RESCUE RUN [066-066-5.0]

By Don Pendleton

Synopsis:

War has broken out again in Rwanda and the members of a traveling
variety show are caught in the middle.  One of the actors is an American
and an old friend of Hal Brognola, Director of Operations at Stony Man
Farm, who asks Mack Bolan to go in and get him out.  But it is not an
official operation, since the president has ordered that their be no
American interference in the Rwandan civil war.  Violence.  204th novel
in the "Executioner" series, 1995.



A GOLD EAGLE BOOK From Worldwide Library
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STOCKHOLM - ATHENS - TOKYO - MILAN MADRID - WARSAW - BUDAPEST - AUCKLAND

Copyright (C) 1995 by Worldwide Library

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or
utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any
electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented,
including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information
storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission
of the publisher, Worldwide Library, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills,
Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

First edition December 1995

ISBN 0-373-64204-0

(G) and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with
(G) are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the
Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

Printed In U.S.A.

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this
book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to
the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any
payment for this "stripped book."

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of
the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same
name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual
known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

MACK BOLAN The Executioner

#118 Warrior's Revenge #119 Line of Fire #120 Border Sweep #121 Twisted
Path #122 Desert Strike #123 War Born #124 Night Kill #125 Dead Man's
Tale #126 Death Wind #127 Kill Zone #128 Sudan Slaughter #129 Haitian
Hit #130 Dead Line #131 Ice Wolf #132 THE Big Kill #133 Blood Run #134
White Line War #135 Devil Force #136 Down and Dirty #137 Battle Lines
#138 Kill Trap #139 Cutting Edge #140 Wild Card #141 Direct Hit #142
Fatal Error #143 Helldust Cruise #144 Whipsaw #145 Chacago Payoff #146
Deadly Tactics #147 Payback Game #148 Deep and Swift #149 Blood Rules
#150 Death Load #151 Message to Medellin #152 Combat Stretch #153
Firebase Florida #154 Night Hit #155 Hawaiian Heat #156 Phantom Force
#157 Cayman Strike #158 Firing Line #159 Steel and Flame #160 Storm
Warning #161 Eye of the Storm #162 Colors of Hell #163 Warrior's Edge
#164 Death Trail #165 Fire Sweep #166 Assassin's Creed #167 Double
Action #168 Blood Price #169 White Heat #170 Baja Blitz #171 Deadly
Force #172 Fast Strike #173 Capitol Hit #174 Battle Plan #175 Battle
Ground #176 Ransom Run #177 Evil Code #178 Black Hand #179 War Hammer
#180 Force Down #181 Shifting Target #182 Lethal Agent #183 Clean Sweep
#184 Death Warrant #185 Sudden Fury #186 Fire Burst #187 Cleansing Flame
#188 war Paint #189 Wellfire #190 Killing Range #191 Extreme Force #192
Maximum Impact #193 Hostile Action #194 Deadly Contest #195 Select Fire
#196 Triburst #197 Armed Force #198 Shoot Down #199 Rogue Agent #200
Crisis Point #201 Prime Target #202 Combat Zone #203 Hard Contact #204
Rescue Run

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jerry Van Cook for his contribution
to this work.

A man does what he must--in spite of personal consequences, in spite of
obstacles and dangers and pressures ... -John F. Kennedy, Profiles in
Courage, 1956

I've never deviated from the course I've set for my life, no matter the
circumstances. If I have to go down, I'll go down fighting--and take as
many of the enemy with me as I can. -Mack Bolan

Dedicated to those who perished in the Oklahoma City bombing.

PROLOGUE

No matter how funny his brain told him something was, his heart never
laughed. True, it had been long enough now that he sometimes smiled.
When he did, for a brief, fleeting moment, he'd almost feel happy, and
he'd make a mental note to share the experience with Lois as soon as he
saw her. Then he'd remember that he wouldn't be seeing Lois anymore. The
smile would fade, and the loneliness and heartache would come back.

William "Dusty" Morrison grasped the edge of the thick curtain, watching
as Denise Lefevre walked to center stage and pulled the microphone from
its stand. The orchestra in the pit just in front of her began the
opening bars of her first number, and Morrison could see that her smile
was almost as bright as the sparkling sequins on her long black evening
gown.

Lefevre held the mike away from her face long enough to clear her
throat, then broke into the old Cole Porter song, "Love Me or Leave Me."

Morrison peered around the curtain to look at the audience. Black faces
mostly. Here and there a Caucasian or an Arab. You couldn't say it was a
bad house, but it wasn't the standing-room-only crowd they'd hoped for,
either. He supposed that was to be expected. Things had been quiet in
Rwanda for the past few months, since the Tutsi overthrew the Hutu
government, quiet enough that Big Billy Rukanwe had felt it safe to
organize this traveling variety show composed mostly of European
celebrities. But in the last week, the military front Hutus for Majority
Rule had reorganized in Uganda and Zaire and began threatening invasion.

Most Rwandans were at home this night. Both Hutus and Tutsis were trying
to decide whether to flee the country or board up their windows and hope
for the best. Negotiations between the two tribes were under way, and
news sources gave it a fifty-fifty chance as to whether the war that had
raged for centuries in Rwanda was about to begin again.

Morrison turned back to Lefevre and smiled. She sounded good tonight,
seemed to be over the sore throat she'd complained about earlier in the
week when they'd played Kigali.

He dropped the curtain and turned backstage, absently rubbing his chin.
Too late, he remembered the makeup.

"Dusty! Dusty! Dusty!"

Morrison heard the stage whisper to his right as a hand grabbed his
sleeve. He stopped, turning to see Henri Pieriot--the company's makeup
artist--standing next to him. "Streak," as the cast called the little
Belgian, shook the index finger on his free hand back and forth in
admonishment. "Dusty, you cannot do that."

"Sorry, Streak," Morrison apologized. "Forgot again."

Streak dropped the actor's elbow. "Oh, all right. If it was anyone but
you ..." His voice trailed off, then he added. "Come on, I'll touch you
up."

The actor followed the Belgian to the makeup chair and took a seat.
Onstage, Lefevre went into her final song. As Streak redid his makeup,
Morrison stared numbly at the back of the rear curtain.

Suddenly Streak was holding a mirror in front of his face. "Well?" the
little makeup artist asked, seeking approval.

Seeing his face so unexpectedly sent a jolt of anxiety through Morrison.
Anxiety--depression--wasn't that what the doctor had called it? Wasn't
that why he'd come out of retirement to join this theater company
traveling across Africa? Wasn't that why he was taking fifty milligrams
of Zoloft every morning, and wasn't that why the drug wasn't doing any
good?

Morrison studied his image, seeing that even the thick stage makeup
couldn't cover the wrinkles anymore. Well, good. He was getting older
fast, and the faster you got old, the faster you died. A year ago he
remembered telling Lois he still felt like a teenager. Now he felt as if
he'd been walking the planet for at least a century. The Belgian cleared
his throat in exasperation.

Well?"

"You're an artist, Streak," Morrison told him, standing up. "Too bad you
got to work on such an old worn-out canvas."

Streak laughed. "You've still got it, Dusty, don't kid yourself."

Morrison walked slowly back to the wing, lifted the coiled lariat off
the floor and checked it for snags as Denise Lefevre ended her song.

She bowed, left the state and returned amid the applause for a final
bow.

Big Billy Rukanwe moved his bulky tuxedo-clad body to the microphone,
sweat glistening on his bald black head.

The show's producer-director-announcer jerked a handkerchief from a
pocket and mopped his forehead. The movement and the man's size made
Morrison think of Louis Armstrong, which in turn made him think of the
night he and Lois had sat next to old Satchmo and his wife at the
Academy Awards, which sent a swell of anguish cascading through his
body.

Rukanwe spoke first in Kinyarwanda, the national language of Rwanda,
then in French. Morrison understood neither, but he'd read the English
translation of his introduction. He knew Big Billy was hitting the high
points of his long career as the last of the B Western movie stars, and
putting more emphasis on his supporting roles with Robert Mitchum, Kirk
Douglas and the Duke than he deserved. Like most intros, it made him
sound a lot more successful and important than he'd ever been, or felt.

Then, without really knowing how he got there, Dusty Morrison was
standing behind the microphone singing "Blue Prairie" and twirling his
lariat into loops, double loops and figure eights. The audience started
clapping as he finished the song. He dropped the rope and drew both of
the stag-handled Colt .45s from the holster encircling his waist.

Mindlessly he began the gun-twirling routine he'd practiced for nearly
forty years. Gasps of astonishment followed a double Open-handed Road
Agent Spin. The audience applauded as he executed a faultless Border
Shift and followed it with an Over the Shoulder Toss. Twirling both
Colts rapidly on his trigger fingers, he jammed them back into the
holsters and then drew them again.

Morrison turned away from the audience as one of the crew stepped
onstage wearing a cowboy hat similar to his own white Stetson.

"Ready," Morrison said under his breath, then nodded.

The stagehand tossed a coin in the air, and the aging cowboy drew his
right-hand Peacemaker, sending a load of light bird shot through the
air. The shot struck the coin and sent it spinning offstage. He twirled
the Colt back into his holster, nodding, and another coin sailed upward.
Morrison repeated the performance with his left hand, then drew both
revolvers simultaneously and shot a pair of coins.

He was about to draw again when Big Billy Rukanwe suddenly rushed
onstage and grabbed the microphone. Again the Rwandan producer spoke in
Kinyarwanda. This time Morrison had no translation to read and therefore
no idea of Rukanwe's words. But the sudden panic of the audience as they
rushed the doors told Morrison all he needed to know.

Outside the theater, he heard the first shots as Rwanda returned to war.

Mack Bolan, a.k.a. the Executioner, had seen the flames of the burning
Petroglaz building as the Air Burundi DC-10 passed over it. The wind had
been with them all the way, and he knew the air would be filled with
smoke as he deplaned.

It was. The smoke smelled like oil. And mixed with the oil smell was the
stench of burning human flesh.

He hurried into the terminal, his flight bag in one hand, a black
leather passport case in the other. So far the bands of Hutu rebels that
had begun rioting in Kigali hadn't reached the Kanombe airport, which
was twelve kilometers from the center of the city. But they would. And
when they did, the scant number of Tutsi government soldiers trying to
protect the runways would fall to their machetes, clubs and rifles.

The warrior stopped at the end of the immigration line behind an old
woman wearing traditional Hutu dress and carrying an umbrella. Ahead, he
could see a thin Rwandan customs official hurriedly stamping passports
and advising incoming passengers to get to their hotels quickly and stay
there.

Setting his bag on the tile floor, Bolan reached under his sport coat,
casually running his fingers along the cord-covered handle of the
synthetic Stealth Hawk knife in his waistband. The airport metal
detectors, combined with the short notice on which he'd come to Rwanda,
had necessitated leaving his standard Beretta 93-R 9 mm pistol and .44
Magnum Desert Eagle behind. The high-tech plastic blade had been the
only weapon he'd been able to pass through the detectors, but Hal
Brognola, his contact at the U.S. Department of Justice and the director
of Stony Man Farm's counterterrorist teams, had promised to forward
firepower through a Rwandan contact.

Bolan didn't yet know exactly what weapons he'd be carrying in this
war-ravaged nation, but something with a little more "reach" than the
Stealth Hawk should be waiting for him after he cleared customs.

The customs man's stamp slapped down on a passport. Bolan pushed his bag
ahead of him with his foot as the line edged forward. As he waited, his
mind drifted back over what Brognola had told him only hours earlier.

"Washington's abandoned him," Brognola had said, referring to William
"Dusty" Morrison, the aging Western movie actor who had been traveling
with a Belgian variety stage show in Africa. "The election's less than a
year away, the polls tell the President that voters are sick of our
overseas involvement and the Man's determined to stay out of this. As
far as the President's concerned, big guy, there is no Dusty Morrison.
I've been given strict orders to keep you and the other Stony Man teams
out of it, too."

Bolan looked up as he heard the customs man's stamp come down again with
another loud bang. A tall, slender black man, close to seven feet,
grabbed his passport and hurried away. The man was Tutsi--or Watusi, as
they had been commonly known in the West. Within that tribe a six-footer
was considered short.

The Hutus, on the other hand, were shorter and usually more broad.
Members of both races were easy to pick out, which made uniforms
superfluous each time war broke out in Rwanda.

Which it did with disturbing regularity. The Hutus and Tutsis had been
fighting each other for more than five hundred years. Each tribe had
taken its turn at government control, and each time the power shifted
hands, multitudes of whichever dynasty was on the losing end were
slaughtered by the victors. The underdog then organized into resistance
groups--like the current Hutus for Majority Rule--and the vicious circle
of death began anew.

The elderly woman with the umbrella handed her passport to the customs
man and Bolan's thoughts returned to Brognola. "If you go after him,
you're on your own," Brognola had said. "No communication, no backup, no
help if you get caught over there."

The Executioner caught himself smiling as he remembered those words.
He'd been tempted to say, "So what else is new, Hal?" but the big Fed's
somber demeanor had stopped him.

"Do we have anybody we can trust over there?" Bolan had asked.

"Except for the man who'll meet you with weapons, no. Besides Bill
Morrison, the show's cast is Belgian. And as you might know, the League
of Nations took Rwanda from the Germans after World War I and gave it to
Belgium. Brussels found it serviceable to rule through the Tutsi mwami,
or king, until a Hutu uprising in 1959 finally chased him out." He
paused and took a deep breath. "Remember that the Hutus account for
almost ninety percent of Rwanda's population. They took over."

"Let me guess the rest," Bolan said. "Besides hating the Hutus, the
Tutsis are still mad at the Belgians for hanging them out to dry."

"That's right. And the Hutus are angry that the Belgians installed the
Tutsis to begin with."

"So either side is going to kill the Belgians if they get to them before
I do," Bolan said. "But Morrison's American."

There was a long pause on Brognola's end. "It's always open season on
Americans," he finally said. The G-man's tone of voice revealed that he
had no doubt that Dusty Morrison would die if Bolan didn't evacuate him
fast.

"This sounds like it's important to you, Hal." There had to be more to
this than Brognola had told him so far. The Justice man was
contemplating the direct violation of a presidential order. "Bill
Morrison and I go way back, Striker."

What it amounted to was simple: Hal Brognola and Dusty Morrison were
friends. And Brognola was Bolan's friend. He and the Justice man had
fought side by side over the years, facing both foreign and homegrown
enemies. They'd risked their lives for each other more times than the
warrior could count.

And through it all, Brognola had remained a loyal, dedicated law
enforcement officer who'd never asked for a personal favor--only that
his men do what was right.

Bolan's jaw set tightly as the Hutu woman ahead of him was processed,
then walked away. What Brognola wanted now might border on a personal
favor, but it was also the right thing to do. America couldn't abandon a
citizen overseas just because it might hurt someone in an election.
Bolan stepped up to the counter.

The customs agent held up his hand. "English?" he asked.

"American," Bolan said.

The customs man nodded. "Passport," he demanded. "Visa."

The warrior opened the black leather case and pulled out the small blue
booklet. He opened it to the page with his picture and handed it to the
man. The yellow visa form was folded inside.

The gaunt official looked at the picture, then at Bolan. "Why you come
Rwanda-" he glanced back at the passport "-Mr. John Wesley Collier?"

Bolan nodded toward the document. "Like it says I'm a journalist."

The customs man frowned.

"A reporter," Bolan explained. "Newspapers?" He held his left hand out,
palm up and pantomimed a scribbling motion on top of it with his right.
"A writer."

"Ah, yes," the official said. "You write about our country and all the
bad things here?"

Bolan shrugged. "Whatever I see. Good or bad."

The customs man nodded. "There are both. Like all place."

The warrior grabbed his bag, shoved his passport case into his coat
pocket and hurried through the terminal, thinking of his new identity as
John Wesley Collier. Generally he used the aliases Rance Pollock or Mike
Belasko, but this mission called for special considerations.

Any mission that violated a direct presidential order did.

Bolan let his hand run along the rail as he neared the terminal door.
Rance Pollock, Mike Belasko, John Wesley Collier--it didn't make much
difference to him. There was another name he had been known by ever
since Vietnam, and it was that appellation, that personality really,
that intended to rescue Dusty Morrison. A half dozen steps from the
front door of the airport, Mack Bolan became the Executioner.

Which was a good thing. Because three steps later, three Hutu Majority
Rule hardmen wearing olive-drab fatigues and black headbands burst
through the door and began spraying the terminal with bullets.

The Executioner dived under a volley of 9 mm gunfire as the men opened
up. He knew who they were--he'd recognized the black headbands as soon
as the gunners burst into the terminal. Majority Rule was a Hutu
terrorist faction dedicated to returning the Rwandan government to their
tribe, and they didn't care who died in their quest.

Screams and moans echoed around the warrior as he hit the floor on his
shoulder, rolled forward and came up into a kneeling position just below
the Belgian-made Vigneron subgun jumping in the hands of the man in the
middle of the trio. His ears ringing with the 9 mm explosions, he drew
the Stealth Hawk knife and swept the serrated edge across the inside of
the terrorist's right wrist.

Bolan felt the teeth of the knife bite into tendon. The subgun quit
firing, falling from the Majority Rule shooter's nearly severed hand.

The warrior caught the weapon as it fell. He stood and saw the Hutu's
horrified eyes as the man stared at his severed tendon.

Twisting the gun barrel under the terrorist's chin, Bolan pulled the
trigger. Four full-auto 9 mm bullets slammed into the gunner's head,
driving him backward to the ground.

The Executioner shoved the Hawk knife back into the sheath inside his
waistband as he stooped to sweep an extra 32-round magazine from the
field vest of the corpse. Jamming it into his belt next to the synthetic
knife, he turned back toward the terminal.

The other two Majority Rule hardmen had fanned out, unaware that their
partner had fallen behind them. One, a burly black man with a full
beard, stood twenty feet to the Executioner's left at a
forty-five-degree angle, spraying a sustained burst across the large
room.

The other man had leaped over the short carpet-covered wall of a ticket
booth, bracing his elbows on the counter as he fired into the crowd.

Men, women and children continued to scream, diving behind chairs,
ticket counters, any available cover. Those caught in the open fell to
the onslaught in flurries of blood.

Bolan jammed the metal stock of the subgun against his shoulder and
turned it toward the bearded Hutu. Dropping the front sight on the man's
belt, he squeezed the trigger.

The subgun jumped in the Executioner's hands, climbing slightly each
time the bolt worked back and forth. When he let up on the trigger, the
man in the green fatigues lay dead on the concrete floor, bullet holes
perforating his body from belt to armpit.

The warrior swung the weapon to his right. The terrorist behind the
counter caught the movement in his peripheral vision and dropped below
the barrier.

Bolan lowered the subgun and squeezed the trigger, drilling a 3-round
burst into the counter. The parabellum rounds left ragged holes in the
carpeting, but the whine of lead against metal, and the whir that raced
back past his ear, told the Executioner that beneath the carpeting lay
steel.

He had no time to curse his luck. The shooter behind the counter rose
over the barrier and leveled his weapon at the Executioner's chest.
Bolan dived to the floor a split second ahead of the full-auto volley
that raced his way, feeling the secondary energy of the rounds as they
displaced the air above his back.

Hitting the floor on his belly, the Executioner snapped another trio of
rounds toward the counter, but the gunner had already dropped down
again. Rolling quickly across the floor, Bolan came to rest against the
counter directly across from the one where the terrorist hid. He dropped
the near-empty magazine from the subgun and shoved a full load into the
receiver. Kneeling at the edge of the counter corner, he trained the
subgun barrel on his enemy's position.

