Threat Factor. Don Pendleton

car to aim beneath his open door. And as he’d hoped, he had a clean view of his target’s knees.

      Waabberi took a breath and held it, squinting with his left eye as his right took aim. He knew he’d only have one chance to get this right. A miss would warn his adversary, and the man would bolt before Waabberi could correct his aim.

      His index finger seemed to take forever, squeezing the Beretta’s trigger, then the pistol bucked against his palm and his opponent howled in pain, sprawling into the open as he clutched the bloody ruin of a mangled knee.

      Waabberi wasted no time gloating. Still without exhaling, he lined up another shot and put his fourth round through the wounded gunman’s gaping mouth.

      Simple.

      Perhaps it was his background, all the death that he had witnessed growing up in Mogadishu, but Waabberi felt no pity for the man he’d killed, no sickness at the thought of having snuffed out a human life. The gunman was no better than a snake or scorpion, in his opinion.

      All Waabberi felt was sweet relief—and pressing need to drop his other enemies before they did the same to him.

      Rising to crouch behind his open door again, he scanned the battleground in search of ready prey.

      SIMEON BOORAMA TRIGGERED three quick shots and broke for cover, sprinting toward a burned-out building to his right. He hoped a change of vantage point would help him kill the adversaries who were shooting up his men and cars, before he found himself alone and trapped.

      In truth, Boorama didn’t care that much about his men, and both the cars were stolen. If he had to leave the battle site on foot, so be it. All that mattered was eliminating those whom he’d been sent to kill—and the white woman who’d come from nowhere to assist them.

      Bullets rattled past Boorama as he ran, head throb bing with the jolt of every stride, sweat burning in his eyes. Boorama nearly reached his goal, then stumbled on the paving stones and sprawled facedown, gasping in pain. He fired a wild shot toward his enemies, then scrambled toward the nearest cover, scraping knees and elbows bloody in the process.

      A bullet clipped the heel of Boorama’s left boot as he lurched through the open doorway of a burned-out shop, sending a rough jolt up his leg that echoed in his aching skull. Cursing, he huddled under cover, pausing long enough to catch his breath before he risked another look outside.

      Two of his men were down, either dead or wounded, and the three they’d come to kill showed no signs of surrendering. Why should they, when it would mean instant death? Boorama hoped they would run out of bullets soon, and let his soldiers rush them with impunity. But then he felt a surge of panic that he might have no men left when that occurred.

      Boorama cursed the white man, who appeared to have his submachine gun, after all. The good news was that he had failed to take the extra magazines Boorama carried in his pockets, and the gun should soon be empty. Then, even with four guns against two, Boorama thought his soldiers should prevail.

      Just then, as if his thought had been a curse, he saw another of his men go down, flopping across the pavement like a fish flung out of water. In another instant the man lay still, either dead or unconscious. A useless lump of flesh.

      Boorama knew he had to get back in the fight, but he was frightened. The feeling galled him, made him nearly sick with shame. Infuriated by his own weakness, he scrambled to his feet and dropped his pistol’s magazine into his palm. Six or seven rounds remained, but he stuffed it in a pocket and replaced it with another that held fifteen rounds.

      Better to be prepared than find himself exposed, unable to return fire from his enemies. If he was swift and bold enough, he might surprise his adversaries and take them down before they recognized the danger on their flank.

      If not…

      Before logic could rob him of his courage, Boorama broke from cover, charging toward the target from the driver’s side, the TA-90 blazing in his fist. Running and aiming at the same time was a challenge, all the more so with one eye swollen shut and epic pain throbbing inside his head, but rage and a commitment to preserve his reputation drove him forward.

      He was halfway to the car and gaining when the white man swung around to face him, sighting down the stubby barrel of Boorama’s submachine gun. Two more shots went wild, before a burst of slugs ripped through Boorama’s chest.

      Collapsing to the pavement, slain with his own gun, Boorama wasn’t sure if he should weep or laugh. Instead, he simply died.

      THE SLIDE ON BOLAN’S captured SMG locked open as his adversary fell, sprawling, some thirty feet in front of him. The guy was down and out, but so was Bolan’s only ammo magazine, with three or four opponents still confronting him.

      He had two ways to go. He could lie back and let his companions finish off the set as best they could, or he could act.

      For Bolan, lying back had never been an option.

      Good news: he had recognized the last man down, from his loud shirt and battered face, as the same shooter who’d donated the Benelli SMG to Bolan back at the Bakaara Market. Odds were fair that he’d be carrying spare ammunition in the pockets of his baggy cargo pants—and even if he wasn’t, there was still a pistol lying near his outflung hand.

      Bad news: the thirty feet that separated Bolan from his goal was open ground. He would be totally exposed to hostile fire, coming and going, all the way.

      He hated to distract the woman who had saved him once already, but there seemed to be no choice. Bolan waited until she had paused to feed her pistol a fresh magazine, then said, “Can you cover me?”

      She frowned. “What did you have in mind?”

      He let her see him drop the SMG’s spent mag and nodded toward the nearby corpse. “A little shopping run,” he said.

      “If I were you,” she answered, “I would stress the running part.”

      “That’s the plan.”

      She nodded then and said, “I’ll do my best. Be quick, eh?”

      As she turned away and rose to fire across her open door, he bolted from the cover of the bullet-scarred sedan. There was no point in trying any broken-field maneuvers, since his enemies were all to Bolan’s right, sighting across his path of travel. All that he could do was keep his head down, offer up a silent prayer to anybody listening, and run like hell.

      He left the SMG behind and took off.

      Two seconds, give or take, and he was at the body. Fumbling with the pocket flaps would use up too much precious time. Instead, he scooped up the Beretta pistol in one hand and gripped the corpse’s collar with the other, dragging the deadweight back toward Mironov’s vehicle and firing as he ran.

      Three rounds, in fact, before an empty chamber finished it. By that time, though, he’d reached the car and had started rifling the remains.

      The first pocket he tried held three spare clips for the Beretta. Number two Benelli magazines. A third gave up a formidible-looking switchblade knife. He pocketed the blade, reloaded both Italian guns and spent another second charting his next move.

      His luck had held so far. Bolan decided it could stand a bit more stress.

      “I’m going in,” he told Mironov, rising even as he spoke and rushing past her, angling toward the nearer of the two chase cars.

      A single man was hanging on behind its open driver’s door. He’d ducked, perhaps reloading, just as Bolan made his move, and was surprised to find an adversary bearing down upon him when he rose to fire again. A 4-round burst from Bolan’s SMG tore off three-quarters of the gunner’s face and dropped him twitching to the pavement.

      That left two, huddled behind the second car.

      Bolan considered setting fire to it, but couldn’t trust the plaza’s paving stones to strike a proper spark from ricochets, even if he could hit the fuel tank first and start a spill of gasoline.

      Bolan’s