Outback Assault. Don Pendleton
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safe from that for now,” Bolan told her, taking her knapsack. He opened it and saw three heavy rocks. “I just need to ditch these two.”
Wangara looked at him and took a step back. “Why?”
Bolan grabbed her wrist tightly and tugged her closer. The move looked harsher than it felt. Bolan didn’t want to seem too accommodating of the young woman in front of the gangsters, but he measured the amount of force he used perfectly. “Stay close,” he repeated.
Looking back to the Chinese mobsters, he saw them slow, looks of doubt crossing their features. A deft turn of his head allowed Bolan to see what was up. A van slowed, the side panel rolled back and men in black sat perched to leap out. Bolan yanked Wangara off her feet and twisted, throwing himself through the plate-glass window of a clothing store, his broad shoulders smashing the glass and shielding the woman from shards and splinters. As his feet cleared the hole he’d created, he heard the crack of handguns filling the air. Bolan and the young woman struck the floor as bullets popped above their heads, the high velocity creating miniature sonic booms that crackled in the Executioner’s ears.
He pushed Wangara against the base of the wall with one hand, the other pulling the Walther from its shoulder leather in one swift movement. “Stay down!” he shouted.
Bolan rolled to one knee, the 9 mm pistol leading the way. He spotted a handgun-wielding Chinese man gaping at the broken window, wondering at the blur of motion that had snatched his target out of the way. The Executioner milked the trigger twice. Bullets tore into the chest of the gunman, the shooter’s dying reflex jerking him back toward the panel van, forcing his allies to stumble as they tried to get out of the vehicle.
Bolan swept his Walther to a second gunman and punched a single 9 mm pill through his ear. The Asian marauder tumbled face-first to the concrete, eliciting a cry of dismay from the van’s driver. A third and a fourth gunman exploded through the open side panel, spreading out in response to Bolan’s marksmanship. The Executioner dropped and rolled on his shoulders as a shotgun belched violently. A clothing rack above him jerked and billowed under the 12-gauge assault, pellets shredding fabric, hangers clanking on metal tubing. People in the store screamed in fear, but Bolan’s explosive entry had driven them to cover. No one had been struck by gunfire yet, except the attackers.
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