Deadly Contact. Don Pendleton

enough to accept the facts and let her move on. For the moment he allowed her the privacy of her own thoughts.

      They were still short of the main highway when Bolan picked up the flash of headlights in his rearview mirror. He watched them until he counted at least two vehicles in pursuit.

      “Company,” he said.

      Dukas twisted in her seat and studied the oncoming vehicles.

      “You think they’re coming after us?”

      “Out here? Off-road? I don’t imagine they’re tourists. They must have arrived just after we left,” Bolan replied.

      He put his foot down, increasing the Cherokee’s speed. The dirt track they were on did little to assist a smooth passage, and the fact the road was waterlogged from the rain only added to the treacherous surface. The SUV managed the terrain, but the ride was uncomfortable.

      “This is just crazy,” Dukas shouted above the rising howl of the engine. “What the hell are we doing out here?”

      Bolan kept his eyes on the road ahead, peering through the streaming windshield where the wipers were struggling to keep the glass clear. The twin headlight beams danced and shimmered in the downpour as Bolan fought the wheel. The Cherokee slid back and forth, brushing the drenched foliage on each side of the narrow strip. More than once Bolan felt solid thumps as the Cherokee’s heavy tires hit some unseen object.

      He concentrated on the road ahead, knowing that the difficult driving conditions would hamper their pursuers as much as it did them. It was a small consolation, but at least it was something.

      A bend appeared, and Bolan worked the wheel and the gears to control the Cherokee. He felt the rear slide away and compensated, bringing the heavy SUV back on track. He felt the road start to slope. It wasn’t a steep incline, but under the conditions it did little to help, except to increase their speed.

      To the north thunder rumbled, a deep threatening sound that heralded the sudden crackle of lightning. The jagged fork lanced across the cloudy sky, briefly illuminating their surroundings and adding to the general din.

      “What next?” Dukas asked. “Do they have tornadoes around here as well?”

      The solid thump of bullets striking the Cherokee grabbed their attention. Bolan tried to erase the sound from his mind, but the increasing accuracy of the gunfire meant that sooner or later they would sustain a fatal hit. The tailgate window exploded as rising gunfire hit the glass, almost as a grim warning.

      Bolan felt the trail dip suddenly. The front wheels twisted, the big vehicle swayed and then lurched off the trail, sliding down the steep slope. Bolan fought the drift, but despite his powerful grip he was unable to bring the SUV back under control. He felt the right side wheels leave the ground as the Cherokee started to tilt.

      “Grab something,” he yelled at Dukas.

      The Cherokee rolled, and Bolan and Dukas were helpless as it commenced its bouncing, twisting descent. The last thing he was able to do was turn off the engine before the falling vehicle turned their world into a dizzying, wild ride that could have left them severely injured, or even dead, if they hadn’t been securely strapped in. It didn’t stop them from being jolted, suspended by safety harnesses, senses jarred and knocked out of kilter by the careering Cherokee. Sometime during the fall the windshield shattered, and sleet and mud entered the passenger compartment.

      And then it ceased.

      As swiftly as it had begun, the spinning, bruising tumble stopped. The vehicle lay on its left side. The creak of distorted metal and the sound of the wind penetrated their senses as they fought to push away the effects of the crash.

      Bolan managed to hit the release button and free himself from his belt. He was on his side, pressed up against the driver’s door. He ached, and the side of his head was bloody from where he had banged against the window. He blinked his eyes a few times to get them back in focus. His attention was drawn to something above him.

      It was Dukas, still caught in the restricting safety harness. In the pale light he could see the frustrated expression on her face.

      “I can’t find the damn release,” she said.

      Bolan sat up and reached between the tilted seats.

      “Ready?”

      He hit the button and Dukas slid from the harness and tumbled free. For a moment they were entangled, and in another place at another time Bolan might have enjoyed the contact. But their position left them vulnerable to attack, so any fleeting moment of closeness was abandoned instantly.

      Dukas had the same thoughts and she hauled herself off him, ducking her head through the windshield gap, half falling as she pushed into the open, feeling her hands sink into the chill ooze of mud.

      Bolan was close behind. He had spared a few seconds to search for the duffel bag holding his backup weapons, grabbing the handles and hauling the bag with him, then followed Dukas out of the Cherokee.

      The cold rain hit him as he pushed to his feet, turning to see if his companion was safe. She was leaning against the vertical hood of the upturned Cherokee, checking the pistol he had given her earlier.

      No need to remind her of the priorities, Bolan thought.

      He took out the Beretta and made sure it was ready for use. He set it for single shots. He had two spare magazines for the weapon, plus the one already loaded. It would do. There wasn’t time to break out anything else. He checked the long slope they had come down. Headlights broke up the gloom, and he saw the dark figures clustered around the pursuit vehicles. The light faded just as quickly, and in that brief moment Bolan made his decision.

      “Highway is in that direction,” he whispered. “We need to reach it if we can.”

      Dukas nodded. Her face was slick with rain, her dark hair soaked.

      Bolan touched her arm and pointed her in the direction they needed to go.

      The ground underfoot was waterlogged and spongy. The mud clung to their feet and slowed them. The constant fall of sleet drove in at them. Bolan let Dukas pull ahead a few feet so he was able to keep her in sight. Bringing up the rear, he checked their back trail and saw the bouncing shafts of light from the pursuit vehicles as they headed slowly down the slope. They halted beside the overturned Cherokee, and Bolan could imagine the anger and frustration the crews would experience when they found it empty. Once they realized their quarry was still up and running they would pick up the chase again.

      Up ahead Dukas lost her footing and went down on her hands and knees. Bolan reached her side and stood over her. About to offer a free hand to help, he was waved aside as she stood upright.

      “I’m fine. Thanks for the gesture.” She pushed wet hair back from her mud-spattered face.

      “Come on then,” he said.

      They cut off across the muddy landscape, Bolan aware that the pair of vehicles would catch up with them soon enough. He was looking out for anything that might offer cover if the need arose, but there didn’t seem to be anything to break the unending stretch of relatively flat terrain.

      The sudden crackle of autofire told them their pursuers were not waiting any longer. The shots were way off target.

      “If those chase cars get in range, try for the tires. It should slow them. Put them on foot too,” he said.

      “Seems reasonable,” Dukas answered without breaking her stride.

      The first pursuit vehicle closed on them quickly and Bolan snapped out a single command.

      “Down.”

      Dukas dropped, splaying her body across the muddy earth, propping herself on her elbows, the pistol in a two-handed grip. The Executioner was down himself in the same breath, dropping the duffel bag beside him, the 93-R tracking the driver’s door.

      The SUV was only yards from them, slowed almost to a stop as the occupants searched for their quarry.

      “Did