The deadly game of cat and mouse began.

The warrior breathed steadily, monitoring each breath so he could cut it
off and squeeze the trigger as soon as a target appeared again. Moments
later the top of an OD boonie hat rose above the counter. Lining up the
front and rear sights, his finger started back on the trigger, then
suddenly stopped.

The man behind the counter had a visual disadvantage. He was blind to
the Executioner's movements unless he rose over the barrier. But blind
didn't mean stupid, and unless Bolan missed his guess, the rising hat
was a decoy.

The hat rose to its brim, then stopped. The center of the crown seemed
to jut up slightly higher than the sides, and at the very top the
warrior could barely make out a small, circular protrusion. Just about
the size of the muzzle of a submachine gun.

Bolan rolled forward onto his belly, silently inching across the
concrete toward the other counter. The man behind the barrier had been
hoping the Executioner had retreated. He was testing the water--raising
the hat on the end of his gun barrel in order to draw Bolan's fire and
determine if he was still there.

The warrior made it to the counter and went flat on his back, his ear
pressed to the carpet-covered metal, his subgun aimed upward. On the
other side of the counter, he could hear the terrorist's nervous
breathing.

Five minutes went by. Finally satisfied that his enemy was no longer
there, the Majority Rule hardman rose to his feet on the other side of
the carpeted steel. A moment later the terrorist vaulted the barrier,
landing on his feet with his back to the Executioner.

The man had spotted Bolan below him as he jumped, and as soon as his
feet hit the floor he began twisting back, his subgun seeking a target.

The terrorist was a half second too slow. Bolan had zeroed in on the
shooter and pulled the trigger, unleashing a long burst that drove the
man backward, dead before he hit the floor.

Sirens sounded in the distance as the Executioner got to his feet,
dropped the submachine gun on the concrete and hurried out of the
terminal. He joined a throng of people in a mixture of traditional
tribal robes and western clothing as they hurried down the sidewalk.

As he passed the corner of the terminal building and headed toward a row
of cabs and minibuses, the Executioner felt an arm suddenly wrap around
his neck and jerk him back.

The odor of sweat and after-shave filled the Executioner's nostrils as
he was pulled out of sight to the side of the building. Instinctively he
drove an elbow backward and felt it ram into a hard set of abdominal
muscles. A stifled groan met his ears.

Pivoting on the balls of his feet, the Executioner saw a Caucasian man
in his late fifties bent double, struggling for air. Around five feet
eight inches and a well-preserved one-eighty pounds, the man wore a
shaggy white mustache, blue jeans, a plain white T-shirt and black
athletic shoes.

Bolan drew the Stealth Hawk knife and pressed the serrated edge into the
man's throat as he backed him against the side of the building. As the
man caught his breath, the warrior used his free hand to pat him down.

He found a blue-worn Government Model .45 automatic behind the man's
right kidney and an identical weapon on the man's left.

Shoving one of the .45s into his belt, Bolan stuck the other under the
man's chin. "Any other tricks up your sleeve?" he asked.

The white-haired man looked up, shook his head and grinned.

The Executioner frowned. A smile was hardly the expression he'd expected
from a man who'd been disarmed while trying to kill him. "Want to tell
me who sent you and what you want?" he said. "Or should I just pull the
trigger right now?"

The older man's grin widened as the color came back to his face and his
breathing returned to normal. "Brognola sent me. Hal told me you were a
hard case. But I just had to find out for myself."

Exotic birds chirped and chimpanzees chattered in the overhead tree
branches as the five men and one woman made their way through Rwanda's
Rugege Forest.

Bringing up the rear of the procession, Dusty Morrison glanced over his
shoulder, looking for anyone--Hutu or Tutsi--who might be following. The
only thing the two tribes seemed to have in common was their mutual
hatred for Belgians, and the Hutus who'd stormed the theater had proved
that hatred by hacking up the cast members with their machetes. Besides
Big Billy and his chauffeur, Mwinyi, only Dusty Morrison, Denise
Lefevre, Hubert Spaak and Streak had escaped.

The Western star's stomach recoiled at the memory of the blood that had
flowed. The surviving Belgians had been lucky, and so had he. He didn't
know how the Hutus felt about Americans, but he knew they sure hadn't
taken time out of their crazed murder spree to check anybody's passport.

Turning back to the front, Morrison watched Streak walking along. The
makeup artist sniffled softly with every step, and as he reached a low
branch he pushed it forward, then let go.

The leaf-covered bough snapped back toward Morrison's eyes, and just in
time he reached up and caught it. With another quick glance to his rear,
he ducked under the limb and plodded on. What if he did catch a glimpse
of somebody following them? he wondered. What would he do?

He'd had a fistfight or two in his younger days and always come out
okay, but he'd never been in a real life-or-death struggle. True, he'd
pulled the trigger of both Colts as they left the theater, firing bird
shot at a pair of crazed Hutus with machetes. But the light loads had
done little more than slow the men down while Denise and Spaak jumped
into Big Billy's limousine.

A smile spread slowly across the aging actor's face. So, what would he
do if it came to a fight? He'd fight. Why not? If he won, he'd live, If
he didn't, he'd die and be with Lois. He had no down-side on this one,
and for a second he wondered just which victory he'd really prefer.

The procession started down an embankment, and Morrison could see Big
Billy Rukanwe at the front of the line. Mwinyi walked next to the
overweight producer, and behind them Hubert Spaak had taken Denise
Lefevre by the elbow and was helping her along. Denise still wore her
gown from the show. Practically in shreds now, it made her look like she
was playing Jane in a Tarzan movie.

Morrison paused before starting down the embankment, running the back of
his sleeve across his eyebrows to mop up the sweat. They'd had no time
to change before fleeing the theater, and he supposed he should thank
God that his costume was boots, jeans, chaps and hat. He'd fared much
better on this hike than Spaak, who performed in a tuxedo.

Digging his boot heels into the soft vine-covered ground, Morrison
started down the slope sideways. At the bottom Streak had fallen to his
hands and knees. The little makeup man was openly crying now, tears
rolling down his cheeks to mat the wispy light brown goatee that covered
his chin.

Morrison leaned down and grasped the man's arm. "Come on, pardner," he
whispered. "Can't be too much farther now." He helped Streak to his feet
and pushed him gently up the other side of the embankment.

Rukanwe had stopped next to a tree stump at the edge of a clearing. The
rest of the cast members gathered around as he placed his feet side by
side, then carefully paced seven steps past the tree line. Mwinyi
unfolded the collapsible entrenching tool he'd been carrying and began
to dig.

Morrison wiped the sweat from his brow again and looked around as he
waited. He wasn't sure where they were, just that they had driven from
Cyangugu to the edge of the Rugege Forest, hidden the limo on an
out-of-the-way trail, then taken off through the trees on foot.

When screech of steel on steel broke the stillness in the forest,
Morrison turned his attention back to the digging. Mwinyi's entrenching
tool had uncovered a door hidden a foot or so below the surface, and now
he used the tool to scrape the dirt from the edges before reaching down
for the handle.

Slowly, creaking from lack of oil, the door opened.

Morrison was the last one to step onto the staircase, which led to a
landing fifteen feet below. Rukanwe stood at an open door, ushering the
cast members out of sight into the fortress.

The aging actor closed the door above his head, then turned to see that
Rukanwe had followed the others into the house and out of sight. His
hand on the railing, he slowly walked down the steps to the landing,
recalling the radio reports they'd listened to in French as the limo
fled the city of Cyangugu. Streak had translated for his benefit, and
he'd learned that what had gone on outside the theater hadn't been an
isolated incident.

All over Rwanda, the nation was once again in chaos as the Hutus and
Tutsi fought for power. Men, women and children were being shot, speared
and hacked to death with machetes. The Tutsi government militia was
killing Hutus. The Hutu rebels were slaughtering Tutsis. And both tribes
were butchering any stray Belgians they found in revenge for the sins of
the Belgians' fathers.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Morrison stepped through the door
into a large living room. He heard voices coming from elsewhere in the
subterranean house, and took in the living room as he walked toward
them. Rukanwe had prepared well. The furnishings were livable, if not
elegant. Two couches and several easy chairs faced a combination
television set VCR against the front wall. Bookcases lined the rest of
the walls, with the shelves around the TV reserved for videocassette
tapes. A six-chair dining table stood at the rear of the living room.

The aging actor followed the sound of voices through a kitchen that led
to another hallway. He passed the open door to a vacant bedroom and
found the others in a similar room at the end of the hall.

Lefevre, Spaak and Streak were seated on the bed facing Rukanwe and
Mwinyi, who stood in front of a chest of drawers. Big Billy was speaking
in French.

"I had it built years ago," Rukanwe said, switching to English when he
saw Morrison slip into the room. "I have come here before, when no place
else in Rwanda was safe."

Spaak looked him in the eye. "Both tribes are hunting down Belgians," he
said. "We're Belgians." He glanced quickly at Morrison as the man took a
place against the wall. "At least most of us. And they know we're in the
country--especially me."

The producer didn't answer.

"When can we get out of the country?" Lefevre asked.

Rukanwe shrugged. "As soon as things die down."

"When will that be?" Spaak demanded. He looked around the room. "This
isn't my idea of a greenroom, Billy. My garage is decorated better than
this place. It's a prison. An underground dungeon."

"It is a sanctuary," Rukanwe said, and a quick grimace of hurt passed
over his face.

Morrison felt a jolt of anger lance through him. Big Billy Rukanwe had
risked his life bringing them here. Spaak's ingratitude was detestable,
though not surprising to anyone who knew the man.

The aging actor had known both Spaak and Rukanwe for only a few days,
but understood them both well. While he might be a little weak in the
decision-making department, Rukanwe was a friendly man and treated them
well. The fact that he hung out with gangster types like Zaid Karsimbi
hadn't gone unnoticed by Morrison, but he chalked that up to show
business. Plenty of Hollywood's finest did the same.

Hubert Spaak, on the other hand, had proved to be a selfish, shallow,
spoiled little brat. He was in his mid-twenties, and European stardom
had been dropped in his lap. Before he'd known what was happening, he
was making movies with America's leading ladies. Spaak was too immature
to recognize his good fortune as the luck of the draw rather than
talent. He had decided he was God's gift to the fans--particularly the
female fans--and that life not only owed him a living, but a luxurious
one at that. He might be Belgian by birth, but he lived in Bel Air now,
and acted more Ugly American than any native-born Yank Dusty Morrison
had ever met.

The older man watched Spaak try to drape an arm around Denise Lefevre's
shoulders as he continued to stare hatefully at the man who'd saved his
life. The woman gently shrugged it off.

Morrison had to grin. Ever since the show had opened, he'd watched the
shock in Spaak's eyes each time the middle-aged beauty rebuffed his
overtures. Spaak couldn't believe she didn't go for him like all the
starlets he'd worked with, and Lefevre's conquest was becoming an
obsession with him.

"Does anyone have any questions before I go?" Rukanwe asked.

"You aren't staying?" Lefevre said anxiously.

Rukanwe shook his head. "I must return to Kigali. My wife has taken our
daughter to her sister's house, but who knows if that is safe?

We may all return. If not, I have another place where we can hide until
things have settled down again."

A spark of fear flickered in Spaak's eyes, and Morrison couldn't help
the satisfaction it gave him to see it. "You ought to stay," Spaak said.
"You said you built this place for emergencies. If this isn't an
emergency, I don't know what is."

Rukanwe chuckled, and it was obvious he took a certain perverse delight
in the young elitist's discomfort, too. "Stay in Rwanda long enough," he
said, "and you will learn that there are emergencies ...  and there are
emergencies."

Spaak glared at him with a mixture of fright and anger.

The Rwandan turned back to the group as a whole. "You will find food in
the pantries. There are two bedrooms, and a full kitchen, but I regret
only one bath."

"Oh, terrific," Spaak said under his breath.

"There are many books and movies." Rukanwe glanced at Spaak. "We even
have Fire Run, and some of your others, Hubert." He paused, then added,
"I hope you will all be as comfortable as possible."

"Books, videotapes and a bathroom," Spaak practically spit out. "Yeah,
we'll be about as comfortable as we would be at a cheap motel."

Rukanwe sighed and turned to Morrison. "Do you have any questions before
I leave, Dusty?" he asked.

The actor nodded. "The topside door. It's gonna be obvious it was just
dug up."

Rukanwe smiled. "We will put the dirt back, then build a small fire over
it. When it burns out, the ashes will make it look as if campers stayed
here overnight."

"Good. Is there any way for us to see what's going on above the ground?"
He couldn't help but think a man resourceful enough to build this place
would have thought of that, as well.

The producer slapped his forehead. "I am so sorry. I almost forgot.
Please follow me." He turned and walked out of the room and down the
hall, Morrison and the others at his heels. Stopping in front of a door,
he opened it to reveal a water heater and air-conditioning unit. A long,
narrow pipe stopped at eye level, the other end disappearing into the
ceiling.

Morrison stepped forward and saw that the eye-level end of the pipe had
been cut at an angle. A small mirror was fastened to the inside, and
when he looked into it, he could see green leaves in the mirror at the
top of the homemade periscope. He turned back to Rukanwe. "One more
thing," he said. The Rwandan raised his eyebrows. "What do we do if they
do find this place?"

Rukanwe's face told Dusty the producer didn't know.

The cast followed Rukanwe and Mwinyi through the living room to the
stairs and watched the two men exit the underground house. Morrison
stayed at the top of the steps, listening until he could hear the faint
crackling of burning wood.

When he returned to the living room, Lefevre and Spaak sat on the couch,
staring at the television. He turned toward the screen and saw Spaak
racing through a burning building with a beautiful blonde on one arm, a
submachine gun in the other. "See that overhead beam?" Spaak was telling
Denise Lefevre excitedly. "Watch it fall ... okay ... there!

That was it. It missed me by maybe two inches!"

Morrison walked to the bookshelf, pulled down the first book he saw and
opened it. His eyes fixed on the page, but didn't read. Behind him, he
heard Spaak talking again about the dangers he'd faced while shooting
Fire Run. He turned toward them as Lefevre rose and started toward the
kitchen. Spaak continued to stare at the screen, now watching himself as
he shoved the blonde into a car and dived in after her.

Hubert Spaak made a great action-movie hero, Morrison had to admit. He
looked the part, with his bulging muscles and tough-guy profile. But
what was happening to them now wasn't a movie. The bullets they'd
already faced, and might well face again, weren't blanks.

As he settled into an armchair with his book, the aging actor wondered
how Hubert Spaak would react to violence if there was no director around
to yell "Cut!"

"Just exactly who are you?" Bolan asked as he opened the passenger door
of the rusty gold Ford LTD. The Executioner didn't yet know how big a
part Brognola had assigned the older man, or whether he could be
trusted.

The white-haired man slid behind the wheel, stuck the key in the
ignition and fired up the engine. "Walter Walters," he said. "Everybody
calls me Tater, though."

"Why?"

Walters chuckled. "The Tater part came in Nam," he replied, "'cause of
my Southern accent and the fact that whenever we took R & R in Thailand
I went looking for the nearest place that served French fries." He threw
the car into drive. "The Walter part, well, it seemed as good as any
other name. So I just used it twice."

"That's not your real name, then."

Tater Walters's chest vibrated with humor again. "Nope. Can't remember
the real one. Lost my memory 'bout the time I joined the French foreign
legion after Nam." He pulled the LTD away from the curb. "Then again,
I'm guessin' your mama didn't stick you with no moniker like John Wesley
Collier, neither."

"No." What Walter "Tater" Walters was really telling him was that his
real name was wanted somewhere. Many soldiers in that position chose the
French foreign legion, where they could get a fresh start with no
questions asked.

The fact that he was wanted didn't automatically mean Tater Walters
couldn't be trusted. But it didn't mean he could be, either. But if
Brognola trusted him--and the Justice man did or he wouldn't have given
him the name Bolan was using in Rwanda--that was good enough for the
Executioner.

Bolan turned toward the man behind the wheel. "How is it you know
Brognola?"

Walters guided the LTD away from the airport and started the
twelve-kilometer drive into Kigali. He frowned. "I got me a little
cottage-industry business over here," he finally said. "Sell information
to the Feds at home. Pretty simple thing, really. Got my contacts, and I
keep my eyes and ears open. Then when the DEA or FBI or CIA calls, or
your buddy Brognola needs to know something, they ask me. If I don't
already know the answer, I usually know how to go about getting it."

The LTD continued to rattle down the smoke-filled road, passing groups
of people fleeing the riots in the city. Bolan watched their faces. They
didn't look particularly excited. Their expressions indicated they'd
resigned themselves to the periodic violence that erupted in Rwanda and
were too bone weary to care anymore.

"And I do favors for a price, as well," Walters continued as they
reached the city limits. "Like coming up with guns for people when they
need them."

"Mercenary?" Bolan asked.

Walters turned to face the Executioner, his face turning serious. "I
suppose so. But get this straight. I only work for the good guys."

Bolan nodded. He felt the twin Government Model .45s digging into his
flesh on both his sides. "These 1911s for me?" he asked.

"Hell no," Walters said. "Those are my babies. We're on our way to get
your stuff. But now that you mention it-" he stretched a hand across the
seat "-I'll take them back now."

Bolan jerked one of the well-worn .45 automatics from his belt and
handed it to the man. "I'll keep the other until we pick up my weapons,"
he said. "Where are they?"

Walters returned the .45 to his belt. "I stashed them in a vacant house.
Brognola said you wanted a .44 Magnum Desert Eagle and a Beretta 93-R."

Bolan nodded.

Walters chuckled. "Well, people in hell want ice water, too. This is
Rwanda, I'm afraid. I got you the best I could." The Executioner
understood. "What?" he asked.

"Smith & Wesson Model 629 for the .44 Magnum, and your 9 mm pistol's
gonna have to be a Browning. I came up with extra mags for the Hi-Power
and speed-loaders for the wheel gun."

Bolan nodded. Both were fine guns. The .44 Magnum revolver would provide
the same explosive power and penetration as the Desert Eagle, even if it
fell a few rounds short in firepower.

The LTD turned onto Avenue Paul VI and cruised past the Kigali military
camp. The rioting had moved away from the center of town as the
Tutsi-controlled army organized and began to patrol the street. Men in
jeeps and personnel carriers, as well as foot soldiers, stared at the
Ford as they passed. Finally one of the vehicles pulled up alongside,
and someone waved them to the curb.

"Pain in the ass dog-faces," Walters muttered. Bolan watched him reach
into his back pocket and pull out a billfold. As two soldiers wearing
jungle-camouflage fatigues dropped down from the jeep behind them, he
took out several Rwandan franc notes, then replaced the wallet. "They
don't cost much, but they're a damned nuisance," he complained.

The soldiers split at the rear of the car and came to the windows, both
shoving the barrels of Belgian FN FAL assault rifles into the vehicle.
The man on Walters's side said something in Kinyarwanda, and the
mercenary answered, handing him the money.

A brief argument ensued, then Walters turned to Bolan. "Son of a bitch
is in a difficult mood," he said. "Wants American. You got any
greenbacks on you?"

Bolan reached into his pocket and pulled out two twenties. He handed one
to Walters and stuck the other out his window.

The soldier on his side gasped. A moment later, the two men walked back
to their jeep, conversing excitedly.

