Justice Run. Don Pendleton

rounds missed the guy by inches while the third bit into his biceps. Through a haze of pain, the guy fired off two more rounds, both of which slapped against the floor just in front of Turrin’s face.

      Turrin adjusted the aim on the Beretta and squeezed off another triburst, the rounds sinking into the man’s stomach and doubling him over. Turrin had spotted Dumond and was swinging his gun toward the arms dealer when the second hardman stepped between them. The Beretta’s Parabellum rounds drilled into the man’s torso. He teetered on unsteady legs but was still able to fire off a single round that zinged over Turrin’s head. Another trio of bullets from the Beretta hit the teetering thug’s chest and he pitched forward, his body tumbling over the stairway railing.

      Dumond was gone, and Turrin could hear rapid footsteps on the stairs. He had been so hyper-focused on the two guards he’d missed his target sprinting away. From outside the building, the little Fed could hear the whipping of helicopter blades.

      Dropping the magazine from the Beretta and reloading, Turrin got to his feet, cursing, then sprinted for the steps. By the time he reached them, he could hear Dumond running across the floor below. He surged downstairs but found that his target had disappeared. Hearing a heavy door slam shut to his right, Turrin spun in the direction of the noise and raced toward it.

      Passing through a luxuriously appointed sitting room, the former undercover mobster found a heavy wooden door. He grabbed the knob and twisted, but the door wouldn’t budge. A dead bolt installed above the knob explained why the door was holding fast.

      From the other side of the door, he could hear glass breaking. Muttering a curse, he holstered the Beretta, stepped back, unslung his shotgun and blasted through the shiny new lock. The dead bolt gave way in a shower of metal fragments and chunks of wood, and the door swung inward. The room in front of him was an office of some kind, outfitted with a desk, book shelves and filing cabinets.

      Beyond the desk, Turrin saw the window had been broken out. The growl of a helicopter’s engines and the thrumming of its blades grew louder.

      Turrin sprinted to the window and peered outside. A helicopter hovered overhead, the rotor wash causing tree branches and leaves to whip around as though caught in a monsoon. A rope ladder swung from the bottom of the aircraft. His eyes followed the length of the ladder. At the top, he saw Dumond, just a couple of feet from climbing into the craft.

      Turrin aimed at the fleeing man. Before he could fire off a shot, though, two of Dumond’s ground thugs began unloading their automatic weapons at Turrin.

      The sudden hail of bullets forced him to dive away from the window and land on the floor on his belly. Turrin rose, slinging the shotgun and unleathering his Beretta. He flattened against the wall and eased back to the window. Bullets speared through the opening, chewing holes in the large desk, shattering a set of crystal liquor bottles and glasses that stood on top of the desk, and ripping pockmarks in the walls.

      Turrin remained just to the side of the window until the shooting subsided before he took a chance to peer around the frame. Dumond had disappeared inside the helicopter. One of the guards had slung his machine pistol over his shoulder and was climbing the rope up to the helicopter.

      The other shooter, who was reloading his machine pistol, spotted Turrin in the window. The thug’s mouth dropped open. If he said anything, the noise was swallowed up by the helicopter. A burst from Turrin’s Beretta hit the man in the chest and knocked him to the ground.

      The whine of the helicopter’s engines intensified, telling Turrin it was about to grab some altitude. He swung the Beretta, aimed at the aircraft and drew a bead on the second hardman on the ladder.

      Before he could squeeze off a shot, though, the ladder came loose from its moorings and fell away from the helicopter. The man holding on to the ladder uttered a short cry before his body slapped hard against the ground.

      Turrin climbed through the window. He ran a few yards before he stopped, raised the Beretta and tried to line up a shot at Dumond who was visible in the door of the retreating helicopter for a brief instant. Then he withdrew into the craft and slammed the door closed. Turrin let the pistol fall. There was no reason for him to waste another shot.

      * * *

      THE ELEVATOR CARRIED Bolan to the cellar. When the doors slid open, he stood to one side, holding the MP-5 in his right hand by its pistol grip. With his other hand, he kept a finger pressed into the Open Door button.

      Light from the elevator spilled into the darkened hallway, illuminating several yards. Bolan saw shadows moving in the darkness.

      The soldier took a flash-bang grenade from the pocket of his windbreaker, jerked out the pin and tossed the bomb through the doorway. He covered his ears as best he could, with one hand holding his pistol, and opened his mouth slightly. The grenade unleashed a white flash of light and a disorienting peal of thunder. The soldier went around the doorway in a crouch. One of Dumond’s hardmen had been knocked to the ground by the device’s concussive force. The other man was aiming his submachine gun at an angle, well past Bolan.

      The Executioner swept the MP-5 in a wide horizontal arc as the weapon churned through the contents of its magazine. When he let off the trigger, the hardmen were sprawled on the floor in their own blood.

      The soldier reloaded as he moved along the hallway. All the doors were locked. The soldier rolled one of the guards onto his back and searched through the pockets of the guy’s expensive suit. When he came away empty, he searched the second man and found a set of keys.

      Bolan knocked once on the nearest door.

      “Jennifer Rodriguez, are you in there? My name’s Matt Cooper. I’m from the Justice Department. I’m here to get you out.”

      “Yes, I’m here,” the FBI agent replied.

      The soldier tried a few keys and finally one unlocked the door. He pushed it inward.

      Rodriguez had stepped back from the door and stood in the center of the room, staring at Bolan. The soldier was struck by her height first. Even at a distance, he could tell she was just under six feet tall and she still had a trim, athletic build. Her eyes were dark brown and Bolan could see the distrust beaming from them. After what she’d been through the past several days, he could hardly blame her.

      She looked over Bolan’s shoulder. “Where’s the rest of the team?”

      “The other half is upstairs.”

      “Other half? There are two of you?”

      Bolan nodded. As she moved to the door, he stepped back from the room and started walking toward the elevator. “Are you okay?”

      “I haven’t eaten or showered in forever. But otherwise, I’m okay, yes.”

      “Good,” Bolan said. “Let’s get you out of here.”

      Bolan ushered her into the elevator, then followed her inside and they returned to the first floor. When the doors opened, Bolan gestured for her to remain inside and he left the car.

      A ragged line of hardmen was scrambling to head Bolan off. The soldier scythed them down with a barrage of 9 mm rounds just as the MP-5 clicked dry. Ejecting the magazine, he slipped his last fresh one into the weapon and called for Rodriguez to come out of the elevator.

      They made a beeline for the front door with Bolan still in the lead. As they stepped into the warm evening, the soldier heard sirens screaming. Keying the throat mike, he called for Turrin.

      “Yeah?”

      “Meet me at the Jag,” Bolan said.

      “Roger that,” the retired Fed replied.

      “Jag?” Rodriguez asked. “You have a Jaguar? What department are you with again?”

      “It’s complicated,” Bolan said.

      When they reached the car, Turrin was already there, tossing some of his gear into the trunk.

      The Stony Man warriors claimed the front seats, with Bolan behind