LITMIR.BIZ

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      The Executioner slipped out of the truck and hit the asphalt running. He’d exchanged the boots he’d worn at the fantasy camp for lightweight hiking shoes. The crepe soles muffled his steps. Kissinger was right behind him, the Colt pistol freed from his holster and held out before him, ready to fire.

      Grimaldi, meanwhile, swung the truck around and fishtailed past the men, raising a fantail of road slush in his wake. By then, Bolan and Kissinger had crossed the street. The Executioner took cover behind a mailbox anchored to the sidewalk near a row of parked cars. Kissinger split off and raced toward a large sign propped on stanchions rising up through a planter box situated near the parking lot entrance.

      From his position, Bolan could see most of the lot, as well as the road. In the distance a thick stand of elm trees separated the industrial park from a nearby housing development. It sounded to him as if one of the motorcycles was approaching from the direction of the trees. Those gathered behind the exhibition hall had heard the commotion, as well. The rent-a-cops and several of the vendors had drawn their guns and were looking out into the night, tracking the sound. Bolan and Kissinger both did their best to conceal themselves, not wanting to be mistaken for hijackers.

      Moments later, a mud-encrusted Husqvarna 250 Motocross emerged from between the elm trees, lights off, knobbed tires churning up snow and dirt as it raced up a footpath leading to the street. The rider was dressed head-to-toe in black leather, wearing goggles and a stocking cap, but no helmet. He had both hands on the handlebar controls, but visible in a shoulder holster was an Uzi Eagle autopistol. Once he reached the street, he cut across both lanes, clearly bound for the parking lot.

      Before Bolan could fix him in his sights, however, the biker suddenly veered to his right and yanked on his handlebars. Goosing the bike’s throttle, he brought up the front wheel and bounded cleanly over the curb. Bolan tracked the biker and was about to cut loose with his Beretta when someone fired at him from behind, creasing the mailbox just inches from his face.

      Holding his fire, the Executioner instinctively dropped to the snow-covered sidewalk.

      “Sniper on the roof!” Kissinger called out.

      Bolan barely heard the warning; he was too busy scrambling clear of the mailbox. He took cover behind a pickup truck parked on the street. From his new position, he could see the biker clear the sidewalk and power through the sparse shrubbery that ringed the parking lot. By the time Bolan got off a shot, the biker had entered the lot and was speeding toward the loading dock.

      When one of the vendors raised his gun, the biker slammed on his brakes, throwing the Husky into a sidelong skid. Once he’d laid the bike down, the rider jumped clear, avoiding the gunshot fired his way. The motorcycle’s momentum, meanwhile, sent it clattering across the asphalt.

      The vendor let out a howl as the bike knocked his legs out from under him. His gun flew from his hand as he fell, sprawling, to one side. Before the vendor could react, the biker bounded to his feet, unleathered his Uzi and fired into the vendor’s face.

      Kissinger caught only a glimpse of the execution; his view was obstructed by the signposts and shrubs in the planter. By the time he changed positions, the leather-clad intruder had already disappeared between the two semis. Worse yet, Kissinger had placed himself in view of the rooftop sniper. When a 7.62 mm rifle round tore through the shrubs, the Stony Man weaponsmith quickly drew back and dropped behind the planter. More gunfire soon came chattering his way, not from the roof but rather from the rear of the exhibition hall.

      “You’ve got the wrong guy!” Kissinger shouted.

      His warning went unheeded. More rounds hammered at the planter and the sign stanchions, seeking him out.

      Bolan, meanwhile, switched to firing single rounds, hoping to conserve ammo as he traded shots with the rooftop sniper. He plinked a shot off the condenser unit his foe was crouched behind, then ducked when a return round shattered the pickup’s windshield. Bolan scrambled to the rear of the truck and dropped the Beretta’s foregrip so he could grasp it with both hands and improve his aim. Up on the roof, the sniper swung around and was ready to fire when Bolan beat him to the trigger. Nailed in the chest, the sniper dropped his rifle and staggered clear of the condenser unit, then teetered lifelessly over the edge of the roof.

      The Executioner tracked the man’s fall, then shifted his focus to the activity around the loading dock. Given all the gunfire, Bolan assumed the biker had been cornered and was making a last stand. It quickly became clear, however, that he’d gotten it wrong. Instead of going after the biker, the rental cops—all four of them—had turned their guns on the surviving vendors. Taken by surprise, the vendors were easy targets and fell quickly.

      “Inside job,” Bolan murmured, incredulous. Raising his voice, he cried out to Kissinger, “The guards are in on it!”

      AS SOON AS Jack Grimaldi steered his panel truck around the corner, he saw that he was too late to come to the aid of Mort Kiley or his BATF cohorts.

      Another biker, astride a second Husqvarna, had just put a bullet into the head of a federal agent lying on the road next to the ambushed BATF utility van. Kiley had never made it out of the vehicle; he was slumped on the back floor, his left forearm dangling from the half-opened side door. The driver was slumped behind the steering wheel at an unnatural angle, his blood streaking the window beside him, clearly another victim of the biker’s surprise attack.

      “Bastard!” Grimaldi growled, flooring the accelerator. He flashed on his high beams and bore down on the biker, gambling that the other man was out of ammunition.

      The gamble paid off.

      The biker, helmetless and dressed like his counterpart in black leather, instinctively raised his gun at the approaching truck. He had a clear shot at Grimaldi but pulled the trigger on an empty chamber. He cast the useless gun aside and put his bike in gear.

      “You aren’t going anywhere,” Grimaldi seethed, focusing on the biker’s hands as he drew closer. When he saw the gunman turn his handlebars to the right, Grimaldi countered, jerking his steering wheel to the left. The biker lurched forward, hoping to veer around the oncoming truck. Grimaldi anticipated the maneuver and swerved into the assailant’s path. His fender clipped the bike’s front wheel squarely and sent the rider vaulting headfirst over the handlebars. The assailant caromed off the truck’s grillework and fell limply to the ground.

      Grimaldi slammed on his brakes. The truck brodied across the snow-slicked street and came to a stop mere inches from the slain BATF agent lying on the road. Yanking his Colt from his web holster, the Stony Man operative bounded out into the street and took aim at the biker, who was slowly struggling to his feet.

      “Freeze!” he ordered.

      The biker was crouched over, his back turned to Grimaldi. He stayed put, but Grimaldi could see his right hand drifting toward the loose vest he wore over his leather jacket.

      “Hands out where I can see them!” Grimaldi barked.

      The biker stretched his left arm outward and began to slowly turn. He let his right arm drop for a moment, then suddenly reached inside his vest. He was pulling a backup pistol from the waistband of his riding pants when Grimaldi fired.

      The biker let out a cry and staggered backward, but managed to stay on his feet despite having taken a close-range shot to the chest. When he turned to Grimaldi, gun raised, the Stony Man pilot figured the guy was wearing body armor, so he aimed higher, putting his next shot through the assailant’s forehead. The biker dropped his gun and sagged to his knees, then collapsed.

      Grimaldi slowly moved closer, Colt trained on the biker. The other man was in his early thirties, clean-shaved, with short blond hair. The killshot hadn’t completely disfigured him, and when Grimaldi took off the man’s visor he recognized him from a series of mug shots he and his colleagues had been shown a few hours ago back at BATF’s Georgetown field office. The guy’s name was Byrnes. Grimaldi couldn’t remember his first name, but he knew the guy had two other brothers, linked, like him, to the American Freedom Movement.

      Grimaldi glanced back at the BATF surveillance

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