"That's just about ten times more than they expected," Walters said. "It
makes us look like rich Americans, so let's get out of here before they
decide to come back and rob and kill us."

Bolan noticed a ten-year-old Chevy van behind them as the LTD
accelerated. Avenue Paul VI curved to the north as they circled the
military camp, then angled onto Rue Depute Kayuku. A glance in the
passenger's side-view mirror told the Executioner the van had followed.

Walters caught his look. "Tail?" he asked.

"Maybe."

The merc guided them through a confusing series of side streets into a
rundown residential area. The van kept its distance, but continued to
follow.

"It's that house on the corner," Walters said, indicating a dilapidated
structure with his head. He looked up at the mirror. "They still with
us?"

"Yeah." Bolan's gaze flickered to a tall, slender black man who stood on
the porch of a clapboard house next to the one Walters had pointed out.
Another tall man stood in front of a parked Datsun directly across the
street. The vehicle's hood was open, the man's hands busy with the
engine. Two more suspicious characters sat in a Ford Explorer halfway
down the next block.

"You catch all of them?" Bolan asked.

Walters nodded. "One on the porch, another in front of the Datsun. Two
in the Explorer." He didn't have to be told not to stop, and drove down
the block.

"Take us up about a half mile, then find the nearest wide spot in the
road and cut a fast U," Bolan directed him. He fastened his seat belt,
then flipped the safety off the Government Model pistol and pulled the
slide back partway to check the chamber. Satisfied, he returned the
weapon to the cocked-and-locked position and rested it in his lap.

The LTD slowed as it reached the next intersection, then suddenly
Walters stomped the brakes, sending the vehicle into a 180-degree skid.
He twisted the wheel violently as the tires squealed and smoked, and a
second later they were speeding back toward the van in the opposite
direction. "Ain't played chicken since I was a teenager," Walters said
with a grin as he leaned on the accelerator.

Bolan gripped the .45 in his right hand, his left on the seat-belt
buckle as the LTD raced toward the oncoming vehicle a half block away.
The faces of two surprised and frightened men appeared through the van's
windshield as the LTD suddenly bore down on them. The driver tried to
swerve but got only halfway across the narrow street when the LTD rammed
his side.

Metal crunched and glass burst as the Executioner flew forward against
the seat belt. The LTD was still rocking back and forth as he flipped
the seat-belt buckle's release, then bolted out of the vehicle. Walters
was only a half step behind as the warrior raced toward the van and
ripped open the driver's-side door.

Both of the men in the van had slammed into the windshield and been
knocked unconscious. Bolan reached up, pressing an index finger into the
driver's carotid artery. The pulse was still strong.

Across the van, Walters tore open the passenger door and checked the
other man's throat. He glanced at Bolan and shook his head.

"Let's get this guy out of here," the Executioner said, pulling the
driver's feet out of the car. Walters circled the van and grabbed the
man under the arms. Together they carried him quickly to the Ford and
tossed him into the backseat. Bolan got in back next to the prisoner as
Walters resumed his place at the wheel.

Less than thirty seconds after the crash the LTD was chugging along the
road again.

"Where you want to take him?" Walters asked.

The warrior shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Just get us out of this
neighborhood and keep driving." He looked at the blood oozing from the
man's forehead. "You got a first-aid kit?"

"Don't know. Maybe." Walters leaned over and dug through the glove box.
"Nothing in here ... hey, wait." Pulling out two red oil rags, he handed
them over the seat.

As the LTD started down the street, the Executioner applied direct
pressure to the man's head wound with one rag, then tied the other
around his head to hold the makeshift bandage in place.

Bolan studied the unconscious man. He was tall and slender like the
others they'd seen watching the house. They were dealing with the
Tutsi-controlled government here, rather than the Hutu resistance.

The Executioner slapped the man lightly on the cheek and glanced up at
Walters's reflection in the rearview mirror. "Find some place to park,"
he said. "Your car sounds like it's about to fall apart. Sorry. Maybe
Brognola can foot the bill for you."

Walters turned and the Executioner saw the white-haired man's
now-familiar grin. "Don't worry about it," he said. "It's not my car. I
stole this piece of junk just before I picked you up."

THE EXECUTIONER GLANCED through the window as Walters pulled the LTD to
a halt next to the curb. They were just off Kigali's market section in
an open area of scattered houses and buildings.

The man next to him in the backseat had a narrow black face and rangy
shoulders under a green T-shirt now stained black with dried blood. He
opened his eyes as Bolan turned back to him.

"Who are you?" the Executioner demanded in French.

The man blinked but didn't respond.

Bolan shoved the .45 under his chin. "Who are you?" he repeated. "And
don't act like you don't speak French. If you do, I'll just have my
partner interrogate you in Kinyarwanda." He let it sink in, then said,
"You're Tutsi, but Tutsi what?"

The man's eyes opened wide in fear, and Bolan could tell he thought the
wrong answer would bring instantaneous death. But the Executioner's
white skin confused him. After several seconds, he closed his eyes tight
and said, "Police. Secret police."

"Why were you following us, and how'd you know about the house?"

The man opened his eyes again, surprised to still be alive. "The Twa,"
he said. "He said there were weapons there."

"Who's he talking about?" Bolan demanded.

"Salewe Ukewere," Walters said from the front seat. "Local con man who
sells information like me. But he plays both sides of the fence."

"How'd he know about the house?" Bolan asked, jamming the gun tighter
into the man's throat.

"I do not know. I swear I do not know! He told us only that there were
guns stashed in the house. And since we knew they were not ours, we
thought they belonged to the Hutus."

"How'd you know to follow this guy then?" Bolan asked, hooking a thumb
toward Walters.

Again, the mercenary answered the question. "It's not all that unusual.
I catch Ukewere tailing me every once in a while to find out what I
know. He must have seen me go into the house."

"It is true!" the captive cried, looking past Bolan to the front seat.
"He knew you had put guns in the house and suspected they were for the
Hutu rebels. That's why he came to us!"

Bolan glanced over his shoulder. Walters shrugged, then nodded the fact
that it was likely to be true.

Bolan turned back to the bleeding man, trying to decide just how much
time he should put into getting the specific weapons Walters had
obtained for him. In a war-torn country like Rwanda, there were plenty
of firearms available off the streets. But they wouldn't be .44 Magnums.

The Executioner jabbed his captive's neck with the .45 again. "Where are
the guns now?" he demanded.

"I do not know. In one of the surveillance vehicles, I assume."

Bolan stared into the Tutsi's eyes, then reached across him and opened
the door. "Get out," he ordered.

"You are not going to kill me?"

"Not if you hurry."

The man did.

The warrior followed him out the door and got into the front seat.
Walters turned the car around and they headed back toward the
residential neighborhood.

"I spotted four men," the Executioner said. "Two in the surveillance
car, one in front of the house and the guy fixing his engine. You see
anybody else?"

Walters shook his head.

"Park out of sight a couple of blocks away," Bolan directed him. "It'll
be easier to take them out on foot."

Ten minutes later Walters pulled the LTD to the curb on a side street.
Bolan opened the door and got out. Staring between the houses, he could
see the corner of the vacant house the next block over. "Cut through the
yard there," he told Walters, pointing to the left. "You take out the
guy under the Datsun's hood."

"You planning to do the rest?" Walters asked.

Bolan nodded. "Try to take him quietly. I'll wait for you."

The man in front of the Datsun needed neutralizing, but the situation
also provided Bolan with an opportunity to test Tater Walters. The merc
had mentioned that he'd been in Vietnam and had served in the French
foreign legion, and in spite of his age, he still had the bearing of a
warrior.

But Bolan had known him less than an hour. The white-haired man could be
lying, and the Executioner needed to be sure he could still cut it.

He could use someone watching his back while he was in Rwanda, provided
Walters had what it took.

What the warrior was doing didn't pass by the white-haired man. "A test,
huh? Five'll get you ten I pass."

Bolan split from the former legionnaire as they crossed the street,
cutting between two ramshackle dwellings into the backyard of the one to
his right. He moved swiftly, fully aware that in his sport coat, slacks
and white skin he'd look drastically out of place to anyone watching.
Coming to a broken-down knee-high fence, he stepped over it into the
alley, then crossed to the yard of the house that had the two men
sitting out front in the Ford Explorer.

The Executioner moved along the side of the building. Peering around the
front corner, he saw the two men were still in the front seat. The
Explorer faced away from the vacant house where Walters had stashed the
guns, but their eyes were fixed to the vehicle's side-view mirrors.

Sticking his head out slightly farther, Bolan could see across the
street. The Tutsi on the porch continued to stand where he'd been with
the erect posture of a soldier.

Bolan dropped to a squat and looked down the street. The man in front of
the Datsun still tinkered with the engine. As he watched, Walters
stepped into sight from between two houses and walked casually to the
street before turning toward the Datsun. The merc held a key ring in his
hand and strolled along as if walking to his car. He glanced over his
shoulder briefly as he neared the Datsun, then his gaze swept up the
street on both sides.

The man under the hood started to look up as the merc drew alongside the
vehicle. Without breaking stride Walters reached up, grasped the hood
and slammed it down on the quarry's head.

Bolan drew the .45. His eyes skimmed a triangle from the Datsun to the
porch across the street and back to the Explorer. None of the other men
had noticed what had happened.

The Executioner turned back to Walters. The white-haired man had opened
the hood. The man whose head had been caught inside looked groggy but
was still conscious. The former legionnaire shot an uppercut under the
Tutsi's chin, then moved behind him, reaching up to wrap both arms
around the slender neck and jerk it down. Walters held the choke-hold
until the man slumped to the ground.

Bolan turned back to the house across the street, just in time to
realize that they'd been made. The man on the porch was clawing at his
hip holster, frantically trying to free his weapon. Too late. The
warrior's Government Model pistol exploded, and the man on the porch
collapsed into a heap.

The Executioner sighted the weapon on the Explorer, drilling a round
into the passenger's temple, then sprinted into the street. He rounded
the front of the vehicle as the driver jumped out wielding a small
semiautomatic pistol.

A double tap of .45 hardball rounds cut through the man's frayed white
shirt and dropped him to the street.

Bolan hurried forward, picking up the weapon that had fallen from the
man's hand--a Hungarian FEG .380 copy of the Walther PPK. Dropping it in
the side pocket of his jacket, he saw Walters open the door of the
Datsun and start rummaging inside.

The warrior opened the door of the Explorer and jerked the passenger out
onto the street. Quickly he searched the front and back seats, coming up
with another FEG pistol, but nothing else.

The Executioner heard a whistle and stuck his head back out of the
Explorer. Down the street, he could see Walters holding a large leather
satchel in one hand. In the other hand he gripped a short black man by
the scruff of the neck.

By the time Bolan reached the Datsun, sirens were sounding in the
distance, and curious heads were starting to peek out of doors up and
down the street. The Executioner glanced both ways. "Let's get out of
here," he said, fishing through the pants of the man Walters had choked
until he found the car keys. He slid behind the wheel as the
white-haired mercenary shoved his struggling captive into the car and
climbed in after him.

"Well, did I pass the test?" Walters asked.

Bolan twisted the key in the ignition and nodded. "That one," he said.
"There's another coming up."

Even as the words left his mouth, two military jeeps rounded the corner
behind them. Both jeeps held four men in OD green fatigues, and the
barrels of eight assault rifles were pointed their way.

The Executioner floored the accelerator and twisted the steering wheel,
angling the Datsun away from the curb. The car coughed and jerked, then
moved sluggishly forward. Looking back to the mirror, he saw that the
jeeps were less than a block behind them.

In the back seat, Walters had read their predicament as well as the
Executioner. "We'll never outrun them," he commented.

"See if you can take out a tire," Bolan yelled over the noise as the
Datsun slowly gained speed.

Walters started to open the satchel, but as he did his captive turned
and reached for the door on his side.

The merc reached across the back seat, grabbed the man's arm and jerked
it back. "Stay put," he ordered.

A voice speaking in Kinyarwanda came over a loudspeaker, shouting orders
to the Datsun's occupants.

Opening the satchel, Walters pulled out a large stainless-steel
revolver, thumbed the latch and swung out the cylinder.

Bolan watched in the mirror as Walters dumped the hollowpoint rounds
back into the case and grabbed a speed-loader with his other hand.
"Armor piercing," the older man shouted above the Datsun's listless
engine and the roar of the oncoming jeeps.

Static crackled over the loudspeaker, then the gruff voice spoke again.
Bolan didn't slow. The voice switched to French, ordering them to stop.

"No, thanks," Walters said to himself as he twisted in the seat and
leaned out the open window.

The Executioner continued to try to will extra power out of the Datsun
as he watched Walters in the side mirror. The older man steadied his
elbows on the windowsill, then double-actioned a quick .44 Magnum slug
at the lead jeep.

The round exploded behind the Executioner's ear. The bullet missed the
left front tire by a foot, sending sparks shimmying down the pavement in
its wake.

The Tutsi soldiers took the shot as an invitation to open up.

Dozens of rounds suddenly exploded from the assault rifles in the jeeps,
taking out the back windshield of the Datsun and leaving holes in the
trunk. Miraculously the rounds missed the three men in the vehicle, and
the tires and other vital parts of the Datsun remained intact.

"You'd better get a tire, and you'd better get it quick," Bolan yelled,
turning a corner at breakneck speed. He watched Walters take a deep
breath, then lean out the window again.

This time the armor-piercing .44 Magnum round flew true, striking the
left front tire and sending the lead jeep careening across the street
and up into the yard of a rundown residence. Three of the soldiers
bailed out a second before the vehicle crashed into the concrete steps
that led to the porch. The driver was thrown out of the jeep and slammed
up against the house.

The second jeep continued pursuit, with more rounds exploding into the
Datsun. The front windshield went the way of the rear, and now steam
began to rise from under the hood.

Walters leaned out the window again, snapping another round back toward
the soldiers. The projectile missed the jeep, but the driver slowed
momentarily and the men with the rifles ducked.

It was the reaction Walters had hoped for, and his next double-actioned
round struck rubber. The jeep fishtailed wildly before grinding to a
halt in the center of the street.

The steam from under the Datsun's hood was rising faster. Bolan turned
another corner and found himself back on Rue Deputd Kayuku. He followed
it back to Paul VI, took a left, then cut over to Rue de Nyarugungu.
They were a block from Revolution Boulevard when the Datsun finally gave
up the ghost, chugging to a halt as the Executioner pulled to the side
of the street.

Turning, Bolan saw that the African was still unconscious from a blow
Walters had administered when the man had tried to leap out of the
vehicle during the gun battle. "Get him awake, stick a gun in his ribs
and tell him if he makes a sound he's dead."

Walters nodded. "Sounds simple enough. You going somewhere?"

Bolan turned to look up the street. A tall structure bearing a sign that
proclaimed it to be a hotel stood a block and a half away. "We need a
place to lie low, regroup and find out if this guy knows anything about
the actors." He cleared his throat. "I take it this is the man you were
talking about?"

Walters nodded. "Salewe Ukewere. The one and only."

Bolan indicated the hotel with his head. "You know the Diplomat?"

"Upscale," Walters said. "At least for Rwanda. Might want to straighten
the knot in your tie before you go in." He glanced to Ukewere. "There's
a side door on the first floor that leads to the alley. Locked, but it
opens from the inside."

"I'll meet you there in ten minutes," Bolan said. "Keep a low profile."
He got out of the car and hurried up the street.

Though the rioting had quieted, few people were venturing out of the
stores and other businesses along Revolution Boulevard. Bolan passed a
dead body between two buildings, but saw no one else until he'd entered
the lobby, where a reed-thin man wearing a blue blazer stood behind the
desk.

The desk clerk looked up warily, his hand moving under the counter as
the Executioner approached. "Any vacancies?" Bolan asked in French.

"You may take your pick," he replied, his hand coming back into view.

"One night," the warrior said, then dropped several Rwandan franc bills
on the counter. He took the key to room 212 from the man, then stepped
into the nearby elevator.

When the doors opened on the second floor, Bolan found a back staircase
and returned to ground level. A short hunt up and down the vacant halls
found the steel door to the alley, and when he opened it Walters and
Ukewere were waiting.

The blow the mercenary had dealt out earlier had left Ukewere's jaw
swollen and ugly. The little man's attitude was the same. He ripped off
a long stream of what the Executioner suspected were Kinyarwanda curses,
until Walters jammed a .45 into the man's ribs and ordered him to be
quiet.

Bolan led them back up the stairs and down the hall to the door marked
212. Inside, they found a dusty room in need of paint. But Tater Walters
had been right. Given what the Executioner had seen of Rwanda, the place
was heaven.

Walters shoved Ukewere into a chair by the bed and took a seat on the
tattered bedspread. Bolan pulled the chair from under a dressing table,
turned it to face them and sat. He stared at their captive. The little
man sat straight in his chair, his feet dangling a foot from the floor.
A gaudy-print square-tailed sport shirt fell over his paunchy torso
outside his gray slacks, and a row of cigars protruded from the shirt
pocket. "You speak English?" Bolan asked. He got no reply. "He does,"
Walters stated.

The Executioner nodded. "Your name's Ukewere?"

The African remained silent, his eyes boring hate-filled holes through
the Executioner.

"This can be easy, or it can be hard," Bolan said.

Again he got no response.

The Executioner sighed and turned to Walters. "Give me the Smith."

The mercenary opened the satchel and pulled out the revolver.

Bolan snapped open the weapon, dumped the pointed armor-piercing rounds
out into his hand, then stuck one back into the cylinder. Spinning the
wheel, he closed it quickly again and held his hand over the space
between the cylinder and the frame. "What's your name?" he repeated.

When Ukewere didn't answer, Bolan shoved the gun under his chin. Below
the man's line of sight, the hand covering the cylinder moved slightly
until his finger could feel the chamber that would revolve and fire when
he pulled the trigger. Empty.

Bolan double-actioned the revolver and the hammer fell on the empty
chamber with a loud metallic snap.

The Executioner studied Ukewere's face. It didn't change.

"The odds were pretty good on that one," Bolan said. "But they'll get
worse each time we play this game." He paused. "Now what's your name?"

If anything, the defiance in Ukewere's eyes intensified.

Bolan shrugged, his left hand ensuring that the next chamber was empty,
as well. "Have it your way," he said, and pulled the trigger again. The
revolver snapped.

The Executioner had watched Ukewere's eyes carefully as he pulled the
trigger. The man seemed devoid of fear. He either didn't care if he
lived or died, or he was one fine actor under pressure.

Tracing his finger along the frame, the Executioner found the third
chamber empty, too. "What's your name?" he asked, and pulled the trigger
almost immediately.

Ukewere looked at the revolver, then spit on it.

Bolan sat on the bed and used the pillow to wipe off the revolver. The
movement afforded him an opportunity to surreptitiously glance down to
see that the next chamber was empty, but the one after that held the
giant .44 Magnum round.

The Executioner stood, moved to Ukewere's side and pressed the barrel
against the man's temple. "You ready to talk yet?" he asked.

No answer. As the African stared straight ahead, Bolan pulled the
trigger.

Ukewere turned to look him in the eye. "Save yourself some time. Fill
the gun and pull the trigger. I will never talk to you under these
conditions."

Walters moved up to sit directly in front of him. "Ukewere, you are one
crazy little runt, you know that?" he said. "This man's going to kill
you."

