The plan was simple: a little stroll along the corridor, detouring through the vacant bedroom, with an exit through the window through which he had entered. No sweat... except that they would have to make that stroll in view of several hostile guns.
At least four gunners were left. While the Executioner had bet his life on longer odds before, the variables were different now. He had the woman to consider, and even sloppy marksmen pouring rapid fire along a narrow corridor had decent chances of inflicting lethal damage.
The plan was risky, but sitting still was nothing short of suicide. So that left no choice at all.
"We can't afford a sound," he told her, assured by her nod of understanding. He was already moving toward the door when it swung open in his face.
"Hey, Tommy, what the fu..."
The slender gunman never got it out. He was too busy taking in the scene: his comrade, inert and bleeding on the floor; the captive, dressed and ready to go; Grim Death, decked out in black and swinging up an awesome piece of hardware at his head.
Something in the gunner made him try, and Bolan had to give him credit for the speed with which he ripped his weapon from the armpit holster. Before it found a target, however, Bolan's Beretta coughed, and 115 grains of death penetrated the pistolero's nose at fourteen hundred feet per second. He collapsed immediately, his dying reflex triggering an aimless round that drilled the ceiling.
Startled voices called from the living room, demanding explanations for the gunfire from comrades who were far past answering.
"What's going on in there?"
When it seemed no answer was to be forthcoming, the surviving gunners found cover and prepared for a siege.
The Executioner returned his sidearm to its rigging, drew the AutoMag and thumbed its safety off. The silent probe was over, and he needed thunder on his side if they had any chance of escape.
Another voice: "Goddammit, Tommy, Rico — answer up!"
He let Big Thunder answer for him, sighting on the sound and squeezing off, rewarded by a startled cry, a puff of tattered fabric from the sofa. Downrange, several weapons were unloading on him, angry hornets drilling through the bedroom door, releasing little showers of plaster from the walls.
A door sprang open on the corridor and unexpected company emerged into the line of fire. The guy had hoisted his shorts and drawn his gun before he left the bathroom, but drooping trousers slowed him. He glanced both ways along the corridor as if about to cross a busy street, then started to dash toward the living room.
Bolan helped him get there with 240 grains of screaming death between the shoulder blades. The impact threw him forward, spinning, and he picked up two more rounds from friendly guns before he sprawled facedown across the corridor. Infuriated, Bolan's opposition poured another concentrated fusillade into the bedroom, setting the door swinging on its hinges.
They would have to move without delay. A stationary duel was certain to result in death for Bolan and the female hostage while his enemies controlled the hallway. There was no way out but through the enemy, and Bolan knew that every moment wasted now was time which the hostile gunners would use to fortify their positions.
He ran one hand along his web belt, found a frag grenade by touch and hefted it, his eyes upon the no-man's-land beyond the door, calculating distances and timing. Satisfied, he pulled the pin, his grip securing the safety spoon, preventing premature ignition.
"Count to ten," Bolan told the woman, "then follow me. Go to the first doorway on your left, out through the window. Understand?"
Her frown bespoke concern.
"But you..."
"Forget me. I'll meet you outside. And if I can't... at least you'll have a running start."
She spent a moment mulling over Bolan's words and finally nodded grudging acquiescence. Bolan took the revolver from the dead thug lying beside the bed and passed it over to her.
"Anybody tries to stop you, think about your husband. Think about your life. Don't hesitate to use this thing."
She took the weapon and nodded. Bolan turned away from her, his mind already focused on the corridor: some thirty feet of carpeting, wide open, no obstruction except the body stretched across it.
No obstacles at all, unless you counted four guns, minimum, all trained down the narrow runway, aching for a target.
He braced himself, then pushed off, rushing through the open doorway, firing the AutoMag to keep the hostiles down and give him breathing room. He pitched the frag grenade and threw himself facedown upon the bloodied carpet, so he was half shielded by the body of the fallen gunman.
Peripherally, he saw the lethal egg land between the bullet-riddled sofa and an easy chair, then roll behind the couch. A bullet struck his human shield, then another and another. Counting down the seconds, Bolan prayed their aim would not improve. The thunderous blast rocked the parlor, shattering picture windows and bringing down a rain of plaster. Bolan hugged the floor as wicked razor fragments sliced over his head and dug into the walls. Then he was on his feet, already closing in before his enemies could pull themselves together.