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  * * *

  Bolan floated out away from the truck, holding on to the chain with one hand, swung by the rocky momentum. He flailed like a bass, managing to get his other hand back on the chain net just before he surged back into the back door with enough force to drive the wind from his lungs. He twisted, gasping for breath, wrapped in the chain net and the tarp for a moment, managing to hook a foot in the chain squares before swinging outward again.

  The gunner in the Cadillac continued to fire quick shots that were burning closer as the luxury car closed the distance.

  Bolan was barely able to pull his lower body out of the way as the Cadillac's driver hit the accelerator and rammed the back of the truck. The truck shivered from the impact, skating wildly across the street as the driver overcontrolled it.

  Car horns blared in indignation. There was the sound of a muffled impact from the front, then Bolan saw a passenger car go out of control and slam through the plate glass front of a cafe.

  He swung out again, scrabbling for the Uzi, finding it, brining it up waist high.

  The shooter in the Cadillac was leaning out of the car now.

  Bolan squeezed the trigger of the Uzi as he swung back toward the truck, cutting a swath of 9 mm tumblers across the windshield of the luxury car, taking out the shooter. The body tumbled from the window as the Cadillac swerved out of control and fell back.

  Taking advantage of the next outward swing, Bolan checked where the truck driver was heading and saw the end of Yonge Street approaching. He knew the massive vehicle could never make the sharp turn at the end of it with the kind of speed it had built up.

  The transmission whined, sending shudders through the truck, then powered up again as the big wheels left the street and plowed across the grassy area leading to Queen's Quay East.

  Bolan slammed into the back of the truck, feeling the chain mesh bite into his hand, wondering if he had broken any fingers. Something crashed, and he saw boards scattered in their wake as the truck plowed through one of the seasonal vendor's stands that fronted the public area of Lake Ontario. Then he realized the Swiss team must have been heading for the Island Rent-a-Plane on Lakeshore Boulevard.

  The driver bore his theory out when he continued west.

  Using his other foot, Bolan pushed himself out to the left side of the truck, switching hands, as well. The Uzi in his left hand now, he leaned around the side of the truck, his chest banging hard against the rear of the vehicle. He scrambled farther down, till he could see the tires, and waited, knowing he had to take the truck out now before any more lives were endangered.

  When the driver started to turn the big tractor-trailer around, trying to head the vehicle back to Lakeshore Boulevard, the Executioner squeezed the Uzi's trigger, taking out all the tires on the left side in one sweep. Already off balance from the momentum, the truck fell outward, veering across the sidewalk that separated the road from Lake Ontario.

  Bolan let himself go, floating with centrifugal force, tucking himself in as he spun toward the black water.

  * * *

  Thornton moved before Judson could fire, ramming an elbow into his midsection, then smashing a right into the man's face as he spun free. The gun went off with a loud report, deafening his left ear.

  Thornton kicked out, connecting with Judson's wrist and sending the weapon spinning.

  Judson hit him with a backhanded swing, screaming out in rage. Another blow threatened to cave in Thornton's ribs, and he tried to cover up, only to be smashed in the mouth. He tasted the blood as he fell back but forced himself to scramble to his feet, remembering Piper. He hit Judson with a body-slam as the man was reaching down for the pistol.

  They went down together, lost in a desperate tangle of arms and legs. Thornton tried to pummel the man, working himself into a frenzy of blows, surprised at how much he really wanted to live. Then a hard right fist knocked him off Judson.

  His head fuzzed over, and he lost his balance, falling twice before he could even get to his knees. When he did, he saw Judson swinging the pistol toward him, but the next moment Judson's head came apart in bloody sections and his body folded like a rag doll's.

  Breathing in ragged gasps, Thornton looked over his shoulder.

  Piper stood there, holding her pistol out, then letting it drop to her side as she ran toward him.

  He made himself stand and caught her when she reached him, staggering under their combined weight and lost in the tears they shared.

  "Are you all right?" he asked, stroking her hair back, not noticing he was leaving bloody streaks until it was too late.

  "No," she said. "Are you?"

  Somewhere inside all the pain and the guilt, he found a smile for her, and he was even more surprised by its presence than by his will to live. "No." He still cringed inwardly from all the memories her presence turned loose, yet he was grateful, too, that those memories were his again. He hugged her fiercely, closing his eyes as he reached out for Alice and Thad, finding them there. God, it hurt. But hurting was better than being empty the way he had been these past few weeks. To lose the memories, the love — that would have truly been a loss.