"Oh, wouldn't that be terrible!" he said sarcastically. "To be dead! To
lose all that I have in this Garden of Eden they call Rwanda!"

He turned back to Bolan. "Do it and get it over with," he said through
gritted teeth. "You'll be doing me a favor."

Bolan studied him. The man wasn't kidding. He was ready to die.

Walters stood, exasperated. "What the hell's wrong with you, Sal?" he
said. "You've played both sides of the fence all your life. You've sold
information to the Hutus. Then you've turned right back around and sold
the fact that the Hutus had it to the Tutsis. What's stopping you now?"

"No one has offered to pay me yet," Ukewere said calmly.

"We'll pay you with your life," Walters growled.

"My life is worth nothing. Money is."

Bolan sat on the bed next to Walters, broke open the revolver, dumped
the armor-piercing round and filled the chamber with hollowpoints. He
was beginning to understand Ukewere, and while the little man's attitude
might make no sense on the surface. anyone who knew Rwandan history
could figure it out.

The Twa Pygmies had been the original inhabitants of the region that
would come to be known as Rwanda, being chased out around 1000 A.D. by
the invading Tutsi. Some had remained and become part of the new
society, but always as second-class citizens. Rwandans as a whole had
little chance of forging a decent life for themselves, and prejudice
from both Tutsi and Hutu made it even worse for the Twa. The Executioner
suspected that racial bigotry accounted to a high degree for Ukewere's
development as a con man who had so little regard for the lives of
others--or even his own.

Bolan turned back to the defiant man. "Okay," he said. "We'll pay you to
talk."

Ukewere smiled. "How much?"

"How much do you want?"

Ukewere looked at the ceiling, then back down. "That depends," he said
finally. "What do you want to know?"

"I'm here to find the members of the Belgian theatrical troupe who were
playing in Rwanda."

Ukewere's smile widened as he began to smell big money. "That will
cost."

"Do you know where they are?"

The con man shook his head. "But I will find out if that's what you
want." He paused. "For a mere one thousand American dollars."

The Executioner quickly thought about it. A thousand dollars wasn't
particularly high for what he was asking, but a fortune in an
impoverished nation like Rwanda. Bolan shook his head. "No."

The hate returned to Ukewere's eyes. "Then I will not-"

"I'll give you two thousand dollars," the Executioner broke in. "But you
stick with me until I find them, Ukewere."

The man's lips curled up at the corners, then his hand reached into his
shirt pocket and grabbed two of the big cigars.

Still beaming, Ukewere handed one of the cigars to Walters and the other
to Bolan, then jumped down off the chair to stand before the two men
with his hands on his hips. "Call me Sal, boys."

Cheap cigar smoke blew from the backseat of the rented Yugo, engulfing
Bolan and Walters like giant blue-gray storm clouds. In the passenger's
seat, the white-haired mercenary coughed, glanced at Bolan behind the
wheel and shook his head before opening his window.

Behind them, between puffs on his cigar, Sal Ukewere continued the
virtual one-sided conversation he'd begun since getting into the car.
"And I can't say for sure that he knows Big Billy Rukanwe personally,
but he'll know somebody who does and he's got a used-book store over on
Travail--Librairie Travail, it's called--mostly French books that are
hard to get or out of print, and of course most people can't afford
books because of the war and food is more important, but he'd be doing
pretty good even if that was all he did--which it's not. He sells
information just like me and Tater here." He paused and drew a deep
breath. "Right, Tater?"

Walters closed his eyes. "Right, Sal."

"Of course he runs in different circles than Tater and me, so he'll have
different information, which is why we're going to see him. His name is
Jean-Marc Mwisale, but I already told you that, didn't I?"

"Once or twice, Sal," Walters said, his eyes still closed against the
nonstop verbal barrage that had begun as soon as Ukewere decided to
talk.

Behind the wheel, Bolan chuckled softly as he followed a curve on
Commerce Avenue. He reached under his jacket to adjust the leather
shoulder rig Walters had provided with the S&W Model 629 .44 Magnum. The
revolver rode well under his left arm, and although he'd have preferred
the Desert Eagle in the same caliber, with the exception of holding only
six rounds, the Smith did the same job.

The Browning Hi-Power was strapped to his right hip in a thumb-break
holster, and the lightweight FEG .380 pistol the Executioner had
appropriated earlier had been tucked into the right back pocket of his
slacks.

The warrior's chuckle died abruptly as they entered the market area. The
city was still enjoying a lull in the rioting, and the merchants were
returning to do business with their meager goods. The Yugo drove slowly
past stands that should have been packed with vegetables, live chickens
and hanging sides of beef. Instead, Bolan saw only a scattered
assortment of near-rotted foodstuffs that hadn't been purchased before
the most recent outbreak of war, or were stolen during the pandemonium
that followed. Scattered throughout the edibles were vendors trying to
hawk pottery, wall hangings, baskets and leather goods to nonexistent
tourists, and natives who had no money. The overall atmosphere was one
of poverty, starvation and despair. The people of Rwanda were dying, and
if the fighting itself didn't kill them, the famine brought on by the
war would.

"Turn right here," Ukewere said, "then pull in."

Bolan parked along the broken concrete curb in front of a hand-painted
sign that read Librairie Travail. A moment later Ukewere led him and
Walters through a splintered wooden door into the bookstore.

The Executioner surveyed the store as they walked down an aisle between
bookshelves overflowing with secondhand volumes. Green paint chips from
the walls covered the floor, and dust coated everything. A dead rat, its
ribs visible against its sides, lay in the center of the aisle.

Ukewere stepped deftly over the carcass without a moment's pause and led
Bolan and Walters to a desk at the rear of the room. The African came to
a halt in front of a clerk who sat behind a disintegrating wooden desk.

The clerk looked up from behind the papers on his desk, his expression
blank. Behind the desk, a black curtain hung from the ceiling over what
the Executioner suspected was a doorway to the back office.

Ukewere's chest puffed out. "We are here to see Mr. Mwisale," he said in
French.

The clerk just shook his head.

Ukewere's chin shot out. "Perhaps you did not hear me?"

"I heard you," the clerk replied. "Mr. Mwisale is not here."

"Do you not know who I am?" Ukewere asked.

A smile played at the corners of the clerk's thin lips as he shook his
head again.

"I am Salewe Ukewere," he said indignantly, and waited.

When he got no response, Ukewere's eyes filled with the same hatred
Bolan had seen at the hotel. "You would do well to learn who I am! Get
Mr. Mwisale immediately!"

The curtain behind the desk moved to one side, and the largest man Bolan
had seen since arriving in Rwanda stepped through the doorway. The skin
of his face glistened with sweat above the open collar of his white
sport shirt. He wore chocolate brown slacks, stood a good six and a half
feet tall and had to have tipped the scales at three hundred pounds. The
curtain fell closed behind him as he moved around the side of the desk
toward Walters.

A moment later the curtain was thrown back again, and an even bigger man
stooped under the seven-foot doorway to enter the room. Outweighing the
first giant by a solid fifty pounds, this behemoth wore freshly pressed
blue jeans and sparkling white athletic shoes. His hard eyes fell on
Bolan as he circled the desk and stopped directly in front of the
Executioner.

The man facing Walters spoke angrily in Kinyarwanda. Then his arms
flashed out with lightning speed to encircle the white-haired mercenary
and lift him off his feet in a spine-mangling bear hug.

The air rushed out of Walters's lungs, and he grunted, but the pain
didn't stop him. He brought both hands out to his sides, palms open,
then smashed them against the giant's ears.

The huge man screamed as he dropped the white-haired mercenary. His
hands shot to his ears, but by then Walters had stepped back and
directed a snap kick into his opponent's crotch. When his foot touched
the ground, Walters used the other leg to sweep the giant's feet out
from under him and sent him crashing to the floor.

The man in front of Bolan watched in shock, then growled like an angry
bear and turned to the Executioner, reaching for his throat.

Bolan ducked the enormous hands and shot a short right jab into his
attacker's sternum. His fist met both muscle and fat, weakening the
effect of the punch. Raising a foot, he stomped hard on the enormous
foot he saw below him, and heard a crack as his heel broke the man's
instep.

The giant roared in agony, hopping up and down on one foot as Bolan
stepped back. Without waiting for him to recover, the Executioner's foot
shot out again, this time striking the knee of the bouncing leg. Another
crack echoed against the walls of the bookstore, and the jumping giant
fell to the floor next to his partner.

The clerk behind the desk stared in disbelief at the two men on the
floor, his jaw dropping.

Ukewere stared at the man behind the desk and said, Perhaps you did not
understand me. Mr. Ukewere is here to see Mr. Mwisale."

Before the man could respond, the curtain opened again and a frail
figure in a light green business suit stuck his head into the opening.
Jean-Marc Mwisale had the complexion of the half French, half African.
His features appeared to be mixed, as well, with wide lips below a
sharp, narrow nose. He looked over the top of his reading glasses and
shook his head in disgust, then glanced to Ukewere and waved him forward
before disappearing behind the curtain once more.

Ukewere beamed triumphantly at Bolan, then circled the desk, threw open
the curtain and strutted through the opening. The Executioner and
Walters followed.

Mwisale led them down a dimly lit hallway, past the open door to his
office, then to the next room. They entered a lounge area, its
centerpiece a kitchen table surrounded by four matching chairs and a
pair of wooden stools.

The bookstore proprietor pointed to the table, then moved to a coffee
machine next to the sink in the counter at the rear of the room. Bolan
and Walters took chairs as Ukewere took a seat on one of the stools.

Mwisale poured coffee into a plain white mug, didn't bother to offer
them any, then took the other stool. "You appear to be coming up in the
world, Sal," he said in French. "What can I do for you?"

Ukewere hooked his thumbs under his armpits and raised his chin a notch.
"We are looking for Big Billy Rukanwe."

Mwisale reached up to adjust the glasses on his nose, and Bolan saw the
diamonds sparkling on his fingers. "Good luck," he said. "Big Billy goes
into hiding whenever fighting starts. Or so I hear."

"Do you know him?" Ukewere asked.

Mwisale shook his head.

"Do you know someone who does?"

"Of course," Mwisale said. "Everyone knows someone who links to everyone
in the world. The trick is to organize that information and put it
into-" he let his voice trail off and looked at Bolan "-a marketable
form." Glancing back to Ukewere, he added, "Some do it more successfully
than others, and therefore they charge more."

The petition for payment was all too obvious. The Executioner stared
Mwisale in the eye. The bookstore owner and his two henchmen looked like
the only three men in Rwanda who weren't starving. And the reason for
that was as obvious as the man's solicitation.

Mwisale grew fat at the expense of the less fortunate, and the
Executioner resented contributing anything to someone like that. But he
needed any information the bookstore owner might have that could lead
him to Dusty Morrison and the rest of the performers. "If it's good
information," Bolan said, "I'll pay."

"It will cost you fifty thousand Rwandan francs."

"It will cost me ten thousand Rwandan francs," the Executioner stated.

"Forty thousand."

"Twenty thousand, and that's the last offer," Bolan said, his eyes still
locked to Mwisale's. "Say no to that, and I'll leave you on the floor
next to your goons in the front room."

Mwisale smiled again. "You drive a hard bargain."

The warrior nodded. "Start talking or you'll find out just how hard it
can get."

The bookstore owner nodded back in understanding, pulled a spiral
notepad and pen from the inside pocket of his sport coat and scribbled a
name and address on the page before tearing it out and pushing it across
the table to the Executioner.

Bolan glanced at the paper, then stuck it in his pocket and stood.

Mwisale continued to grin. "Aren't you forgetting something?" he said.

"No," Bolan said. "I haven't forgotten." Reaching into his pocket, he
pulled out a roll of Rwandan francs and slowly counted off the payment
before returning the rest to his pocket.

The warrior's hand shot out suddenly, grabbing Mwisale's necktie. He
twisted it around his hand, tightening the knot at the bookseller's
throat until the man's eyes threatened to pop from the sockets.
Mwisale's mouth gaped open, struggling for air.

The Executioner used the tie to drag the man across the room to the
door. Walters and Ukewere followed him down the dark hallway, back into
the bookstore and over the still-moaning men on the floor. Bolan used
his free hand to open the door to the street and pulled Mwisale out to
the sidewalk.

A light breeze ruffled the Executioner's hair as he looked up and down
the street. To his right he saw a man and woman, arm in arm, helping
each other limp down the sidewalk.

The Executioner turned to the frightened man whose tie he still gripped.
"You're about to do the first good deed you've ever done, Mwisale," he
said. Then, dropping the man, he stepped into the path of the two
Rwandans.

The couple looked up, their eyes glazed with hunger.

Bolan pulled a thousand francs off the top of the bills in his hand and
pressed them into the palm of the emaciated man, who looked up at him in
awe.

Then the Executioner turned back to Mwisale, and as the book dealer
watched in horror, he lifted his hand over his head and released the
rest of the money into the wind.

Denise dried herself with a towel, wrapped it around her head and took a
seat on the vanity bench in front of the mirror. Staring at her nude
reflection, she fought the melancholy that always threatened to overtake
her whenever she applied her makeup. Her eyes made their way from the
crow's-feet at the corner of the sockets to the ever-deepening creases
around her mouth, and finally to the loose skin beneath her chin.

Throwing back her shoulders, the actress thrust out her breasts. At
least they didn't sag yet. Her hand traveled to her stomach and over her
abdomen. The muscles were still firm, but more difficult to see these
days no matter how many sit-ups she did or how strictly she kept to her
diet.

Lefevre sighed. She exercised harder than ever, spending hours on the
machines and more at the ballet bar. She stretched, she ran, she ate
less than her pet parakeet. Yet she couldn't stop the aging process.

A knock on the other side of the bathroom door shook her from her
misery. "Denise? Are you all right in there?" Hubert Spaak's voice asked
with forced theatrical concern.

Lefevre composed herself quickly. "I'm fine, Hubert," she lied. "Leave
me alone."

"I was just concerned." Spaak's footfalls moved off down the hall.

Lefevre turned to the door, picturing the young man who had just stood
on the other side. Hubert Spaak was concerned, all right, but not for
her welfare. He was concerned with getting her into bed. The egotistical
little brat was reputed to have slept with every leading lady he'd ever
made a movie with, and he was afraid that if he didn't bed Denise
Lefevre during this African tour, word might leak out that his string of
conquests had been broken.

The actress turned back to the mirror. She couldn't deny that Hubert was
handsome. The fact that he found her attractive, and still in the same
league as the young starlets in his movies, was flattering. It did a
little, at least, to offset the depression that flooded her each time
she put on her makeup.

Which was what she was there to do, she reminded herself. Put on her
makeup and try to cover up the fact that she was forty-three years old
and not ageless like Sophia Loren.

Opening her makeup case, the middle-aged actress congratulated herself
for having it nearby when the fighting had broken out. But then, it was
never far from hand these days. She applied a coat of base, some blush
and powder, then lifted the mascara wand and began to brush her
eyelashes, her thoughts returning to Hubert Spaak.

She had considered sleeping with him at first to relieve the boredom of
the tour. Then she had considered it to remind herself that despite a
few wrinkles she was still appealing to younger men. But then the
fighting had broken out, and the next thing she knew they were all
living like sardines in this underground hiding place.

Lefevre put down the mascara and lifted her lipstick, applying a coat to
her lips, then blotting them together. She supposed she should be
thankful for the fighting, in a perverse way. It had kept her from
becoming another notch on Spaak's zipper. Kept him from bedding her,
then moving on to greener pastures.

Twisting the lid of her eye shadow, the woman suddenly stopped. There
were no greener pastures here, she suddenly realized. She was the only
woman, young or old, beautiful or homely. She looked back to the mirror.
The sudden knowledge, combined with the fresh makeup, made her feel a
little better. She didn't know how long they'd have to hide down here
before the fighting let up and they could get out of the country, but
until then she was the queen.

Another knock on the bathroom door interrupted her thoughts.

"Denise!" Streak shouted. "If you don't come out this instant, I'll have
an accident!"

"Put a rubber band around it," Lefevre suggested, and went back to her
makeup. She caught herself smiling into the mirror. Finishing with her
mascara, she brushed her hair, then stood and turned around. Her mood
elevated now, she looked into the mirror, and even the sight of the
little dimples forming in her buttocks didn't bring her mood down. She
turned sideways, staring critically at the glass.

Okay, her body wasn't what it had once been. But she still had a damn
fine ass. At least directors still wanted to expose it on screen every
time they could talk her into it. It would do for another few years, at
least.

Lefevre was slipping into a clean pair of panties when a third knock
came to the door. "Yes?" she said, exasperated.

"Oh ... sorry."

For a second she didn't recognize the voice. Then it dawned on her.
Dusty Morrison.

"I'll just be a second," she said, changing her tone to a friendlier
note, but the lack of reply told her Morrison had already left.

The actress shrugged into a clean bra and reached behind her back to
fasten it. She frowned, caught the expression in the mirror, reminded
herself that frowning was like fertilizer to wrinkles and let her face
fall deadpan. Dusty Morrison. Tall and strong, he nevertheless had to be
close to sixty years old. He still looked sexy in his cowboy clothes,
though, and she found herself strangely attracted to him.

Pulling a T-shirt over her head, Lefevre reached for the jeans she'd
laid out on the counter next to the sink. In her late teens and early
twenties she'd been attracted to older men--father figures, she
supposed. Then, as she got older herself, she'd found herself attracted
to younger men like Spaak.

Lefevre stuck her feet into the pant legs of her jeans. It didn't take a
Ph.D. in psychology to figure out why. Seducing men twenty years younger
than she was kept her feeling young herself.

So what was it she liked about Morrison?

She wiggled the tight denim jeans up her hips, picturing Dusty Morrison
onstage, drawing his--what did he call them--six-shooters, and blasting
away. He was more than just show, too. He'd proved that by shooting for
real when they were making their escape.

Taking a final look in the mirror, the actress concluded that what she
saw wasn't as good as it had been when she'd been twenty. But for
forty-three it wasn't bad at all. She turned to the door, reached out
for the knob, then stopped.

Was she going to let Hubert Spaak have his way to relieve the stress and
boredom of their predicament, or would it be more fun to continue to
lead him around by a leash? She didn't know yet. Maybe that was what
made it fun.

She opened the door and stepped out into the hall.

All three men were waiting in line, with Dusty Morrison at the end.
Ignoring Streak and Spaak, Denise Lefevre gave the gray-haired cowboy
her best smile as she passed on her way back to the living room.

If only Dusty weren't so old. And if only she weren't, either.

The Executioner heard the match strike behind him and then smoke began
to fill the vehicle once more.

Tater Walters turned toward him, sighed and rolled down the window
again.

"Hamissi Karuzi, yeah, I know him, not real well, but I know who he is,"
Ukewere said around the cigar in his mouth. "Muslim. Works over at the
Snack Tam-Tam." He stopped suddenly. "Hey, where are my manners, right?
Anybody else want a cigar?"

Bolan shook his head.

Walters rolled the window down farther and said, "I don't need my own,
Sal. I'll just breathe in what you exhale."

The man ignored the remark. "Take a right and park in here, Collier," he
said, jabbing at the window with his cigar.

Bolan twisted the steering wheel, guiding the vehicle off Revolution and
onto a lot scattered with the remains of a building. Brick and concrete
rubble littered the area, and two corners of the structure were the only
parts still intact. Weeds and grass grew through the cracks in the
foundation.

