Insurrection. Don Pendleton

pound into his throat and head. This time the turban stayed on but turned red.

      Bolan switched his attention back to the grenade in the parking space. It still lay where it had come to rest, and he was surprised that it had failed to explode. There had been more than ample time for it to detonate, since the pin had been pulled.

      A dud. It happened. Particularly when weapons and munitions were purchased on the black market, the way terrorists usually obtained them.

      But the Executioner had no more time or need to contemplate the stroke of luck. The workmen had all hit the concrete or found other cover. Bolan glanced toward the front of the Isaac Center and the dorms just beyond.

      None of the bullets flying through the air, or the grenades, were heading that way.

      “Get us out of here,” he ordered.

      “But the children—” the center’s director started to say.

      “Aren’t the target,” Bolan stated. “We are. Now move it!”

      She floored the accelerator, moving forward this time. The Maxima began to fishtail again, but the woman behind the wheel kept control and straightened it. They sped to the end of the alley, turned right and emerged onto a street. Suddenly they were cruising away from the attack, and the only danger left was the possibility of severing an artery on all the broken glass inside the Nissan.

      “Praise God, Christ and the Holy Spirit,” Galab said around choking gasps for oxygen. Then, as the Maxima blended in with the other traffic, she drove on, skillfully weaving in and out of the flow until they reached the edge of the last market area the cabbie had driven through when he’d brought Bolan to the Isaac Center. The soldier thought back on their escape from the alley. At first the woman next to him had panicked, but then, suddenly, she’d settled down and reacted almost like a professional stock car driver. It was as if she’d become a different person.

      “I thought you told me you weren’t a fighter,” Bolan said.

      Galab glanced his way, her expression curious. “I did. I am not.”

      “Well,” Bolan said, “once you got over your initial fear, you operated that steering wheel and foot feed like a lifelong hillbilly moonshiner trying to lose the Feds.”

      The metaphor was obviously out of Galab’s frame of reference. “I do not understand,” she said, frowning.

      “It just meant that you’ve got the skills of a well-practiced race car driver,” Bolan said.

      “Ah, yes,” Galab said as she patted the steering wheel with both hands. “I have driven in rescue missions many times to get the children. I suppose I have picked up some skills along the way.” She paused, took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “But driving is not fighting. I do not think I could ever pull the trigger of a gun and take a human life.”

      “You wouldn’t have to,” Bolan said, chuckling softly. “You could always just run them over in the street.”

      The woman’s only answer was a smile. A moment later she turned into a parking lot, then settled the Maxima in an empty space. “It is better if we go from here on foot,” she said.

      The soldier glanced around at the shattered windshield, shards of broken glass and bullet holes now decorating the vehicle. “Yeah,” he said. “I suppose we might draw a little unwanted attention in this thing.”

      “And we should take your bags,” Galab stated. “Where we are going will be as good a place as you will find to store them until they are needed.”

      Bolan nodded, got out and pulled the straps of several bags over his head to hang from his shoulders. “Aren’t I going to draw a lot of attention with all this?” he asked.

      “Certainly,” the woman said. “But the path down which I will lead you will be away from interested eyes. At least for the most part.”

      A second later they left the parking lot and started down a deserted alley behind the busy market.