  "Ryan?"

  "I'm okay," he said, knowing it wasn't true. Not yet. Maybe not ever completely okay again, but better.

  Sirens pealed over the street sounds and the sporadic gunfire to the south.

  "Where's Belasko?" Piper asked, but Thornton shook his head negatively.

  When she pushed him toward the Cherokee, he paused long enough to pick up Judson's gun.

  * * *

  Bolan hit the water and lost the Uzi somewhere along the way, then was buffeted by another shock wave as the front of the tractor-trailer hit the lake. It wasn't deep there, hardly more than chest high, but it took him a moment to get his bearings. He stroked for the surface, aiming for the moon. He sucked in a lungful of air, shaking the water out of his eyes.

  Sirens screamed across the lake surface, sounding hollow and distant.

  Something skipped along the water in front of Bolan, followed immediately by the sound of gunfire. A muzzle-flash flamed in the periphery of his vision just as something dug leaden fingers into his shoulder. He went over backward with the force, sinking under the water as he drew the Desert Eagle. His arm came alive with the pain of movement as he swam under the lake surface.

  Bullets searched for him, leaving silver-stained streamers curling after them when they hit the water. He traced the muzzle-flashes, coming up suddenly with the big .44 framed in target acquisition.

  A blond man with stringy hair tried to wheel toward him.

  Bolan pumped two rounds from the Desert Eagle, scoring on the man's throat and the middle of his face as the muzzle climbed. The blond man was blown over backward, crumpling into a disjointed heap that hung into the water.

  Wading forward, aware that the sirens were closing the distance, the Executioner checked out the interior of the truck, finding another blond man hanging halfway out the broken windshield. Blood and diesel fuel and oil covered the lake surface, curling out from the wreck in ever-widening circles.

  Satisfied no one else was in the vehicle, he made his way to the rear of the truck, sitting just on the edge of the sidewalk, five feet above the water. The catch on the sliding door had broken, and crates containing assault rifles had spilled out.

  Bolan reached down and hefted one. It was a Swiss-made Sturmgewehr 90 chambered for 5.56 X 45 mm ammunition. It was a deadly piece in the right hands and a good choice for Corsini, since IVI Dominion Industries in Canada made the ammunition.

  Car brakes squeaked to a halt nearby, and headlights sprayed over the edge of the pier.

  Unhurried, Bolan knelt and reached into a shattered box of ammo, coming out with a 100-round bandolier, sectioned in ten 10-round strippers, and slipped the magazine out of the assault rifle. Using two of the strippers, he quickly loaded the magazine and charged the weapon. He left the buttstock folded, fisting the pistol grip and gripping the folded bipod built onto the
front.

  "Find him! Spread out and find that son of a bitch!"

  Bolan recognized Corsini's voice even over the keening police sirens. He slid into the inky shadows clinging to the broken pier, moving to come up on the other side.

  "Vincent," another man said, "we need to be thinking about getting the hell out of here. The cops will arrive any minute."

  "You'll get out of here when I say you'll get out of here, Tommy," Corsini said. "I want the son of a bitch who did this. Now, get out there and find him."

  Bolan stepped into view, tracking onto the two men flanking Corsini as they moved along the water's edge. His first 3-round burst took out the man on Corsini's right. The next burst took out the man on the left, ending the rapid line of autofire that raked across the concrete toward Bolan's feet.

  Corsini was in full flight, racing for the battered Cadillac. Just as his hand rested on the door handle, Bolan opened up, tearing a jagged line of bullet holes that closed in on Corsini's hand, chasing it from the door.

  The rifle fired dry and Bolan tossed it away. "Your call, Vinnie," he said calmly.

  "Fuck you, cop," Corsini said as he locked his hands behind his head. "Go ahead and arrest me. You don't have a damn thing on me that's going to keep me locked up for long. What do you have? A burned-out cop whose track record isn't going to be exactly a picture of health after everything is exposed in the courts. You can't hang the cocaine on me — I don't have it, your pal the narc does — if he's still alive. And the arms deal — who's going to testify against me? You didn't leave any of them alive." Corsini smiled, obviously enjoying his seeming triumph in the middle of disaster. "Face it, cop, you don't have a case. Who's going to find me guilty with all this circumstantial evidence?"

  "Me," the Executioner replied as he drew the .44 and removed Corsini's cocky smile for good.