The Executioner cut the engine and got out, following Ukewere, who led
him and Walters back to the sidewalk, then two storefronts down to a
sign that read Snack Tam-Tam. A half dozen iron tables, their white
paint chipped and cracked, stood outside the door on the pavement. A
middle-aged couple wearing cameras around their neck were the cafe's
only patrons. Both sat with their backs to the building and nervously
tried to eat.

Watching them as he pulled a chair away from the table Ukewere had
chosen, Bolan realized that like Dusty Morrison and the Belgians, these
people had to have entered the country before the war broke out again.
They had probably been holed up in a nearby hotel for the past couple of
days before hunger finally forced them out.

Bolan took a seat as the door to the building opened and a man wearing
white slacks, a white T-shirt and a white waiter's jacket came out
carrying a pitcher of ice tea. The man's features were distinctly
Arabic, and his tight curly hair was close-cropped to his skull. He
walked briskly to the couple at the other table, then glanced toward the
three newcomers as he refilled their glasses. The Arab did a double take
when he saw Ukewere.

The little man leaned across the table. "That's him," he whispered.
"That is Karuzi."

Hurrying back inside the restaurant, Karuzi returned a moment later with
a pen and order pad. He glanced nervously up and down the street before
moving in between Walters and Ukewere. "What will you have?" he asked in
French.

"Information," Ukewere answered in the same language.

Karuzi leaned in closer. "Not here," he said. "These are dangerous
times. Order something and I will meet you later."

"Pizza," Ukewere said. "Extra large. Double ham and sausage."

Karuzi grimaced, but wrote it down.

Ukewere turned to face Bolan and Walters, waiting for them to order,
letting them know the pizza was for him alone.

The two men both ordered sandwiches. Karuzi added them to his list, then
disappeared back into the building.

Ukewere laughed. "The ham," he said. "He is Muslim and does not approve
of eating pork."

Karuzi reappeared ten minutes later carrying a large round pizza pan.
Steam rose from the sizzling cheese, ham and sausage, and Bolan noted
that Karuzi had put on padded gloves.

Ukewere licked his lips as he stared at the platter in front of him.
Karuzi set small baskets in front of Bolan and Walters and started to
turn.

The little man tore his attention away from the pizza long enough to
grab the Arab's arm. "You said you would meet us," he said. "Where?

And when?"

"I finish work in thirty minutes," he said.

By now Ukewere had lifted a piece of the pizza to his mouth with his
free hand and torn a huge bite off with his teeth. The heat didn't seem
to bother him as he spoke and chewed at the same time. "Then we will
meet you at the bar in the Sierra," he said, pointing over his shoulder.

Bolan glanced down the street and saw the sign.

Karuzi shook his head. "That is too close and I am known there. Make it
the Good Times on Travail."

Ukewere took another bite. "Too far," he said.

"It is there or nowhere." Karuzi jerked his arm away and hurried back
into the building.

As soon as they'd finished their meal, the Executioner pulled several
Rwandan bills from his pocket, weighted them down with the basket his
sandwich had come in and stood. He led the way back to the car, slid
behind the wheel and retraced the route they had taken from Travail. He
parked along the curb, then Ukewere led him and Walters down a small
lane off the main street.

The African opened the door, stepped back graciously and ushered the
other men inside. "The prices here are good," he said. "Much better than
the Snack Tam-Tam."

A waiter led them to a window table in the main bar, and the Executioner
took a seat where he could see both the door and the sidewalk outside.

"I am still hungry," Ukewere said, then turned to the waiter. He ordered
another pizza and a pitcher of beer. Bolan and Walters settled for beer.

Ukewere had finished the second pizza by the time Karuzi appeared on the
sidewalk outside the window. The Arab had discarded his jacket but still
wore the white slacks and T-shirt. He had added a
black-and-white-striped keffiyeh. Not changing habits, he looked up and
down the street before ducking into the restaurant.

Bolan pulled out the chair next to him. Karuzi approached cautiously,
his eyes searching the room as he walked. He took the seat as their
waiter approached the table again, and ordered coffee.

"We are trying to locate Big Billy Rukanwe," Ukewere said without
preamble. "We will pay."

Karuzi shook his head. "I do not know the man."

Bolan leaned in, crossing his arms on the table in front of him. "But
you know who he is," he said matter-of-factly.

"Of course. He is an entertainment promoter. His most recent venture was
the booking of the Belgian show traveling across Africa." He paused,
turned to look behind him, then faced the others again. "It is rumored
that they are still in the country. When they are found--either by Hutu
or Tutsi--they will be killed."

Bolan nodded. "There's an American with them."

Karuzi looked him in the eye. "The cowboy. I saw the show. That is why
you have come? To rescue him?"

"And the others." Bolan reached into his pocket and pulled out the roll
of Rwandan bills. Peeling off the top three, he dropped them on the
table and said, "Tell me how to find Rukanwe."

The Arab snatched the money off the table and jammed it into his pants
pocket. "I know a man who is a friend of Big Billy's."

Bolan waited.

Karuzi looked down at the money in the Executioner's hand. The warrior
counted off five more bills.

"I used to work for this man, this friend of Rukanwe's," the Arab said.
"He is half-Hutu. His father was Jordanian." He looked back down at the
money. The Executioner gave him five additional notes. "He is an
exporter of coffee and tea."

"Where? Here in Kigali?"

The Arab shook his head. "His business is near Cyangugu."

This time when Karuzi looked at the money, Bolan counted out ten bills,
dropped them on the table and said, "I'm tired of playing this game.
Take this. It's all you get. So start talking." He let the tone of his
voice imply what would happen if the Arab continued to be difficult.

Karuzi took the hint. "Zaid Karsimbi is his name. Ukewere will have
heard of him."

The little man nodded. "Tea and coffee," he agreed. "Among other
things."

Karuzi turned his eyes toward Bolan. "Yes. Karsimbi is involved in many
investments. Some legal, some not so. He exports coffee and tea. His
imports include drugs, such as Khat."

Bolan listened. Khat, grown primarily in Kenya, was a mild drug that
produced amphetamine-like reactions. While it was more prevalent in
African countries with better economies, the people of Rwanda needed an
"escape" as much as anyone, maybe more.

Regardless of how impoverished a nation might be, some people always
found money for drugs.

"Be careful if you go to see him," Karuzi said. "He will be nervous
during these times. His bodyguards will shoot first and ask questions
later, as you Americans like to say." He tried looking down at the money
again but Bolan ignored him, shoving the bills back into his pocket.
Producing a pen from a jacket pocket, he grabbed a cocktail napkin and
pushed them both toward Karuzi. "Write down the directions," he ordered.

Karuzi complied, then all four men stood.

Karuzi cleared his throat. "I have given you good information?" he
asked.

Bolan nodded.

"I ... could use more money," he said shyly.

The Executioner fished into his pocket, pulled out another bill and
dropped it on the table. He thought briefly of Mwisale. "If you want
more," he said, "try looking up and down the street. Who knows? There
might still be a few francs blowing in the wind."

As he turned to leave he saw a look of bewilderment come over the Arab's
face.

Dusty Morrison watched Denise Lefevre walk into the living room, thought
of Lois and frowned.

What was it about Denise that always made him think of his wife?

She didn't look like Lois. She didn't walk or talk like Lois, and she
certainly didn't act like Lois. Denise was a little on the affected
side. Each word, each movement, was carefully played out as if it came
from a well-rehearsed script. Lois, on the other hand, had been the most
genuine human being he'd ever known. What you saw was what you got.

Morrison watched Streak hurry into the bathroom holding his groin like a
little kid. A moment later the sound of urine splashing against the side
of the toilet bowl drifted through the door. His mind still on Lois,
Morrison leaned back against the wall, turned toward the living room and
looked past Lefevre, who had taken a seat on one of the couches.

The living room made the actor think of a place he and Lois had rented
one winter in the Bahamas. But in the same sense that he couldn't figure
out why Denise Lefevre always made him think of his wife, he couldn't
understand why this underground dwelling brought that Caribbean beach
house to mind. The floor plan was completely different, and the
furniture in the Bahamas had been those big basket-looking tables and
chair. There was a name for them and Lois could always remember it when
he couldn't.

Morrison felt himself frowning again as he continued to stare into the
living room. Distantly he heard the toilet flush, then the water in the
sink began to run. A voice to his side said, "Don't waste your time even
thinking about it, pops."

The voice jolted the cowboy actor from his reverie. He turned to see
Hubert Spaak grinning at him, and suddenly realized, with considerable
embarrassment, that Spaak thought his gaze had been directed at Denise.

Morrison started to speak, but Spaak gave him an all-knowing
we're-both-men-of-the-world look and nodded toward the living room.
"I've got that one all sewed up," Spaak said. "Just a matter of time
before I've got her spread across the bed in there." He glanced toward
the larger of the two bedrooms, then looked back and showed Morrison all
of his perfectly capped teeth. "Want to lay a little money down on how
long it takes me?" He chuckled vulgarly.

Morrison's eyes narrowed as he looked at the pathetically shallow young
movie star. "You've got a lot to learn, kid," he said softly.

Spaak threw back his head and the chuckle turned to a cackle. "Maybe,"
he said. "But not from a second-rate B-movie has-been."

The door opened and Streak walked into the hall. Spaak turned and
disappeared into the bathroom. A few minutes later the toilet flushed,
then the door opened and Spaak strutted out.

"I can think of at least one thing you could learn from a has-been like
me," Morrison said as he pushed past the man.

"Yeah, pops? What's that?" Spaak asked, laughing.

"To wash your hands after you use the bathroom." Morrison closed the
door as the smirk fell from Spaak's face.

Finishing his business, Morrison washed his hands, dried them on the
towel hanging next to the sink and opened the door.

A deathlike quiet had crept over the house. Morrison noticed it as soon
as he stepped out into the hall. Moving silently along the carpet, he
turned the corner into the living room and saw the others frozen to
their seats. Their gazes were locked on to the ceiling of the
underground living room.

From overhead came footsteps and muffled voices.

The aging cowboy kicked himself mentally. Earlier in the day he'd been
reading a poorly written Western novel and suddenly wondered if someone
on top would be able to hear the toilet flush. He'd made a mental note
to tell the others that a quick check through the periscope should
precede all bathroom visits.

Then the novel had put him to sleep in his chair, and he'd forgotten all
about it. Until now.

Holding his index finger to his lips, Morrison moved back into the
hallway and slowly opened the door to the utility closet. He leaned into
the periscope, closing one eye.

In the tiny mirror, he saw two men. Both were black, and both wore the
worn and faded green BDUS of the Tutsi-controlled army. Assault rifles
were slung over their shoulders.

He started to turn the periscope, then decided against it. He didn't
know exactly where the periscope came out of the ground, and even that
slight movement might be seen. Besides, he knew all he needed to know.

Armed men were directly above them, and it didn't matter how many. Even
two were too many for the fourteen rounds of weak bird shot that still
remained in his single-action Peacemakers and the loops on his Buscadero
rig.

By the time Morrison got back to the living room, Denise Lefevre was
standing in front of Streak. "You must go to the door and try to hear!"
she whispered, grasping both his shoulders. "You're the only one who
understands the language. You must see if you can understand what they
are saying!"

Streak sat frozen in an overstuffed easy chair, his hands like frozen
claws on the arms. He didn't move.

Spaak rose suddenly and stepped between Streak and Lefevre. "Get up! Get
your ass up to that door and find out what they know!"

When Streak didn't move, Spaak glanced at Lefevre, then slapped the
makeup artist across the face.

Tears began to flow down Streak's cheeks. His chest heaved from both
fear and humiliation, but his fingers still gripped the chair.

Spaak's open hand moved back again.

Morrison stepped in behind Spaak and caught the arm before it could
strike again. Spaak spun toward him, his other hand balling into a fist.

Morrison shook his head. "That's enough."

Spaak stared at him, his eyes fiery with rage. Then his fist relaxed and
he turned to spit on the floor.

The cowboy actor moved in and leaned over the man in the chair.
"Streak," he whispered. "Streak!"

The terrified man looked up.

"We need your help, pard. Denise is right. You're the only one who knows
the lingo." He paused, took the man's frail arm and pulled him gently to
his feet. Still holding the arm, Morrison guided Streak across the
living room and up the steps to the door. "It'll be all right if we're
quiet," he whispered. "It'll be all right, Streak."

The two men stopped just below the door. The makeup artist stretched
upward, twisting his neck and pressing his ear against the door. For
several minutes Morrison waited, then he heard the sound of footsteps
fade away.

Streak was still shaking when he turned to the aging cowboy. The older
man shook his head, held his finger to his lips again, then guided the
makeup man back down the stairs.

By the time hey returned to the living room, Streak could speak again.
He dropped into the same chair he'd been in before, looked at the floor,
then up again. "I've got some good news and some bad news," he whispered
as if the men were still directly above them. "The good news is, they've
left."

Morrison, Lefevre and Spaak waited in silence.

"The bad news," Streak finally said, "is that they heard the toilet.
They're coming back with more men ... and a metal detector."

Scattared gunshots exploded in the distance as Bolan, Walters and
Ukewere left the bar. Two blocks down from where the Yugo was parked,
the Executioner saw a young man slam a brick through a window.

A moment later he and a dozen other young men began carrying boxes out
of the store like a well-organized army of ants.

Bolan slid behind the wheel again and pulled the vehicle out onto
Travail. "You don't happen to have a plane handy?" he asked Walters,
knowing the answer before he asked.

The mercenary shook his head. "I can get one, though," he said. "Give me
a day, two, tops-"

"I can have one this afternoon," Ukewere said from the backseat as he
lit another cigar. "But it will be very expensive."

"We don't have time for either," Bolan said as he angled around the
corner toward Commerce. "Is there a shuttle from Kigali to Cyangugu?"

Walters nodded. "Air Rwanda goes to Kamembe, which is close by. But
there's no guarantee they'll be operating." As if to prove his point,
another shot rang out in the distance. The merc patted his .45s. "And
there'll be metal detectors."

Bolan nodded, silently wishing that he'd brought along Jack Grimaldi,
the ace pilot from Stony Man Farm. But Grimaldi was currently tied up
with Phoenix Force, and even if he hadn't been, the mission the
Executioner had undertaken was in direct violation of a presidential
order. The fewer people he pulled out on the limb with him, the better.

The warrior followed a curve in the road past Place de l'unite Nationale
and onto Boulevard de loa, starting toward the airport.

Behind the Executioner, Ukewere cleared his throat. "We'll be going past
the Umagnanura restaurant," he said. "You can just pay me and let me out
there."

Bolan shook his head. "Not on a bet."

"What do you mean?" Ukewere said. "I've done my part. Karsimbi will tell
you where Rukanwe is."

"Maybe," the warrior said, speeding up to pass a slow-moving panel van.
To the side of the road, he saw a band of roving youths carrying
captured submachine guns. "But the deal was, you stick with us until
we've found Rukanwe."

The little man shot forward, sticking his head over the seat.
"Bullshit!" he cried. "The deal didn't include chasing down somebody
like Zaid Karsimbi. You know who he is?"

Bolan shrugged. "I take it he's a coffee and tea exporter and runs some
drugs as a sideline."

"Yeah, but it's one hell of a sideline. Khat isn't all he's involved in.
Believe it or not, there are a few people in this country who can afford
heroin and cocaine--at least crack. Karsimbi's behind it all."

When the Executioner didn't answer, Ukewere turned to Walters. "Tell
him, Tater," he demanded.

Walters looked at Bolan and shrugged. "He's right. Karsimbi looks
respectable enough on the surface, but to those in the know, he's the
local Mafia. The little bastard's a candy-ass himself, but he's got some
mean mothers working for him. Anything else you want me to tell him,
Sal?" he asked with only a trace of sarcasm.

"Yeah, you can tell him that if we go see Karsimbi he'll have us all
killed."

Walters chuckled. "I can do that, Sal, but I don't get the feeling it'll
change his mind." He turned back to Bolan and said, "He wants me to tell
you that if we go see-"

"I heard him," the Executioner said. He turned onto the road leading to
the airport. "We're going to see him, anyway."

Walters looked back at Ukewere and shrugged again, then faced the front
as they neared the remains of a burned-out motel.

"Wrong," Ukewere said. "You're crazy and I'm not going." He paused, then
said, "Let me out here."

Bolan pulled into the motel parking lot and stopped. Ukewere waited a
good thirty seconds, then said, "Well?"

"Well what?" Bolan asked.

"I want my money."

"Then you'll have to earn it," the Executioner replied.

"Dammit, Collier!" Ukewere said. "I'm not going!"

"Then you aren't getting paid."

Ukewere looked around exasperated, then pounded his fists on the top of
the seat. "Okay," he said in frustration. "I offered to give you
information to get you started for a thousand dollars. You said two
thousand if I stayed with you."

"That's right," Bolan agreed.

"I've got you started. Just give me the thousand and I'll be on my way."

"That wasn't the deal."

Ukewere threw himself backward against the seat and cut loose with
another string of Kinyarwanda curses that Bolan didn't have to
understand to grasp the intent.

Walters looked at the Executioner. "I won't translate directly, but he's
being extremely creative in what he'd like to see happen between you and
several large jungle animals."

Bolan laughed and turned to drape his arm over the seat. By now Ukewere
had quieted and sat pouting. "You getting out or staying?" the
Executioner asked.

The African took a deep breath. "Let's go."

The warrior threw the Yugo back in gear and pulled out of the parking
lot. A few minutes later he turned into the lot next to the terminal.
One look at the front door told him that Air Rwanda wouldn't be keeping
to its schedule this day. A riot had broken out, with some men and women
scurrying out of the terminal while others traded punches along the
sidewalk.

Cutting the wheel toward the landing strips, Bolan cruised along the
runway until he saw an open hangar in the distance. A white man in a
bright yellow shirt and white slacks was pulling what looked like a
Beechcraft Baron out the front door.

Hitting the accelerator, the Executioner sped toward the hangar.

"We doing what I think we're doing?" Walters asked.

Bolan nodded. "Don't kill him."

The Executioner screeched the Yugo to a halt next to the Beechcraft and
leaped out, the Smith & Wesson 629 extended in his hand.

The man in the yellow shirt froze. His hands rose into the air without
his being told. "Don't shoot!" he said in a clipped British accent.
"I've got room for you all."

Bolan realized that like so many others in Rwanda, visitor and native
alike, this man just wanted out of the country. And he assumed that was
what the three men in the Yugo wanted, too.

Dropping the .44 Magnum gun to arm's length, he smiled. "Then get her
warmed up."

As the riot in front of the terminal grew and the Beechcraft's engines
purred, the Executioner learned that the pilot was originally from
Southampton, England, but had been living in South Africa for the past
several years. His name was Bradfordson.

"Call me Art," Bradfordson said.

Ten minutes later Bolan, Walters and Ukewere climbed aboard the
Beechcraft Baron and strapped themselves into their seats.

Bradfordson pulled a brown leather bomber hat over his head and buckled
the chin strap. "Off we go, chappies," he said as the Beechcraft taxied
forward. "We'll be away from this nonsense and tucked in bed in
Johannesburg by nightfall." He turned to Bolan next to him and exhibited
a toothy grin. "Yanks, I assume?" he said. "Except for the Twa, of
course."

The Executioner nodded.

Bradfordson guided the plane into the air, leveled it off a few hundred
feet above the ground, then extended his hand across the seat. "Always
happy to help out fellow travelers."

Bolan shook his hand.

"You blokes ever been to South Africa?" Bradfordson asked over the roar
of the engines.

