Bolan couldn’t see Bahn, and he wasn’t sure if she’d been the one who’d fired the shots. It didn’t matter, because now his total focus was on the pickup, which spit gravel as it raced along the driveway, headlights off.
The soldier took quick aim and fired at the vehicle, sending a .44 Magnum slug through the front windshield. He’d apparently missed the driver, though, because the truck stayed on course and picked up speed, bound for the dirt road.
“Not so fast,” Bolan murmured.
He lunged away from the porch and ran alongside the truck as it raced past. There was no way he could keep up with it, so he instinctively cast aside his gun and grabbed at the tailgate with both hands, then pulled himself up, dropping one knee on the rear bumper and swinging the other leg over the gate. He was pulling himself up into the truck bed when the Ford reached the road and turned sharply to the left. Bolan was thrown forward sharply against the wheel well. His shoulder absorbed the bulk of the blow and he felt a jabbing pain race down his back and along his arm. He ignored the pain and got to his knees, then began to crawl toward the cab. He could just barely make out the silhouette of the man behind the wheel.
The driver knew he’d just picked up an unwanted passenger, and the pickup swerved wildly as he jerked the steering wheel from side to side. Bolan lost his balance and tumbled into one side of the truck bed, then found himself rolling to the other side as the Ford continued to veer back and forth on the dirt road. He was struggling to regain his balance when the driver took one hand off the wheel and hammered at the cab’s rear window with the butt of his pistol. The window finally shattered and the truck slowed as the driver twisted around, trying to get off a shot.
The moment he saw the gun, Bolan rolled to his left. A shot thundered above the sound of the engine and the slug ripped through the fiberglass lining of the truck bed, missing Bolan by a good two feet. Seconds later he heard shouting out on the road, and he was once again crawling toward the cab when there was a loud thud. The entire truck shuddered, and even as Bolan registered the sound as that of someone being struck head-on, there was a quick series of more thuds as a body bounded across the front hood and up over the roof of the cab. Bolan recoiled just in time to keep from being struck when the body sprawled to a stop in the truck bed alongside him. There was just enough moonlight for Bolan to see that it was one of the CHP foot officers.
As the pickup continued to race down the dirt road, the slain officer’s partner fired, striking the cab with several rounds but failing to take out the driver, who managed to keep control of the vehicle without easing off the accelerator.
Once the Ford stopped swerving, Bolan once again started to make his way toward the cab. Off in the distance he could hear sirens squealing to life and up ahead he could see the flashing lights of the CHP patrol cars positioned at the junction where the road hooked up with Route 66.
Bolan was within a few feet of the shattered cab window when the driver suddenly yanked the steering wheel sharply to the right. Bolan was thrown off balance yet again as the pickup left the road and crashed through a flimsy wire fence. It was all Bolan could do to stay aboard the vehicle as it began to bound over the uneven terrain of an open field. The body of the slain officer slid into him, then rolled away, then collided with him again.
The Ford continued to buck and jolt for another hundred yards as the driver tried to make his getaway, refusing to let up on the accelerator or to use his headlights to get a better idea of where he was headed. He finally ran out of luck when the ground suddenly dropped out beneath him and the Ford went airborne, hurtling across a wash. It failed to make it to the other side and instead crashed into the soft, loamy embankment of the far side. The impact threw Bolan forward, over the roof of the cab, his arms and legs flailing as he was flung through the air.
He landed hard, right shoulder first, and somersaulted several times before coming to a stop several yards shy of a tall, gnarly Joshua tree. Dazed, it took him a few seconds to gather his wits. His shoulder was throbbing and he’d skinned both knees, but at least he was alive, which was more than he’d counted on. Groaning, he straggled to his feet. The slain CHP officer had been thrown clear of the pickup, as well, and lay in a contorted heap twenty yards to his right.
As for the truck, Bolan could only see the roof. He staggered toward the wash, snatching up a softball-size boulder, ready to defend himself, if need be, against the driver.
Ok-Hwa Zung, however, was in no shape to put up any more of a fight. The young Killboy hadn’t been wearing a seat belt, and when the Ford had plowed into the embankment, he’d been thrown partway through the windshield. He was slumped over the front hood, blood flowing from his lacerated face.