Death Run by Don Pendleton Page B

running down the street toward his position. He lined up the yellow dot of the reticle on the outline of the closest man's head and triggered a short burst from the P90. The man fell and his buddy dived behind a garbage bin.
    Bolan could hear the sirens of approaching emergency vehicles and he knew he had to get out of there. He threw on his riding gear as fast as he could, taking suppressive potshots at the man behind the Dumpster to keep him pinned down. The man took a few wild shots at the soldier, but he wasn't leaving his position to take aimed fire. Bolan let off a long burst, emptying the magazine, and at the same time got on the bike and thumbed the starter.
    The engine caught and Bolan gunned the throttle, breaking the rear wheel loose. With his left foot on the ground, Bolan spun the bike around facing away from the gang banger hiding behind the Dumpster and took off after the van. Bolan wheelied the big MW toward Mission Street, leaning forward to keep the oversized dirt bike from flipping over completely. He got the front end down just before he arrived at the intersection. He kept on the throttle but dabbed the rear brake and shifted his weight to the right, putting his right foot down. This made the rear end of the bike step out to the left and he goosed the throttle, sliding around the corner, leaving a big black stripe all the way. He performed the opposite maneuver when he reached Highway One, then got on the throttle as hard as he could. In his mirror he could see multiple vehicles with flashing red lights turning onto Fair Avenue.
    The van had a several-minute head start on him and Bolan rode flat out down Highway One, trying to catch the UPO. He reached 130 miles per hour and hoped a deer didn't step out on the road.
    After riding down the nearly deserted highway for almost twenty minutes, he spotted the van up ahead. When he approached the vehicle, the overhead door in the cargo box flew open and two men inside opened up on the soldier with SAR-21 rifles. Bolan tried to avoid the flying bullets but one grazed his helmet, snapping his head to the right. Just then several more rounds hit him square in the chest. His head was still reeling from the near miss on his helmet, and the shots in his chest caught him off guard.
    The soft armor stopped the 5.56 mm bullets, but the impact knocked the wind out of Bolan and aggravated the broken rib he'd suffered earlier, causing him to lose his grip on the bike's handlebar. Bolan flew off the back of the bike and landed on his back, skidding down the highway. The material in his riding suit was supposed to provide better abrasion resistance than leather at speeds up to one hundred miles per hour. At speeds higher than that the material could melt, leaving the Executioner's back a bloody, burnt pulp. Bolan had slowed when he came up behind the van, but he hadn't looked at his speedometer.
    Apparently he had slowed to under one hundred, because when he came to a stop just before he hit the guardrail on the opposite side of the road, the riding suit saved his skin from being shredded on the pavement. When he stood, the riding suit was damaged beyond repair, but it had protected him from a severe case of road rash. He checked his arms and legs. Everything worked; the only bones that appeared to be broken were the ribs he'd broken earlier.
    The bike wasn't so lucky. The big BMW had cartwheeled off the road just before the guardrail next to where the Executioner now stood. He looked down over the cliff. There, more than a hundred feet below him, lay the wrecked motorcycle, smashed to pieces on the railroad track that ran below the road. The headlight was still on, but in the moonlight he could see that there wasn't much left of the mangled remains that resembled a motorcycle. Bolan climbed up to a rocky outcropping above the road on the opposite side where he was out of the sight of any curious passersby and got out his cell phone.

8
    The sun had once again risen over the