The Executioner nodded. "Once or twice."

Bradfordson pulled a scratched brier pipe and a leather pouch from the
pocket of his white slacks, stuck the pipe in his mouth and began to
fill it with tobacco. "Well, a hundred quid say I'll be taking you to
some spots tonight you've never found in your tourist brochures."

The Executioner smiled. He liked Bradfordson. "I'd take that bet," he
said, "but it wouldn't be fair. We aren't going to Johannesburg. At
least not tonight. Tonight we'll be in Cyangugu."

Bradfordson dipped a Wing, turning the Beechcraft due south. He turned
to Bolan as the Executioner opened his jacket to expose the big
stainless-steel revolver in the shoulder holster.

The Briton frowned as he turned in his seat, looked down at the .44
Magnum weapon, then up at the Executioner. Then the frown disappeared,
he shrugged and said, "Cyangugu it is, then, mates!"

A moment later the Beechcraft Baron had angled to the southwest.

SAL UKEWERE RENEWED his campaign to get out of going to see Karsimbi,
switching tactics as the plane began to descend over Cyangugu. "You
don't need me," he said. "I'll just be in the way. If you don't want to
pay me now, I'll wait here with the plane."

Bolan turned in his seat and shook his head. "No, Sal. I think you'd
better come with us."

"Why? I can't help you."

"Maybe I just like your company," the Executioner said. "But on the
other hand, I suspect that if I let you out of my sight I won't see you
again."

Turning to Bradfordson, the Executioner asked, "You know this area very
well?"

The pilot shrugged. "Fairly."

"I don't want to land at the airport," the Executioner said. "Is there a
strip of flat land anywhere close to town where we could set her down?"

Bradfordson frowned. "I've never tried it before, but there is a band of
land just to the south that I suspect will serve our purposes."

He turned to the Executioner and smiled.

Bolan suppressed his own grin. It had become apparent that while the man
was still a little frightened of what was happening to him, he was
getting off on the adventure of it all, as well. The warrior had learned
more about the Briton during the flight from Kigali.

Bradfordson came from old London money, and although he spoke of
businesses in Pretoria, Cape Town and Johannesburg, Bolan had read
between the lines. Bradfordson was pretty much an international playboy
whose main occupation was safari hunting and hanging out in the more
colorful bars up and down the continent. His business ventures seemed
simply to justify a certain guilt complex for being born with no actual
need to work.

"You don't understand what it's like," Ukewere whispered.

The Executioner turned back to the African. The little man was staring
at his feet, his face looking crestfallen. "Okay, Sal," Bolan said,
sighing. "What is it I don't understand?"

Ukewere looked up. "You don't understand what it's like to be little."

"No," Bolan said. "I guess I don't. I can't imagine what it's like to be
little--either physically or emotionally. But there's one thing I do
understand that I don't think you know I do, Sal."

Ukewere's eyes widened slightly. "What?"

"That the Belgian theater troupe we're looking for aren't the only
professional actors in Rwanda." Pausing to let it sink in, the
Executioner went on. "Sal, cut the crap with me. I don't buy it." He
looked out the window again and saw a flat stretch of grassland a
hundred feet below the descending Beechcraft. "And like I said, being
small in stature doesn't give you the right to be a small person, if you
get my drift."

Ukewere exploded as the wheels hit the grass. "You son of a bitch!" he
shouted. "You think you're so damn smart! You think you can see through
anything, don't you?"

Bolan shrugged. "Weak and transparent con jobs have never been a
problem." He turned back to the front, watching the African in the
mirror attached to the visor.

Fiery daggers shot from Ukewere's eyes into the back of Bolan's skull.
"Fuck you!" he cried. "Just fuck you!" He drew a deep breath that
threatened to pop the buttons off his shirt. "Let me tell you something,
Mr. Six-foot-whatever and Two-hundred Pounds. You don't know what it's
like to be a Twa in Rwanda. You don't know what it's like to come home
one day and find that soldiers have cut your whole family to pieces with
machetes, either!" His mouth clamped shut suddenly as if he'd revealed
something he hadn't meant to.

The words hit the Executioner hard. His mind shot back over the years,
to the home in which he'd grown up. Suddenly he was standing in the
living room again, in the uniform of a U.S. Army Special Forces
sergeant. And the bloodstains were still on the carpet.

Turning to face Sal Ukewere, Bolan looked into the man's hate-filled
eyes. "You're right," he said. "My father, mother and little sister had
been dead two days by the time I got there. Their bodies had already
been removed."

Ukewere's lower lip dropped open. "Murdered? Your family, too?"

Bolan nodded.

Distrust entered the man's eyes. "You're just saying that."

Bolan continued to stare at Ukewere. "I wish I were," he said .

By now the Beechcraft had taxied to a halt. The Executioner felt
Walters's and Bradfordson's eyes on him as an uneasy silence fell over
the cabin of the aircraft.

The Executioner turned back to the front of the plane, took a deep
breath, then opened the door. "Let's go," he said. "We've got work to
do."

Tater Walters adjusted the twin .45 Government Model pistols against his
kidneys as he stepped down from the Beechcraft. The white-haired
mercenary fell in behind Ukewere and Bradfordson. The man who called
himself Collier led them across the grass toward the cracked asphalt
they'd seen from the air. The road was thick with slow-walking
pedestrians on their way to the refugee camp in Bukavu. They were Hutus
mainly, since at least for the moment the Tutsis were taking their turn
in Rwanda's driver's seat. He hadn't seen any cars or trucks on the
road, and if there were any, they'd be heading in the wrong direction.

The aging mercenary grinned. That meant either a march or double time
over the two miles between them and the city. Which was fine with him.
He'd kept in good shape over the years and could still outrun most men
half his age.

Bolan stopped at the edge of the asphalt and looked both ways. Walters
followed his gaze. Scattered along both sides of the road were groups of
emaciated Hutus trudging away from the city in the hope of reaching the
border before starvation, dehydration or Tutsi troops cut them down.

The big man turned to face Walters. "Any chance of a car coming by on
its way in?" he asked, nodding toward Cyangugu.

Walters shrugged. "It's unlikely. Everybody who's out wants to go the
other way. And even if something comes by, they aren't going to stop for
guys who look like us."

Bolan's jaw set tight as he nodded his understanding.

A man, woman and three children limped up to them, and the four men
stepped out of their way to let them pass. The family didn't seem to
notice as they plodded on with transfixed eyes.

The Executioner glanced from Bradfordson to Ukewere, then back to
Walters. "Then we'll have to hoof it," he said. "Bring up the rear,
Tater. Make sure these two keep up."

Walters nodded and fell back behind Bradfordson and Ukewere.

Bolan turned his back and broke into a jog.

Walters followed Bradfordson and Ukewere as they began trotting along
the grassy shoulder of the road. They zigzagged around more groups of
fleeing refugees as they ran, the hot sun beating down unmercifully.
They hadn't gone a hundred yards before sweat broke out on the
white-haired merc's forehead. He watched Ukewere's short legs driving
forward like pistons, and the sight brought another grin across his
wrinkled features. The Twa could run better than he'd have guessed, even
if his small legs had to take two steps for every one Bradfordson took
beside him.

A few drops of sweat rolled through Walters's eyebrows and fell down his
face. He wiped the back of his arm across his forehead as he ran,
feeling himself fall into the steady, easy lope that meant his aging
muscles were starting to warm up. He'd known Collier only a few short
hours now, but he knew him well. He'd known many like him over the
years.

No, he didn't know the details of John Collier's life, but he could
guess. Military experience, definitely. It was hard to tell exactly how
old he was, because like Walters himself, he kept fit. But he suspected
Collier had done a tour or two in the Nam, and from the confidence the
big man exuded, Special Forces was a likely possibility. Collier was a
loner by nature--independent as hell--that was obvious. Which meant he'd
more than likely specialized in demo work or been a sniper. Yeah, he
could picture that. Imagining Collier moving silently through the bush
with a scoped M-14, his face streaked with combat cosmetics, wasn't
hard. It fit.

Ahead, Walters could hear Bradfordson breathing harder. They'd covered
about a half mile so far, and it was obvious the playboy Briton spent
more time in bars than he did at the gym. But Collier had increased the
pace considerably after the first quarter mile, and Bradfordson wasn't
really doing all that bad.

It was Ukewere who surprised him. The little man's legs were still
flashing steadily along, his short arms moving back and forth. He was
breathing easily around the unlit cigar in his teeth, while Walters
would have guessed he'd have passed out alongside the road by now.

The white-haired merc looked up again as Collier cut around a half dozen
ragtag Hutus hobbling along the roadway. The big man didn't even break
stride, and Ukewere and Bradfordson followed his lead. Walters cut over
behind them.

What would a man like Collier have done after Vietnam? Walters wondered.
Maybe like Walters himself, he'd been recruited by the CIA. Hell, he
might still be with them. Maybe this rescue was a Company deal.

More sweat dripped from his brows into his eyes, and Walters ran his arm
across his face, blinking. No, Brognola was his contact, and Brognola
was with the Justice Department. And somehow he couldn't see Collier as
a trench-coat spook. The tight-assed politician supervisors in their
ties and suits would have had even more trouble controlling the big man
than they'd had keeping tabs on Walters.

Was Collier an independent merc? Maybe. A distinct possibility. He still
had the bearing of a soldier. But if he'd hit the mercenary trail,
Walters suspected that John Collier would have been one of the "picky"
ones, accepting assignments only from benefactors whom he agreed with
politically.

Walters ran on. And what was that about the big man's family?

They'd been murdered? Knowing the kind of man Collier was, he suspected
those murders hadn't gone unavenged. That whole deal had him curious as
hell, but he had no intention of asking about it. It was the kind of
thing a man talked about if, and when, he wanted to, and Collier wasn't
the type who'd need any half-assed, politically correct touchy-feely
support group.

The runners started up a long rolling hill, and Bradfordson began to
fall back. Walters slowed as Ukewere moved on. Fifty yards ahead, near
the top of the rise now, the white-haired merc could see Collier still
running at what looked like a leisurely pace.

Bradfordson dropped back next to him, his chest heaving for air. Walters
grinned again. "Getting tired, Art?" he asked.

The Briton glanced to his side. His face had turned bright crimson and
the veins pulsating at his temples threatened to burst. "Bloody ... well
... am," he whispered between pants.

Running side by side, the two men reached the crest and the city of
Cyangugu appeared a quarter mile away. Bradfordson groaned. "I was
hoping we'd ... be there ..." he gasped.

"We're close now," Walters said.

"or ...  at least ... there'd be a ... trolley!" Bradfordson puffed.

A good hundred yards ahead of them now, Walters saw Collier glance over
his shoulder, then slow to a walk. He turned and walked back to meet
Ukewere.

Walters had to decrease his pace again to keep from leaving Bradfordson
behind as they neared their leader. Then suddenly the Briton had had
enough, and he stopped in his tracks, bending over at the waist with his
hands on his knees.

"Stand up," Walters ordered. "Give your lungs some room to expand."

Bradfordson struggled to an upright position, looking for all the world
as if a heart attack was imminent.

Walters had to suppress the chuckle of satisfaction that threatened to
burst from his chest. The Briton couldn't be more than thirty-five years
old, tops. Taking Bradfordson's elbow, the merc led him forward.

Ukewere was even more pleased than Walters to see Bradfordson's
condition. Unlike Walters, however, he made no attempt to hide it. "Too
much beer," the African said happily as he and Bolan strode up to meet
them.

Bradfordson nodded his agreement. "And too little squash, I'm afraid,"
he added as his breathing returned to normal.

Walters saw Collier eyeing the man carefully. He suspected that his
fellow American had used the run for more than just a way to get into
Cyangugu. Collier now knew just what kind of physical condition all
three of them were in, knew what he could expect if that conditioning
was put to the test. Which confirmed another suspicion Tater Walters had
about John Collier.

The man wasn't just big, strong, tough and good with a gun. He was
smart.

"We'll keep the pace down the rest of the way in," Bolan said. "As soon
as we can, we'll pick up some wheels." He turned and broke into an easy
jog. Ukewere followed, and with a quiet moan, Bradfordson fell in
behind.

Still bringing up the rear, Walters watched Collier and Ukewere running
side by side. What a contrast, he thought. And the differences weren't
just physical. Collier, he could tell, was a man with strong moral
convictions, an almost Old West code of right and wrong, and the guts to
live up to his beliefs.

His head a good two feet below that of Collier's as they ran, Sal
Ukewere was almost the direct opposite. Walters had known the man for
almost ten years. He was a self-centered opportunist who practiced the
most vile "situational ethics." He was angry at the world and never
missed an opportunity to cut a taller man down to his size.

Reaching a row of run-down shacks at the edge of the city, Collier
suddenly stopped, then moved off the road toward the houses. At first
Walters thought the big man was stepping out of the way to let yet
another group of Hutus pass.

Then the merc saw the blue-and-tan Isuzu Trooper coming up the road a
quarter mile in front of them.

Bolan hurried to the houses, disappearing between two of the crumbling
structures. Walters grabbed Ukewere and Bradfordson by the arms and
hurried them the same way.

"What's wrong?" Bradfordson panted.

Walters nodded up the road. "Maybe you hadn't noticed," he said, "but
we're the only white faces for about eight hundred miles. The refugees
may be too tired to pay any attention, but whoever's driving the Trooper
won't be."

Shoving the two men between the shacks, Walters circled past them to
Bolan. He followed the big man back to the corner of the house and
peered around to the road.

The Trooper turned down the side street on the other side of the houses.

Bolan moved around to the front, Walters, Ukewere and Bradfordson at his
heels. Staying close to the wall, the big man dropped to one knee when
he reached the corner.

Walters hurried up behind him, stretching his neck past the edge and
following Bolan's gaze. A block and a half down the street, the Trooper
had stopped. The doors of the vehicle opened and three Tutsis dressed in
government army uniforms got out. They all carried Belgian assault
rifles, and as Walters and Bolan watched, one of them brought the
butt-stock around in an arc and smashed it into the face of a passing
Hutu.

The white-haired merc glanced to his side and saw his companion's eyes
narrow. He didn't have to be told what they were about to do next.

From his vantage point between the two shanties, the Executioner watched
the Isuzu Trooper turn the corner before disappearing around the other
side of the house. He moved quickly into the packed dirt that made up
the front yard, then sprinted to the next corner, Walters to his rear.

The Trooper came to a halt in front of a one-story frame house in
slightly better shape than the other structures on the street. Except
for a desperate need for new paint, the house looked livable.

The Tutsi soldiers who got out of the Trooper carried FALS, and they
conversed excitedly as they walked up the sidewalk toward the front
door. A lone Hutu chose that moment to cross the grass, and one of the
soldiers--a lean giant close to seven feet tall--paused long enough to
strike him across the face with the stock of his rifle.

The Executioner had seen the haggard Hutu making his way toward the
road. The man had the same dead eyes Bolan had seen on the other Hutus
trying to escape the slaughter. Now his face remained expressionless as
he tumbled to the ground in front of the house--but the numb eyes
closed.

Bolan fought the urge to sprint across the street after the soldier who
had struck the defenseless Hutu. The laughter of the other Tutsis made
it even harder. Taking a deep breath, the warrior reminded himself that
he couldn't save every man, woman and child individually. But somewhere
down the line in his search for Dusty Morrison and the other performers,
an opportunity might arise for him to strike a blow at the enemy that
would help the victims collectively.

And if that opportunity presented itself, the Executioner swore he would
make good use of it.

Bolan watched the Tutsi soldiers mount the steps to the porch. Part of
the problem was figuring out just who the enemy was in Rwanda. The
fighting between the two tribes, the massacres, the near genocide, had
been going on for centuries. Every few years the Hutus and Tutsis traded
sides as oppressed and oppressor, and whoever had the guns at the moment
did their best to wipe out the other tribe. Yet Bolan couldn't believe
that the majority of both tribes would be no different than any other
people in the world: They would be content to "live and let live" if the
terrorist elements of both peoples could be persuaded to stop the
madness and revenge.

He continued to watch as the tallest of the soldiers ripped open the
door and led the others into the house. As things stood now, the Tutsis
were in power, and killing all the Hutus they could round up. When the
Hutus took over sometime in the future, history assured the Executioner
that their leaders would repeat the same atrocities by slaughtering
Tutsis.

Bolan turned to Walters. "Could you make out any of what they said?"

The older man shook his head. "Too far away." He paused. "How we gonna
get across the street?"

The warrior almost smiled. Walters knew exactly what he had planned. The
white-haired merc was proving to be more than an adequate running mate.
Regardless of his age, he was a damn fine soldier, and was almost
reading the Executioner's mind.

"Give it another few seconds," Bolan said. "Then we'll cross low and
take up position behind the Trooper."

Walters nodded. "And them?" he asked, meaning Ukewere and Bradfordson.

Bolan hesitated. Neither man would be much help in what he had planned,
but he needed to keep an eye on them. He didn't think Ukewere would run
on him--at least until the man got his money--but he couldn't be sure.

Bradfordson was a wild card, as well. For a while the British playboy
had appeared to be getting his jollies playing adventurer, but the long
run from the plane had killed some of his enthusiasm. If he got away
from them now, he might go to the authorities.

Bolan took a final glance at both the African and the Briton. "Bring
them with you," he told Walters, then turned back to the house across
the street.

The Executioner led the way across the pit-filled road on all fours,
scrambling to a squatting position with his eyes just over the Trooper's
front window.

The Tutsis had disappeared inside the house, and the sounds of a scuffle
echoed out the front door.

Walters moved in next to Bolan and peered through the car's back window.
Ukewere and Bradfordson fell to sitting positions on the merc's other
side. "Any idea who lives here?" the warrior whispered.

The merc shook his head, then almost immediately said, "Oh, shit."

Bolan looked back at the house. Two of the soldiers were dragging a
bruised and bleeding man in his early thirties down the steps toward the
Trooper.

The Executioner drew the revolver from under his arm.

"That's James Nyungwe," Walters said under his breath. "Hutu
rabble-rouser. Half patriot, half terrorist, and not long for this
world, the way it looks."

A high-pitched scream came from inside the house, followed by gruff
laughter. On the other side of the car Nyungwe cried out with a mixture
of anger, hatred and frustration.

Walters and Bolan both dropped lower as the Tutsis dragged their
prisoner to the Trooper. The merc turned to face the Executioner as he
drew both of the .45s from his belt. "That scream would be Nyungwe's
wife," he whispered. "She's even more famous than he is. Masai, from
Kenya. Used to be a fashion model in Europe, and one good-looking lady."

Bolan had no doubt now what her scream meant. He listened as the back
door of the Trooper opened and Nyungwe was thrown inside. A brief but
heated argument followed. Even though he couldn't understand the
language, Bolan knew what it was about.

One soldier was already busy with Nyungwe's wife. Both these men wanted
to be second.

A moment later the angry voices stopped, and footsteps hurried away from
the vehicle.

Bolan waited until he heard the front door of the house open and close
again, gave it a count of ten, then rose and extended the .44 Magnum
revolver through the open driver's-side window. The barrel stabbed into
the cheek of a man sitting on the other side of the vehicle. "Don't
move," the Executioner growled.

The soldier's eyes opened wide in horror. Whether he could understand
English, Bolan didn't know. But he definitely got the gist of what the
Executioner had said.

Walters opened the back-seat door, slid in next to Nyungwe and aimed the
barrels of both Government Model pistols over the seat.

