LITMIR.BIZ

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begun to poach on Magolino turf, trying to horn in on the drug trade and the gambling. No blood had been spilled, but tense negotiations had not managed to resolve the problem, either. It was possible that Gugliero had his people shadowing Adamo and the other Magolino officers, looking for ways to undercut them and watching for a chance to bring them down.

      “Those assholes need a lesson,” said Malara. “We’re the ones to let them have it.”

      “Only one man in the car that I can see,” Terranova reported.

      “Merda. The rest are likely hiding in the trunk,” Aiello said.

      “Quiet!” Cortale ordered. “Let me think.”

      He had a problem. Killing came easy to Cortale, as to all of them, but first he needed some idea of who the target was. Blasting a member of the Gugliero family, although it might be satisfying, could provoke a war. Likewise, if they were being followed by a cop, killing him might touch off a vendetta from the law. And finally, if they were wrong about the Alfa’s driver—if, for instance, he was simply traveling to one of the last homes on Via Solferino—the murder of an innocent civilian could provoke investigation of their presence in the area.

      “Well?” Malara prodded him.

      “Dino,” Cortale said, “when you reach the fork, stop short and block the road. We’ll see what this bastard wants and then decide what we should do with him.”

      * * *

      BOLAN HAD CHECKED the Alfa’s GPS and knew he was running out of road. Three-quarters of a mile ahead, the track they were following divided, one part going north a hundred yards or so before it hooked hard right and came to a dead end. The other traveled half as far, due south, before it ended in a cul-de-sac. Whichever fork the four ’ndranghetisti chose, there’d be no turning back.

      Which made him wonder, once again, if they’d spotted him.

      The Alfa would be difficult to miss, but with the lead vehicle’s tinted windows, Bolan couldn’t tell if they were watching him or not.

      Next question: Was the side road they were following the route his targets meant to take, or was Bolan being led into a trap? Did it make any difference? Whatever happened in the next few minutes, Bolan’s goal remained the same. Eliminate the goons and liberate their prisoner.

      He left the big Beretta in its holster. Placing it beside him on the vacant seat would make it handy, but a sudden stop could also send it spinning out of reach. Why risk it, when the piece was close enough to draw and fire within a second? As for Bolan’s other guns, they lay behind the driver’s seat in duffel bags, secure but reachable.

      And if his targets had a trap in mind, they might be needed any moment now.

      The black sedan ahead of him was slowing, no brake lights, the driver lifting off the accelerator as he neared the fork in the road. Bolan followed suit, not closing in as yet, giving the ’Ndrangheta wheelman time to make his choice. Ahead of them, he saw more open fields and orchards and houses in the middle distance, left and right.

      The dwellings gave him pause. If this had been the hit team’s destination from the start, there would likely be more men, more guns, waiting at whichever house they pulled up to. Conversely, if this was a trap, they could be drawing innocents into the line of fire. It was a problem either way, but one he’d have to work around. Retreating now, leaving the woman to her fate, was not an option.

      He was considering a run-up toward the lead car, something that would force their hand, when the sedan stopped short and turned to block both lanes. Its doors flew open and disgorged four men with guns in hand. They left the woman in the backseat, pale face peering out at him with frightened eyes.

      The four ’ndranghetisti fanned out in a skirmish line, advancing toward the Alfa like gunfighters in a spaghetti western. Bolan weighed his options, drawing the Beretta 93R from its holster, then thumbing the selector switch to go with 3-round bursts. Its magazine held twenty rounds, with one more in the chamber, and he trusted that would be enough.

      But first, a little something to disorient the enemy.

      He gunned the Alfa’s engine, charging toward the staggered line of gunmen in his path. Their faces told him they’d expected something else—perhaps that he’d retreat or step out of the Giulietta with his hands raised in surrender. What they hadn’t counted on was some two thousand pounds of steel accelerating toward them with a hungry snarl.

      They scattered, running for their lives. One slower—maybe more courageous—than the rest, stood his ground just long enough to rake the Alfa with a burst of automatic fire. Bolan ducked below the dash, pebbles of glass raining over him, and held his charger steady on its course. A solid thump denoted impact, then the tardy goon was airborne, glimpsed in passing as he soared over the car and fell somewhere behind it.

      Braking short of contact with the lead car, Bolan cranked his steering wheel hard left and veered off pavement toward the nearest cultivated field. A moment later, he was out and moving, ducking bullets as the three men who were still upright laid down a screen of fire.

      * * *

      CORTALE SAW THE speeding car clip Terranova, launching him into a somersault that carried him over the Alfa Romeo and dropped him behind it. He landed with an ugly crunch on the pavement. From his cries and jerky movements, Terranova clearly was not dead, but there was no time to assist him now—Cortale was busy hammering the gray car with a burst from his Kalashnikov.

      Where was the driver, damn it? The man was down below his line of fire, so Cortale ripped another burst across the left-hand doors and hoped the bullets reached him, while the Alfa left the roadway, plowing into a nearby field. He strafed the car with another burst, Malara and Aiello joining in, before a rising cloud of dust obscured the vehicle.

      Somewhere amid that cloud, the driver rolled out of his seat and started firing back. He had an automatic weapon, rattling 3-round bursts that sounded like 9 mm rounds. Cortale ducked and veered to his left, putting the bullet-punctured Alfa between himself and whoever it was that seemed intent on killing him.

      And why?

      He had no time to think about that, only to flank the son of a whore and kill him before they lost any more men. If they couldn’t—

      The woman!

      Remembering her in the midst of chaos, Cortale risked a glance toward his sedan, its four doors standing open, and saw no one left inside. Snarling obscenities, he almost went to look for her but realized he couldn’t take that risk. The woman mattered less now than disposing of their enemy.

      And if she got away? What then?

      Cortale could not bear to think about it. He was focused on surviving in the moment. He would deal with Aldo in his turn, explain as best he could, and—

      To his right, Malara cursed and ripped an empty magazine out of his Uzi’s pistol grip, fumbling inside his jacket for another. He retrieved it and was about to load the little submachine gun when a triple-tap from their opponent ripped into Malara’s left shoulder and spun him like a ballerina through an awkward pirouette. Malara sat down hard, a red mist from his wound painting his startled face, trying to raise the SMG one-handed from his lap.

      Cortale fired another long burst at the bastard who was slaughtering his men, and then his own damned magazine was empty. Running for the nearest cover, a weed-choked roadside ditch, he dived headlong into its dusty sanctuary, the Kalashnikov digging into his ribs. Cortale rolled onto his back, feeling the seconds slip away as he released the empty magazine, discarded it, replaced it, and then jacked a round into the carbine’s chamber.

      Ready!

      But for what?

      Out in the open, Ruggiero Aielo was stalking their prey, shouting taunts and insults to provoke him. Terranova and Malara were still alive, after a fashion, though Cortale could not count on either one of them right now. The woman could be anywhere, escaping while he lay there in the dirt, his Armani suit a filthy mess of dust and briars.

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