But they didn't know their quarry was Mack Bolan.
Planted atop the wooded rise, he watched gunners four and five appear a pace or two behind the rest. He sighted on each of them in turn, pivoting the gun from one to the next, then let it settle on the gunner on the far left, who was struggling to keep upright on the slope.
Split-second timing was the key, together with the kind of pinpoint accuracy that had been a Bolan trademark since the hellfire days in Southeast Asia. Left to right in one easy sweep: with a little luck he could take them all before they found his range and offered any serious resistance.
He framed the left-end flanker in his sights, squeezing off instinctively. The Beretta quivered in his hands as it dispatched its deadly messengers, and moved to the next target as the hardman stumbled and slithered to the gully's floor.
Alerted by a crashing in the undergrowth, the nearest gunner turned, a question on his lips, when Bolan's second burst ripped into his chin and answered all his questions for eternity. The guy fell, as if his legs had been jerked out from under him, and slowly toppled backward.
Number three, suddenly aware of something different, wrong somehow, was already jogging to his left and out of line when parabellum manglers took him in the side and shoulder, propelling him against an unyielding tree trunk. As he fell, the goon's scatter-gun discharged, alerting his remaining comrades on the firing line.
It was a race with time, and Bolan left the wounded gunner, tracking to the next target while he had the chance. The two remaining gunners were sprinting uphill, toward cover; Bolan chose the nearest of them as he emptied the Beretta. At thirty yards, the parabellums ripped across his target's pelvis, sending him sprawling, his legs suddenly paralyzed.
Number five was off and running as Bolan set the hot Beretta down and raised the AutoMag. Twenty yards was child's play for the silver cannon, even in the dark, and Bolan squeezed the trigger only once. The thunder rolled away from him and overtook his sprinting quarry in an instant, hurling him against a tree.
The Executioner scanned along his field of fire, examining the wounded and the dead. Of five, two gunners still showed signs of life, and Bolan spared the time for mercy rounds, the echo of his .44 reverberating from the darkened trees. When it was done, the soldier went in search of Dave Eritrea's wife.
And found her huddled near a hedge against the low retaining wall that partly enclosed the safehouse grounds. He startled her, but she recovered quickly, rising to greet him.
"Are they... I mean..."
"We're clear for now."
He began walking and she followed. He helped her over the rough stone wall, and waited while she dropped down on the other side, then scrambled nimbly over. The rented car was parked near a stand of trees close by, and Bolan fired the engine, drove without headlights along a narrow access road toward the highway. As they reached the two-lane blacktop, he flicked the headlamps on... and knew at once that they were not alone.
The Lincoln that had earlier retreated was now approaching on a hard collision course, lights out, straddling the center stripe. The high beams flared, and the juggernaut began to gain momentum with a screech of smoking tires. Gun metal glinted in the interior as the tank accelerated toward them.
"Get down!"
She hesitated, freezing, and he shoved her beneath the dash, as safe as she would ever be in that situation. The AutoMag was in his hand, level with the dash. He floored the pedal, screeching toward a dead-end confrontation with the enemy.
He held the charger steady, mentally awaiting impact, knowing that a head-on at this speed would incinerate both cars, kill everyone. The smallest error on Bolan's part, the least miscalculation, and they both could kiss it all goodbye. And still, it was their only chance.
With twenty yards separating the vehicles, Bolan cranked the wheel hard left and veered across the narrow road, directly in the Lincoln's path. His tires were chewing up the shoulder, briefly losing traction, finally digging in, and they slid past with inches left to spare, the wheelman and his backup plainly visible, braced for the collision that appeared certain.
He had about a second to finish them off, and he opened fire with his AutoMag over the prostrate woman, her startled scream obliterated by its roar, all seven rounds unloading in the time it took to pass the Continental and skid to a stop along the shoulder.
He watched the tank roll on in his rearview mirror, saw the steering wheel lock beneath dead hands, saw the car swerve, go over in a barrel roll, spill its passengers, end belly-up across the highway. Then a glowing worm of fire traversed the undercarriage toward the fuel tank. When it blew, the Continental spun around and a lake of fire spread out across the wounded dinosaur, devouring its carcass and the writhing maggots sprawled around it on the pavement.