Bolan pulled his arm back out of the window. "Get in the front seat and
get this thing running," he told Walters, then turned to Ukewere and
Bradfordson.

"You two get in and be ready to move out."

Walters got back out of the Trooper but glanced in again at Nyungwe.
"You want the cuffs to stay on?" he asked Bolan.

"You said half terrorist, didn't you?"

The merc nodded.

Bolan studied the older man's face. Tater Walters was proving his
professionalism at every turn, and the Executioner had grown to value
his opinion and insight. Walters had also been in Rwanda a long time and
knew Nyungwe by reputation, if not personally.

"You trust him?" Bolan asked.

"Hell no."

"Then there's your answer."

Walters exited the backseat and moved behind the wheel. Bradfordson
circled the car to take the shotgun seat, and Ukewere slid in the back
next to Nyungwe.

As he sprinted across the packed dirt toward the front door of the
house, the Executioner heard Nyungwe's wife scream again.

Three steps led to the small porch in front of the door.

The rotted wood of the first two cracked like rifle shots as Bolan's
feet hit them. The third collapsed completely under his weight.

The warrior felt the sharp slivers of wood shred through his sock as his
calf plummeted down through the hole. He reached out, catching his
balance on the edge of the porch, and jerked his foot free. leaping up
the steps, he burst through the open door into a small living area.

What little furniture the house contained had been covered with ragged
white sheets. Cardboard boxes, their flaps taped to conceal the
contents, had been stacked against the wall.

Another scream, from the rear of the house, was cut off suddenly and
replaced by a low, guttural laugh.

With the .44 Magnum revolver leading the way, Bolan followed the sound
down a short hallway past the open door to a bathroom, dipping a
shoulder as he turned into the bedroom. Before him, he saw a bare
mattress on the floor against the wall. On her back, her long lean legs
bare and kicking the air, lay a black woman. Ocher-dyed, mud held her
hair in place in the tradition of the Masai, and enormous gold earrings
hung from her ears.

On top of her, his knees pinning her shoulders to the mattress while his
hands fought to catch her flailing wrists, was one of the Tutsi soldiers
Bolan had seen enter the house. The other, a short and pudgy man by
Tutsi standards, wore an OD soda-jerk cap and stood to one side of the
mattress. He had already unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants.

The shorter man looked up in surprise as the Executioner burst into the
room. His right hand grabbed at the holstered revolver at his side, but
as his fingers released his trousers the weight of the weapon jerked
them down to his knees.

The Tutsi's hand groped air where the gun had been a moment before.

Bolan raised the S&W, double-actioning a quick pair of Magnum rounds
that threatened to deafen everyone in the room. The hollowpoints blew
through the sternum of the would-be rapist and took half of his spine
with them as they exited his back.

The Executioner turned toward the mattress, where the other man had
released the woman's wrists. The Tutsi had unsnapped the flap holster on
his belt and gotten a grip on his pistol, but as he brought the Weapon
into play, the woman reached up and slapped at his hand.

The barrel of the weapon moved no more than an inch. But an inch for the
barrel translated into a good six feet as the round crossed the room to
sail harmlessly by the Executioner and into the wall.

Bolan squeezed the trigger again and the Smith jumped in his hand.
Another 240-grain hollow point exploded from the revolver and drilled
into the Tutsi's left lung, blood flying from both his chest and back.
The force of the round threw the man against the wall, where he hung for
a moment before slowly sinking to the floor.

The woman on the mattress looked up at the Executioner as she pulled her
short skirt down around her shapely thighs. Bolan broke the revolver
open, dumped the remaining rounds into the side pocket of his jacket and
dropped a speed-loader into the cylinder.

The woman rose to her feet, her expression a mixture of fear, relief and
curiosity. She spoke in Kinyarwanda, and when Bolan shook his head,
switched to French. "Who are you?" she asked.

The Executioner answered in the same language. "The guy you're leaving
with. Unless you want to wait around for more of these guys to show up."

The woman faced him now. Her legs apart, hands on her hips, she stared
defiantly up into his eyes. "Is Jim with you?" she demanded. "James
Nyungwe. I'm not going with you unless my husband's all right."

"He's in the car with a friend of mine," Bolan said. "Come on."

He took the woman's arm, leading her out of the room, down the hall and
out the door.

They had made it to the front porch when the second Isuzu Trooper
squealed into the front yard.

The barrel of an assault rifle stabbed out the passenger's-side window,
aimed at the vehicle where Walters, Ukewere, Bradfordson and Nyungwe
sat. Bolan could see two more uniformed men in the backseat of the
approaching vehicle.

A burst of automatic rifle fire rang out, and Bolan heard a moan from
inside Walters's vehicle. Raising the S&W to eye level, he lined up the
sights.

The .44 Magnum revolver exploded once, and the Tutsi driving the second
Trooper slumped forward over the wheel. Bolan aimed through the gap
between the man's back and the seat, double-actioning another round that
sent the assault rifle falling from the other side of the Trooper to the
ground.

A volley of rounds burst from the backseat of the vehicle, peppering the
front porch. The Executioner grabbed the woman, pulling her to the
ground and rolling over her. As he fell, he heard the distinct sound of
.45 fire from Walters's Government Models.

The S&W jumped in Bolan's hand again as he hit the ground on top of
Nyungwe's wife. He had snapped the round more as cover than defense, and
it struck the post behind the back seat of the Trooper. Taking his time
now, Bolan centered the red-ramp front site between the white outline on
the rear notch and squeezed once more.

As the hammer traveled back, he heard another double tap of .45s explode
from Walters's position. The .45ACPS and .44 Magnum rounds teamed up,
taking out both of the Tutsis in the backseat of the Trooper. As the
trio of roars died down, the Executioner heard a car door open as he
leaped to his feet, jerking the woman up with him. The big .44 revolver
still at the ready, he looked across the yard to see the rear door of
the first Isuzu standing open.

Twenty yards beyond the vehicle, Sal Ukewere's legs were propelling him
down the street as fast as they could.

Bolan pulled the woman down the steps to the yard and across the dirt
toward the Trooper. Walters was leaning in the open door, and as Bolan
and Mrs. Nyungwe approached, the merc turned and shook his head.

The warrior looked past the white-haired man to where James Nyungwe sat,
his hands cuffed behind his back, staring blindly ahead. The bullet had
entered just below the man's nose.

Those dead eyes were all that was left of his face.

Dusty Morrison moved quietly around a curve in the narrow jungle trail,
as he led his companions through the Rugege Forest.

The aging Western star stepped over a mud puddle, shoved a branch in
front of him and stepped past it. Then, ever so carefully, he eased the
branch back into place, dropping both hands to the stag grips of the
twin Colt Peacemaker guns on his hips. He had reloaded the half-empty
single-action revolvers before they left their violated sanctuary, and
both carried five rounds of bird shot with the hammers resting on an
empty chamber for safety. That left only four rounds in the loops of the
Buscadero rig.

Fourteen shots total, if he had to shoot. But the bird shot was weak and
would have little effect on a man unless fired almost point-blank.

Behind him, the Western star heard a loud crack as a branch snapped
under someone's foot. Turning, he saw Spaak round the curve. The man
glared at him briefly, then averted his eyes as he jumped over the
puddle.

The cowboy caught his breath. He and Spaak had engaged in a short
argument right after the Tutsi Soldiers' departure from the underground
house. Morrison had insisted that they quickly pack what they could
carry and get out of there before the men returned. Spaak had argued
that they were safer staying put, that the soldiers probably wouldn't
return, and if they did, they would never find the door.

Streak's insistence that the men had heard the toilet flush, and
Morrison's argument that the men were probably smart enough to know that
toilets didn't grow on trees in the middle of the Rugege Forest, hadn't
seemed to matter to Spaak. He'd also chosen to ignore the fact that
they'd said they were bringing a metal detector back with them.

The disagreement had ended when Morrison told the others that he was
leaving, and that anyone who wanted to come was welcome. Neither Lefevre
nor Streak had hesitated, and Dusty Morrison had thereby been elected
leader of the group, a position Hubert Spaak wanted, if for no other
reason than to promote himself in Lefevre's eyes.

Morrison waited as Spaak pushed past the outstretched branch and stopped
next to him, turning his back. The egotistical horse's ass wasn't going
to forgive him. But maybe it wasn't entirely the kid's fault. The
Western star suspected the ability to forgive wasn't in the young man's
psychological makeup any more than any number of other normal human
virtues.

Lefevre and Streak appeared around the curve and stopped in front of the
puddle as if it were the size of the Atlantic. Then Streak turned around
and retreated several steps before turning back again. With a determined
look on his face, he sprinted forward and jumped.

The makeup artist's feet hit the puddle three-fourths of the way across,
slipped out from under him and sent him splashing to his back in a
flurry of flying mud and dirty water.

The actress screamed as mud splattered over her. Cursing under her
breath, she wiped it from her eyes, then trudged through the puddle to
help Streak to his feet.

Morrison waited until they'd joined him and Spaak, then whispered,
"Listen, we've got to be more quiet. We can't be over a hundred yards
from the house, and when they come back-" As if to finish the sentence
for him, the sound of someone nearby drifted through the trees from the
direction of the underground house.

The four escapees froze in their tracks. Morrison's right hand fell
involuntarily to the Colts, and he turned to the makeup artist. "Listen
close, Streak," he said so low it was almost inaudible. "Can you tell
what they're saying?"

Streak cocked an ear. The Western star held his breath as he waited. He
had done his best to restore the campfire that had camouflaged the door,
replacing the ashes and charred pieces of wood. But he had no idea how
they had lain before. Rukanwe had built the fire after they were already
inside the house, and it was anybody's guess what the remains had looked
like before the trapdoor disrupted them.

If one of the men who had been there earlier noticed the change--and
Morrison couldn't see how anyone but a complete fool could miss it--the
Tutsi troops would find the underground house without needing the metal
detector. When that happened, they'd learn that the actors had vacated
the premises and start to search the forest.

The aging actor knew they couldn't afford to make any noise, but they
couldn't afford to stay close to the house, either. They had to keep
moving, get as far away from the vicinity as possible.

Morrison looked at Lefevre, Streak and Spaak. Could they walk without
alerting the men searching the clearing? So far they'd made more noise
than the elephants Dusty knew were roaming the Rugege Forest.

Turning to the makeup artist again, Morrison whispered in his ear. "Can
you make anything out?"

Streak could barely speak. "They ...  haven't found the door yet," he
murmured, his voice trembling. "But they ... they know who we are."

Morrison nodded. Belgians were at the top of the hit list of both Hutu
and Tutsi, and the acting troupe's country of origin was well-known.
People would have been searching for them from the beginning. And now
they'd been found--at least almost.

Moving silently, his eyes searching the ground before his boots set
down, Morrison moved from Streak to where Lefevre and Spaak now stood.
"We've got to go," he said. "But we have to go slow. Keep your eyes on
the ground, and don't step on anything that might make noise." He
paused, feeling his heart hammer against his chest, then added, "Follow
me."

With that, he set off at a snail's pace, leading his companions into the
jungle.

Bolan looked up in time to see Sal Ukewere duck out of sight between two
houses on the other side of the street. Turning back, he saw that Mrs.
Nyungwe, still behind him, hadn't yet seen her husband. Shifting to
block her view of the backseat, the Executioner looked at Bradfordson.
"We can't stay here," he said. "More troops may be on the way. Art, take
Mrs. Nyungwe and get in the other Trooper."

The woman shook her head violently back and forth. "I want to ride with
my husband," she said, trying to edge around Bolan. "Jim ... Jim's my
..."

The Executioner shoved her away. "Tater, help Art get her loaded, then
come back and drive this vehicle. Both of you meet me a mile south of
here."

"When?" Walters asked.

Bolan shrugged. "As soon as I catch Sal." He turned and sprinted down
the street, cutting between the same two shacks where Ukewere had
disappeared. A small chicken house sat at the rear of the property, the
birds eaten long ago by their starving owners. Bolan moved to the coop,
stepped over the short fence and checked inside. Empty.

An open field, roughly a quarter-mile square, lay directly behind the
houses at the edge of Cyangugu. In the distance the warrior saw what
appeared to be a coffee plantation. He moved from the chicken house to
the edge of the field, his eyes scanning the ground for tracks.

He found them. More than he wanted. Hundreds if not thousands of feet
had trampled the grass and weeds recently. Hutus fleeing to the
Rwanda-Zaire border had obviously cut across the field.

Bolan turned back to the row of dilapidated houses behind him. Unless
Ukewere had ducked inside the back door of one of the crumbling
structures, the little man was crouched somewhere in the tall grass of
the field. The Executioner had paid close attention as Ukewere jogged
from the landing strip into town, and been surprised that the man had
run as well as he had.

But Ukewere wasn't fast enough to have crossed the entire field before
Bolan arrived at the scene, and except for the houses, there was nowhere
else to hide.

The Executioner took a final glance up and down the rear of the shacks.
Unless Ukewere knew someone who lived in one of the structures--an
unlikely possibility--he would have chosen the field.

Breaking into a slow jog, Bolan started across the grass. His keen eyes
swept back and forth across the field in front of him, zeroing in on
anything that looked out of place. He thought for a moment that he'd
found Ukewere beneath a bush, but the gaudy swatch of material he'd
spotted proved to be nothing more than a discarded skirt someone had
abandoned on the way to the border.

Bolan reached the far edge of the field and started back, jogging a
zigzag path this time. Somewhere in the field, Ukewere was lying low,
and even though the warrior hadn't spotted him, Ukewere had more than
likely seen him by now.

Reaching the center of the field, Bolan stopped. He turned a full
360-degree circle, but still saw nothing. For a moment he considered
leaving Ukewere and continuing his search for Morrison without the
African. He had Walters, who knew Rwanda almost as well as Ukewere. But
the operative word was "almost," and the Executioner suspected that
certain avenues of information would be closed to the white man simply
because of the color of his skin. No. He still needed Sal Ukewere.

The Executioner cupped his hands over his mouth. "Sal!" he shouted.
"Sal, I know you're out here somewhere, and sooner or later I'm going to
find you! I know it, and you know it. So you can come out now, or we can
waste a lot of time while I look for you. That will also give more
Tutsis a chance to get here. But one way or the other, Sal, I'm not
leaving without you!"

Bolan dropped his hands to his sides and waited.

Thirty seconds later he saw a clump of grass move fifty yards to his
right. Sal Ukewere rose to his feet and started slowly forward. The
man's clothes and hair were covered with dried grass. Mud stained his
shirt and trousers. As he neared, his expression of guilt changed to one
of anger, and Bolan saw the same deep-seated hatred he'd seen before.

Ten yards away, Ukewere stopped. "If I had a gun, I'd have killed you,"
he snarled.

Bolan turned and started back across the field. "Let's go, Sal. The
others are waiting on us."

BOTH TUTSI ARMY Isuzu Troopers were waiting by the time Bolan and
Ukewere arrived at the remains of what had once been a small post
office. Sometime during the war that never really stopped in Rwanda, a
bomb--maybe Tutsi, maybe Hutu--had taken its toll on the building.
Little but the foundation, a couple of walls and one row of post office
boxes remained .

The Troopers were waiting across the street, their engines running.
Walters sat behind the wheel of the nearer vehicle. Mrs. Nyungwe had
taken the back seat. She stared blankly at the windshield, dried tears
on her face.

Walters got out of the vehicle and walked toward Bolan and Ukewere as
they approached. "She saw him," he said without preamble. "Jumped out as
soon as we parked. I couldn't stop her."

The warrior nodded. Mrs. Nyungwe had been bound to find out that her
husband was dead, but he would have liked to have broken the news more
gently. Seeing James Nyungwe's semifaceless corpse wasn't the way to do
it.

But that was the way things went down sometimes in war, and there was
nothing the Executioner could do to change that fact.

Walking to the Trooper, Bolan got in next to the woman. "I'm sorry," he
said simply. There was nothing else he could say.

She nodded, her eyes closed.

"What's your name?" Bolan asked.

The Masai woman's eyes opened, and she forced a thin smile. "You
couldn't pronounce it if I told you," she said. "To Westerners, I go by
Janet. Janet Nyungwe."

"Janet it is, then." Bolan paused. "I'm Collier." He glanced up the
street. "We've got to get out of here before more of the Tutsi troops
show up."

The woman nodded.

The Executioner leaned forward to speak to Walters, who had returned to
the wheel of the Trooper. "Tater, I'm sending Bradfordson over to ride
with you. I'll take Sal with me. You know any place we can lie low until
this has died down a little?"

Walters's eyebrows lowered in thought. "Not really. Cyangugu isn't my
usual stomping grounds." Janet spoke next to Bolan. "I have a friend,"
she said. "They have a plantation near here. It may not be safe, but it
will be better than anywhere else I can think of."

"Then it'll have to do," Bolan said. "Tater, Janet will give you the
directions. You lead the way." He got out of the backseat, hurried to
the other Trooper, slid behind the wheel and sent Bradfordson back to
Walters. Ukewere got in without a word. A few seconds later both
vehicles pulled out.

Bolan followed Walters as Janet directed them through the neighborhood
of crumbling shacks and huts. Ten minutes later they left Cyangugu for
the road that eventually led to Butare. "Where are we going?" Ukewere
demanded.

"Someplace where we can stay out of sight for a while," Bolan informed
him.

The warrior began to feel uneasy as they passed several vehicles going
the opposite way. Even though the Troopers were unmarked, the drivers
looked nervously through the windows as they passed, obviously
recognizing the vehicles as belonging to the Tutsi-controlled
government. That meant that any Tutsi soldiers they encountered would
recognize the twin Troopers, as well.

Janet directed them past a tea-processing plant, and fields of cotton.
The Troopers maneuvered up and over several long rolling hills, then
Walters's vehicle slowed and turned onto a gravel drive.

Bolan followed the white-haired merc over the bumpy path to a large
colonial-style house a hundred yards off the road. They pulled onto a
circular drive and parked near the front door.

Walters and Janet Nyungwe got out of the lead Trooper, Bolan joining
them on the way to the front porch. Hurrying up the steps, he rammed a
huge brass knocker against the wood several times.

Moments later the door swung open and another startlingly beautiful
black woman in her mid-twenties stood in the opening in a form-fitting
sarong. Gold hoop earrings hung from her earlobes. Her hair was cropped
close to her head, leaving only a short layer of black curls.

She smiled at Janet, then her eyes moved to Bolan. When they got to
Tater Walters, her mouth suddenly dropped open in shock.

"Well, I'll be damned," Walters muttered, his own lower lip falling.

Then the beautiful young woman was in his arms.

"You know each other?" Janet asked in surprise, though Walters and the
woman were too engrossed in each other to hear.

Behind him, the Executioner heard Ukewere and Bradfordson mounting the
steps. Walters and the young woman forced themselves to arm's length and
stared into each other's eyes.

Ukewere stopped in his tracks. "I know you," the man said. "You're-"

Walters's hand snaked out to grab the little man's throat. The aging
mercenary shook his head slightly and glowered at Ukewere.

The woman cleared her throat. "Please come inside," she said. Still
holding Walters's hand, she turned and led them into the house.

The Executioner raised a questioning eyebrow at Janet, who shook her
head and shrugged. They moved through an elaborate living room decorated
in Western style but featuring African art, then passed by a fully
equipped gym. Bolan saw muscle-building machines, a treadmill, two
stationary bikes and a small trampoline.

