Powder Burn. Don Pendleton

      They reached the open doorway that served the garage’s stairwell, and Bolan steered Pureza inside. “Third level,” he told her. “Look for a gray Pontiac G6.”

      “You’re not coming?” she asked him.

      “I’ll be right behind you.”

      As he spoke, Bolan drew his Glock and turned to face the intersection they’d just crossed. No other motorists had replicated the cabbie’s mistake. From where the soldier stood, the cars within his line of sight looked empty, their occupants either lying low or already out and running away from the gunfire.

      Bolan caught his first glimpse of the shooters, a mismatched pair, the tall one with lanky hair down to his shoulders, the short one crew-cut to the point where he looked like a skinhead. Both carried weapons that resembled AKS-74U assault rifles. They could be knockoffs, but it wouldn’t matter if the men behind them found their mark.

      Bolan squeezed off a shot at the tall guy, saw him jerk and stumble, then regain his balance for a loping run that took him out of sight behind a minivan. The short one, when he swung around that way, had already found cover of his own. Too bad.

      Bolan had missed his chance to end it here, but he still hoped escape was possible. It would be inconvenient—not to mention costly—if he had to leave the rented car with all his hardware in the trunk and start again from scratch.

      Still better than a bullet in the head, but damned annoying anyway.

      He took the concrete stairs three at a time, sprinting to catch up with Pureza and make the most of their dwindling lead.

      ARCELIA PUREZA WAS FRIGHTENED. No point in denying it, as she was running away from a slaughterhouse scene with gunmen behind her, trying to finish her off. Styles was dead, she was injured, though not very badly, and she was stuck with a stranger who might or might not have a clue as to how to keep them alive.

      She had not drawn her SIG Sauer SP 2022 pistol while running after Cooper on the street, but Pureza did so now, as she mounted the stairs to the parking garage’s third level. Logic told her there were probably no gunmen waiting for her inside the garage, and yet…

      Pureza reached a door marked with a two-foot number “3” in yellow paint and paused to peer through its small window of glass and wire mesh. The view was limited, but she saw no one lurking anywhere within her line of sight.

      She entered the garage proper, holding her pistol down against her right thigh, index finger curled around its double-action trigger and ready to fire at the first hint of danger. Pureza had never shot another human being, but her recent brush with death convinced her that she would not hesitate.

      She started scanning vehicles, looking for the Pontiac G6. He’d said that it was gray, but for the life of her, Pureza couldn’t picture the car in her mind. So many modern sedans resembled one another, regardless of make and model. Cars used to be distinctive, almost works of art, but these days they came in cookie-cutter shapes, distinguished only by their small insignia.

      Where was Cooper when she needed him?

      As if on cue, the metal door banged open at her back. Pureza spun around, raising her SIG in a two-handed shooter’s stance and framed the big American in her sights before she recognized him, saw his hands rise with a pistol in the right and let her own gun drop.

      “Down there,” he said, and pointed to his right along the line of cars nosed into numbered parking slots facing the street they’d left behind. “About halfway.”

      Bolan keyed the doors, making the taillights flash with a short beep-beep sound for people who couldn’t find their car.

      Pureza didn’t stand on chivalry. She got in on the passenger’s side, still holding her SIG at the ready, while Cooper slid into the driver’s seat.

      “I saw two shooters,” he informed her, as he turned the key and revved the car’s engine. “May have winged one, but I can’t say for sure. If they’re climbing the stairs, we may miss them.”

      “Unless there are more on the street,” she replied.

      “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

      “Right, then.”

      Pureza found the proper button on the armrest of her door and lowered her window, while Cooper did the same on his side. Rental cars didn’t have bulletproof glass, so the windows would be of no help in a fight. Also, raised windows would hamper defense and might spray blinding glass if they shattered.

      Cooper backed out of his slot, shifted gears, and then they were rolling, following big yellow arrows spray-painted on pavement and wall signs that read Salida/Exit. Pureza knew they were starting on the third level, but it still seemed to take forever, circling around and around past cars that all looked the same.

      Then she saw daylight, people flocking past the entryway to the parking garage, mostly hurrying toward the blast zone. Were they planning to help? Loot the dead? Simply gawk at crimson remains of catastrophe?

      Cooper leaned on the Pontiac’s horn, made no effort to brake as they sped toward the exit. She saw no cashier in the booth to their left, no one to raise the slender mechanical arm that was blocking their path. Beyond that fragile barrier, Pureza saw faces turned toward the sound of their horn and growling engine, people scattering.

      And one who stood his ground, raising a gun.

      “WHERE ARE THEY? CAN you see them?” Mutis barked into the mouthpiece of his hands-free two-way radio.

      Static alone replied, at first, then one of his advance men—maybe it was Mondragón—answered, “They’re inside the garage. One of them, the man, took a shot at Edgar.”

      “I’m all right,” Abello said, interrupting. “The bastard just grazed my arm. I’m on the street exit.”

      “I’m going up to find them,” Serna added, sounding short of breath. “We have them now.”

      “Make sure of it,” Mutis commanded, then swiveled to face his driver. “Why in hell aren’t we moving?”

      “You see the street,” Fajardo said. “All that glass, eh? We can’t chase gringos on flat tires.”

      “Then back up and go around the block, for Christ’s sake! Must I drive, as well as think?”

      “No, sir!” Fajardo muttered something else as well, but Mutis couldn’t hear it and the car was moving, so he didn’t care. By then, he’d drawn a Walther MPK submachine gun from the gym bag at his feet, leaving its wire buttstock folded as he cocked the L-shaped bolt and set the selector switch for full-auto fire.

      Fajardo boxed the block, first making an awkward and illegal U-turn in the middle of Carrera 11, then powered back to Calle 182, turned right and roared through the long block leading to Carrera 12. Another right turn there, and they were weaving in and out of traffic, letting pedestrians fend for themselves, in a mad rush northward to Avenida 82. There, he made a final right-hand turn and aimed the Mercedes back toward Carrera 11.

      Time elapsed: five precious minutes.

      “What is happening?” Mutis demanded, fairly shouting into the mouthpiece, although he knew it was unnecessary.

      Hissing silence was the only answer for a moment, then Mondragón came back on the air, cursing bitterly. “Shit! They got out! Edgar’s down, maybe dead. I can’t tell.”

      “Which way are they going?” Mutis asked, teeth clenched in his rage.

      “Northbound, toward—”

      Mutis lost the rest of it, as Fajardo shouted, “There!” He saw a grayish car speed past on Carrera 11, barely glimpsed the gringo driver’s profile in passing.

      “Get after them!” he snapped at Fajardo. Then, into the mouthpiece, “You, too, Carlos! Run them down!”

      “I’m on it!” Mondragón