning, though his ears were ringing and there was a numbness in the area of his left shoulder.He carefully extricated Jimi from the wreckage and slung the unconscious girl onto his good shoulder.The sounds of chaos were drifting over from the parking lot and an anxious voice very closeby called, "Willie? Are you okay?""I think my arms are broke," came a groaning response."Don't worry about me, check out that Bolan.Make sure he's dead.""You got 'im, I know you got 'im.""Bullshit, you check 'im out.Don't take nothin' for granted."The hood over the Ferrari's engine compartment was crumpled and askew.Bolan slipped the Beretta's muzzle into the opening and squeezed off three quick rounds in a searching pattern, then quickly backstepped as flames whooshed out.He collided with a fast-moving figure who was hurrying around the tail of the Mafia vehicle as the groaning man cried, "Gene! Get me outta here, we're on fire!"But Gene had problems of his own, in the form of a hot muzzle at his throat and a coldly insistent voice in his ear, demanding, "Let's find some wheels, Gene."In a choked voice, Turk's wheelman suggested, "There oughta be a couple cars right up the street.""Okay, let's go," Bolan commanded.As they trudged away, a snarling voice from somewhere inside the din of the motel parking lot was shouting, "Goddammit, hold your fire, what the hell you think you're shooting at? Bernie, where the hell are you?""Over here, Turk—I think the bastard got past us.""Are you crazy? Can't you hear anything? He's out there dueling with Willie! Get your boys out there!""Christ, boss, I can't even see where I'm at.""Fuck where you're at! You get it out there where he's at!"Where Bolan was "at," however, was now beyond the immediate reach of the headhunting crew.An expert wheelman was transporting him and his unconscious companion in an appropriated crew wagon, away from the combat zone, deeper into the jungle of survival, onward into the night.Bolan was working on his girl, and presently she roused, and found herself in Bolan's arms, and she murmured, "Are you an angel?"He smiled, remembering, and replied, "Not hardly.You got a bump on the head.Feeling okay?"She gave him a glowing-eyes nod."On and on and on," she whispered."I love you, Mack.I hope we never find the end."Bolan pointedly ignored the declaration of love.He ran a finger through a bullet hole in her ski jacket and gruffly told her, "You came that close to the end, Foxy.About a sixteenth of an inch, I'd say."Too close, much too close, and Bolan realized that the war had hardly begun.He could not expose this girl to any more of it.He would have to find a place to stow her, and then he would have to get this war into gear and—one way or another—get it finished."You're hurt," she had just discovered [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]