One was stretched out near the sofa, fairly shredded, his shirt and trousers smouldering.
Another gunner, just barely alive, watched the Executioner's approach through his one remaining eye, the other having been messily removed by the razor shard that had also sliced open his profile from cheek to chin, exposing bone and teeth and sinew. He clutched an Army-issue .45 against his chest, as if mere contact with the weapon was some magic preventive against dying.
The pistolero's single eye was fixed on Bolan now, and he was summoning his last reserves of strength to raise the .45. Bolan shot him from the hip at twenty feet and closed the Cyclops's eye forever.
A movement on his flank alerted Bolan to the presence of the third and fourth contestants, and he hit a diving shoulder roll before their guns erupted. A pair of bullets flew over him, and then he was returning fire, Big Thunder challenging the other guns and drowning out their voices with its own.
His first round ripped the arm off the nearest gunner, spinning him around in an awkward pirouette. The second exploded in his face and picked the whirling dervish off his feet and propelled him against his comrade, both men sprawling to the floor.
Bolan's last round drilled the emptiness where the final gunner had been standing. The Magnum's slide locked open on an empty smoking chamber, and he jettisoned the useless magazine, already clawing at his belt for a replacement when the fourth man sighted down the vented barrel of a big Colt Python, straight into Bolan's eyes.
The Executioner saw his death in the cold steely eyes of his adversary, for at that instant he was no better than weaponless, the AutoMag's replacement not yet freed from its canvas pouch.
Suddenly the gunner stumbled, dropping to his knees. Someone had shot him.
Bolan and the wounded gunner swiveled to confront the unseen combatant, and both were startled at the sight of Mrs. Eritrea, revolver braced in both hands. She was aligning her second shot.
The gunner was fast, and would have been faster had there not been a bullet in his shoulder. His Python was almost on target when the lady hit him with a triple punch that kicked him backward, dead.
She held the firing stance until Bolan reached her and pried the .38 from her trembling hands. Then she turned away, no longer able to confront the dead.
"I owe you one," he told her softly.
"No. I couldn't let him... I..."
The tears were getting in her way, and Bolan left her to ascertain that their enemies no longer posed a threat. He was thankful she had disobeyed him. It was a twist of fate... and it had saved his life.
He fed the starving AutoMag another magazine, planning their exit. The hardmen had been preparing to evacuate when Bolan intervened, which raised two scenarios for his consideration.
If they had planned to take the woman out themselves, then the danger was over.
But if another crew had been dispatched to fetch the hostage, then there might be only seconds to spare.
"We're out of time," he told her. "Come with me."
"My husband..."
"I'll do everything I can, but first I need you safe and sound."
"Where can I go?"
"I've got a few ideas. We'll talk about it on the way."
He led her around the scattered straw men toward the entrance. She stared at his back as she followed, refusing to acknowledge the punctured corpses on either side. Outside, the night smelled clean, untainted by the acrid gun smoke and the smell of death. From behind them somewhere came the lapping sound of water beneath the private pier.
They had cleared the porch and were veering across the lawn when two pairs of high-beam headlights blazed to life directly before them, the glare pinning them at center stage. Bolan knew the transport team had arrived to collect their charge and carry her away.
The AutoMag cleared leather in a single fluid motion, rising toward the target as his finger tightened on the trigger. There was no time for speculation, no time for plotting strategy. He had to act instantly to preserve the slimmest chance of making good their escape.
He shoved the woman hard, propelling her beyond the circle of lights. Then the AutoMag roared in his fist.
Other weapons answered at point-blank range.
3
Ignoring the headlights, the Executioner squeezed off two rounds at the grill of the nearest Continental. Suddenly the hood was airborne, rising on a fiery mushroom, momentarily suspended, falling back across the splintered windshield.
It was no major fire — not yet, at any rate — but it was enough to distract the opposition, spoil their concentration. Bolan had moved on by the time a burst of wild, reflexive fire cut through the spotlit circle, searching for him.
The crew of the stricken Lincoln abandoned the vehicle, afraid that it would blow once the flames discovered fuel and traced it to the source. Secure in darkness, the Executioner was tracking the second tank, but it was rolling now, headlights extinguished, showing tail as the vehicle retreated down the driveway.