Emerging into a less formal sitting room, the woman of the house dropped
gracefully into a carved Victorian love seat. She motioned for the
others to sit, as well.

Walters nervously cleared his throat. "Waseme," he said, "this is John
Collier." He nodded toward Bolan, then said, "And Art Bradfordson. Guys,
this is Waseme ... Duke." He paused. "You already know Janet and
Ukewere. Where's Godfrey, Waseme?"

The woman smiled at Bolan. "Godfrey is my husband, Mr. Collier."

She turned back to Walters. "He's in the fields, Tater. So many of our
workers have fled to the border that he is helping pick the cotton
himself." She turned to Janet. "Where is James?"

Janet Nyungwe burst into tears as an answer.

Waseme Duke rose and hurried across the room, taking a seat on the couch
next to the woman and throwing both arms around her. "Oh ... no," she
said as she hugged her friend.

Walters stood suddenly. "Waseme, we ran into a little trouble in
Cyangugu. I know it's a lot to ask with everything that's going on, but
we need a place to lie low. Regroup. We also need to trade you out of
some wheels the government won't recognize. And we need some information
that you may or may not have."

Waseme smiled slightly. "Tater, was there ever a time when you were not
in some kind of trouble?"

Walters chuckled, his gaze softening as he stared at the woman. Bolan
didn't know the story, but the feelings the white-haired merc had for
Waseme were obvious.

Waseme patted Janet on the shoulder and stood. "Perhaps you should move
your cars into the barn where they will not be seen from the road."

Then, looking at Janet, Bradfordson and Ukewere, she said, "We have
plenty of room for as long as you like. I'll have baths run for you and
show you to your rooms."

"Thanks, Waseme," Walters said.

"When have I ever said no to you, Tater?" the woman asked, looking down
as she smoothed her sarong with both hands.

"Waseme, I-I-" Walters stammered.

The woman looked him squarely in the eye. "You don't have to answer
that."

The Executioner had watched the looks that passed between Tater Walters
and Waseme Duke. They were close friends--at least close friends--and
Bolan suspected they had to have once been much more.

Walters led Bolan back through the house and out to the driveway. They
drove the Troopers around the side of the house and through an open barn
door.

"I might as well tell you and get it over with," Walters said as they
walked back toward the house. "You noticed that Waseme and I know each
other pretty well?"

"Well, I'm not blind."

Walters's face suddenly fell. "We used to be engaged."

Bolan didn't answer.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," the white-haired mercenary said. "I'm old enough
to be her father." He paused. "Okay, grandfather."

The Executioner shrugged. "I didn't say anything."

"Well, you couldn't help thinking it. Lord knows, I thought about it
enough." He led the way back up the front steps, then stopped and
turned. "She used to live in Kigali. She was a prostitute." He paused.
"That's why a little street vermin like Ukewere knows her. What do you
think of that, Collier?"

"I think it's none of my business," the Executioner replied.

Walters broke eye contact again and looked up at the sky. "I should have
married her," he said, more to himself than to Bolan. "Before she met
Godfrey."

"Why didn't you?"

The aging warrior looked back at Bolan. "I wasn't ready to settle down
yet," he said with a straight face, then turned and walked back into the
house.

The hot water stinging his skin washed the dirt of two days from the
Executioner, revitalizing both his body and spirit. Twisting the knob,
he opened the translucent glass door, reached out of the shower and
jerked a large bath towel from the rack on the wall.

As he dried himself, Bolan assessed the situation as it stood. He didn't
really know if he was any closer to finding Dusty Morrison and the
Belgians than he had been when he stepped off the plane in Kigali. He
was following the only lead he had, and for all he knew, it could stop
any time at a dead end.

The Executioner stepped out of the shower and dried his hair with
another towel, then walked naked into the bedroom he'd been assigned in
the huge cotton-plantation house. one of the servants had left a fresh
white shirt and khaki slacks on the bed that Bolan suspected belonged to
Godfrey Duke. He slipped into the slacks.

No, he couldn't be sure that Zaid Karsimbi would know where Big Billy
Rukanwe was, or if Rukanwe would know where the actors were. And
according to Ukewere, Karsimbi was a paranoid local hood, which meant
there would be certain complications to overcome before he got to the
man.

All of which would take time--time during which both Hutu and Tutsi
would be hunting down, and killing, all the Belgians they could find.

Bolan zipped up the slacks and began threading his belt through the
loops. The cuffs of the khakis hit him above the ankles, and a quick
glance at the shirt still folded on the bed told him it wouldn't fit any
better.

Well, he might not be invited to pose for Gentlemen's Quarterly in
Godfrey Duke's clothes, but at least the pants fit in the waist, and he
suspected he'd be able to get the shirt buttoned.

Reaching under the pillow, Bolan produced the Smith & Wesson 629 and
Browning Hi-Power. He had given both weapons only a cursory glance as to
function before being pressed into battle. The Smith had stood up under
fire, which was the true test of a firearm. But he wanted to check it
more thoroughly to make sure it would perform over the long haul. And
the Browning Hi-Power had yet to throw a round.

Thumbing the Smith & Wesson's cylinder latch, Bolan dumped the rounds on
the bed. He worked the ejector rod several times to make sure it moved
smoothly, then spun the cylinder. The latch at the bottom of the frame
seemed to function well, and when he swung the wheel back into the gun
and cocked the trigger, the cylinder locked tightly. His thumb on the
hammer spur, the Executioner eased the hammer back down. Reloading the
weapon, he slipped it into the shoulder rig.

The warrior picked up the Browning, dumped the 13-round 9 mm magazine
and worked the slide to flip the round from the chamber. His mind
drifted to Art Bradfordson. It was time to get rid of the Englishman
before he got hurt. The Briton had the heart of an adventurer, but he
lacked the skills to back up that heart. He was a nice guy, and he
deserved to have the chance to go on being a nice guy--a chance he
wasn't likely to get if he hung around with the Executioner much longer.

Locking the Hi-Power's slide back, Bolan pushed the latch out of the
weapon and separated the frame from the slide. He pulled out the barrel,
recoil spring and guide, and inspected each piece carefully as his mind
turned to Janet Nyungwe. Walters and Bradfordson had taken her husband's
body to a small meadow nearby, where they would bury him. Bolan had
suggested it, and the man's widow hadn't objected.

In war-torn Rwanda, funeral services, like so many other things most
people took for granted, became an extravagance.

Satisfied that the Browning would perform when called upon, Bolan
assembled and loaded the weapon. He shoved it into the holster, then
looped the leather through his belt.

He hadn't met Godfrey Duke yet, but there was a chance he'd know
Karsimbi. The local hood had legitimate business interests in the area,
and if he and Duke were acquainted, Duke might be able to provide an
introduction. If not, they'd have to get inside to see the man however
they could. Which would probably mean more shooting.

Bolan looked down at both the Smith & Wesson and the Browning. That
meant they'd need more firepower than the pistols he and Walters were
carrying.

A soft knock outside the bedroom tore the Executioner from his thoughts.

He stood and moved to the door, his hand close to the Hi-Power. "Yes?"
he said, standing to one side of the frame.

"It's me," Walters said.

Bolan reached for the knob. The door swung open and Walters entered. The
merc wore a pair of khakis identical to Bolan's, but they were too long,
breaking over the tops of his hiking boots. Walters's white shirt was a
twin of Bolan's, as well, but slightly too large.

The older man glanced at Bolan's bare chest as he stepped into the room.
"Looks like you've seen a little action over the years," he said.
"Caught a bullet or two."

"One or two," he agreed.

Walters stopped in the middle of the room as the Executioner closed the
door again. "'nought so," he said. ""Course it's a little hard to see
under all the knife-wound scars."

Bolan grabbed the shirt off the bed and shrugged into it. "Where are Art
and Sal?" he asked.

"Asleep," Walters said. "Godfrey's back."

"You know him?"

Walters shook his head. "Never met him. Just heard him come in."

"What does he know about Waseme's past?"

"Only what he needs to know," Walters replied. "She's going to tell him
I'm an old friend from the Kigali days. He thinks she worked at a
vegetable stand in the market."

The Executioner finished buttoning his shirt, leaving the top two open
to compensate for the tight fit in the shoulders. "How you going to keep
Ukewere quiet?" he asked as he donned the shoulder harness.

Walters shrugged. "Sal's a major-league asshole sometimes. But I've
already explained in lurid detail what will happen to him if he opens
his mouth. I think I made my point." He paused. "She's a good woman,
John," he said. "She's human like all of us, so she's made some mistakes
in her life. But I won't let anybody destroy what she's got now."

The Executioner didn't bother answering as he covered his weapons with
his sport coat.

"Anyway," the white-haired merc went on, "Godfrey's downstairs waiting
on us."

Bolan followed Walters down the stairs to the same sitting room where
they'd spoken with Waseme earlier.

A middle-aged man of medium height and build with a waxed handlebar
mustache sat on the love seat. He rose and extended his hand as Walters
and Bolan entered the room. The man wore a pair of khakis and a white
shirt, and Bolan suspected now that this had to be Godfrey Duke's
personal plantation "uniform." Duke's clothes were covered with dirt and
small fluffs of cotton.

"Mr. Collier," Duke said in British-accented English. "I am Godfrey
Duke." He smiled to show two rows of tiny white teeth.

Waseme glided into the room and placed a silver tea set on the coffee
table.

"Sit down, my dear," Duke said.

She moved in front of the love seat and they sat down together. Bolan
and Walters dropped into chairs across from them.

"I understand you gentlemen are in some sort of trouble," Duke said.
Without waiting for an answer, he added, "Understandable, considering
everything." He looked down at the silver service in front of him. "We
shall dispense with more formalities under the circumstances." Pouring
tea into an ornately painted china cup, he lifted the saucer beneath it
and handed it to Bolan. "Sugar or cream?"

Bolan shook his head.

Still holding the silver pitcher, Duke looked up and smiled. "So. How
can I help you?"

"Do you know Big Billy Rukanwe?" Bolan asked.

Duke poured more tea and handed the cup and saucer to Walters. "No, Mr.
Collier, I regret to say, I do not."

Bolan took a sip of the tea. "How about Zaid Karsimbi?"

Duke stiffened slightly, then poured tea for himself and his wife. "I
have met him," he said. "But we are certainly not friends."

"Enemies?"

"No, no," Duke said. "I suppose we would nod should we encounter each
other on the street." He coughed affectedly, sounding for all he was
worth like the stuffy, stereotypical English gentleman. "Waseme and I
attended a fund-raiser at his home once, but I want to stress to you,
Mr. Collier, I do not befriend men like Zaid Karsimbi."

Bolan crossed his legs and leaned forward slightly. "I understand his
house is protected."

Duke laughed. "That is perhaps the understatement of the century, Mr.
Collier. A high wall runs around his property, and guards stand watch in
little concrete towers. Waseme and I were forced to pass through a metal
detector before entering his house." He shook his head. "The man is a
true paranoid."

The Executioner uncrossed his legs. "Do you know him well enough to set
up an appointment where I could talk to him?" he asked. He set his
teacup on an end table next to his chair.

Duke stood, walked across the room to a shelf-lined wall and lifted a
yellow-and-white calabash pipe from its rack. He stuffed it hastily with
tobacco from a jar next to the rack, then returned to his seat. "I could
try," he said. "But may I ask why you would wish to hold conference with
a man of that ...  caliber?"

"I believe he can help us locate Big Billy."

Duke pulled a lighter from his shirt pocket and held it over the bowl of
his pipe. When smoke rose toward the ceiling, he bit the stem and said
around it, "Yes, I understand they are friends, although I cannot fathom
it. Rukanwe is reputed to be a good and honest man." He looked up
suddenly. "You are here to rescue the Belgian theater players?"

Bolan nodded. The man had already figured it out, and there was little
sense denying the fact.

Duke held the pipe away from his mouth. "Are you CIA, Mr. Collier?"

The Executioner shook his head. "It's an independent operation."

Duke looked at Walters. "And you, Mr. Walters?"

"Not anymore."

The Englishman turned to his wife and smiled. "Dear, could you possibly
bring us another pot of tea?"

Waseme frowned. "The pot is still-"

"I believe it has grown cold, my dear," Duke insisted. "If you would,
please."

"It can't be cold-"

"Please, dear."

Waseme finally took the hint, rose, lifted the silver tray and exited
the room.

Duke took several puffs on his pipe as the beautiful woman walked down
the hall out of earshot. Then he held the calabash away from him again.
"Were you one of her customers, Mr. Walters?" he asked abruptly.

The merc nodded. "I used to buy vegetables from her there at the-"

Duke closed his eyes and shook his head, the movement stopping Walters
in mid-sentence.

"Mr. Walters, please. I know far more about my wife's past than you--or
she, for that matter--suspect. Please answer my question. Were you one
of her customers?"

Bolan watched the white-haired man out of the corner of his eye. Walters
face betrayed the fact that he didn't know whether to lie or go with the
truth. Finally he said, "I was in love with her."

Duke nodded slowly. "Yes. Yes. Then you are the one."

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room.

Oh, dear me," Duke suddenly said. "I'm afraid I've given you the wrong
impression. Perhaps I should clarify myself." He puffed twice on his
pipe, then said, "Yes, I am aware that Waseme was a prostitute. No, she
does not know that I possess that knowledge. And as far as you being
'the one,' I know only that there was an older man with whom she was
once in love, a man who was one of her customers but treated her well,
and was in love with her." He puffed again, but the pipe had gone out.
"She talks in her sleep, you see," he said as he flicked the lighter
once more. "But perhaps you already know that."

Walters remained tastefully silent.

As soon as the pipe was relit, Duke said, "To answer a question that I
see you are both too polite to ask, yes, the whole thing does bother me
somewhat. But I've come to terms with Waseme's past, and myself. I live
with it, and consider myself lucky to have her as a wife."

"You are, Mr. Duke," Walters said softly. "You are."

Duke stood. "Yes ... quite." Moving to a phone on an end table next to
the love seat, he lifted the receiver. "Let me see if I can ring up Mr.
Karsimbi," he said.

He tapped in three numbers and a moment later said, "Yes, indeed. I'd
like a residential number for Mr. Zaid Karsimbi." After a short pause,
he added, "Thank you," disconnected the line, then dialed the number.

Bolan and Walters waited.

"Yes, hello yourself. This is Mr. Godfrey Duke, don't you know. May I
speak to Mr. Karsimbi, please?"

The warrior saw a flicker of movement to his side and looked over to see
Waseme entering the room. Steam rose from the spout of the silver teapot
as she returned it to the coffee table and looked at her husband.

Duke motioned for her to sit. A second later he said into the receiver,
"Yes, I understand. Thank you very much." He hung up.

He turned to face Bolan and Walters. "I was told that Mr. Karsimbi was
absent. But the man who informed me of such did so in a way that meant
that Karsimbi was there but that I should fuck off." He glanced to his
wife and said, "Pardon my language, dear."

Waseme acted as if she hadn't heard.

Bolan stood. "We've got to talk to him, anyway," he said. "I guess it'll
have to be the hard way." He turned to face Duke. "Do you have any
rifles?"

The Englishman smiled. "Oh my, yes. And I'll be delighted to assist you
personally, as well. Did I mention I had been in Her Majesty's army?"

Duke hadn't exaggerated. Zaid Karsimbi's home was a fortress.

Behind the wheel of Godfrey Duke's Lincoln Continental, the Executioner
squinted through compact binoculars at the dusty brown concrete walls
that encircled the property. He and Walters had left Bradfordson,
Ukewere and Janet Nyungwe exhausted and asleep at the plantation to
drive the five miles back into Cyangugu and recon Karsimbi's house.

Setting up surveillance had been no problem, as the compound was
situated directly across the street from a park near downtown Cyangugu.
The fighting had died down again, and several other vehicles were parked
in the circular drive that ran in front of rusty swing sets, jungle gyms
and a threadbare trampoline with an aluminum frame.

Several lookout posts extended above the ten-foot walls, and in them the
Executioner could see armed men. occasionally one of them left the post
to patrol along the ledge that had to run on the other side of the wall.

Next to him, Bolan heard Tater Walters's soft steady breathing. A quick
glance to his side showed the older man's brows deep in thought as he
contemplated the same problem that was on the Executioner's mind.

Bolan shifted the binoculars to a half dozen oscillating surveillance
cameras mounted on top of the walls. From the angles at which they sat,
it appeared they would pick up anything that came into view within
approximately ten feet of the fortress.

The Executioner dropped the binoculars to his lap. Duke had been unable
to get him an appointment with Karsimbi, but there was still the chance
that he could just walk up to the door and knock. Maybe he could talk
his way past the guards, and gain entry to  ... Bolan let the thought
die in his head. No, Karsimbi was boarded up because of the outbreak of
war. He wasn't taking chances. It would never work; he'd be turned away,
and then the guards would be even more cautious when he attempted to
enter the compound through other means.

Turning halfway around, Bolan looked at the blanket spread across the
backseat. Godfrey Duke had beamed with pride when Bolan had asked about
rifles. And the Englishman did have a nice collection--at least fifty
long guns in various makes and caliber. But they were all sporting
pieces.

The Winchester 94 30-30 Bolan had finally chosen was still an excellent
design after well over a hundred years. Duke, the Executioner suspected,
had probably used it to take his share of gazelles, wart hogs and
similar mid-size African game. In the hands of a man who knew how to use
it, the lever-action rifle also made a far better defense weapon than
most people understood.

But for the blanket of cover fire the Executioner would have preferred
under these circumstances, it was hardly the ideal firearm.

Walters had picked out a Weatherby Mark V De luxe to add to his brace of
.45s. The .416 Magnum rifle would take down an elephant. But it was the
epitome of overkill on human targets, and the massive recoil and bolt
action meant slow follow-up shots.

Still, the two rifles had been the best of the lot. And they were all
the Executioner had. So he would make the most of them.

Turning back to the walls, Bolan frowned. The ten-foot barrier looked
slick, with no hand- or footholds. Climbing it was out of the question.
Walters was going to attract the guards' attention, and the warrior
would have to come up with a way of getting over it before time ran out.

Closing his eyes, the Executioner rubbed his forehead. Other than
Walters, it was a ragtag group of noncombatants he'd picked up along the
way, and he not only couldn't count on them as a fighting unit, he
didn't feel right about risking their lives. Godfrey Duke's service in
"Her Majesty's army," as he'd put it, had turned out to be in the King's
Troop, Royal Horse Brigade--the only purely ceremonial unit in the
entire British army.

Unlike the Guards Division and Household Cavalry, the unit had no
training in a combat environment.

"Any ideas?" Walters asked.

Before the Executioner could reply, the sound of people passing in front
of the car made him open his eyes. Through the windshield he saw a Tutsi
family walking across the park. A little girl of roughly four years
broke away from the group and ran toward the shreds of canvas hanging
from the trampoline frame.

The idea came fast and hard.

At first it seemed insane, but as the Executioner let the notion play
around in his brain, adding details here and there and developing
concept into conception, it began to appear workable.

Bolan felt Walters's eyes on him and glanced at the men.

"Got something?" the merc asked.

"The Executioner nodded, then told him what he had in mind. "Considering
the equipment and personnel we have to work with, it's the only thing I
can think of," he said, then twisted the key, started the engine and
threw the Lincoln into gear.

As Bolan backed out of the parking space that faced Karsimbi's compound,
Walters stared out through the windshield, then suddenly chuckled. "Know
what it is I like about you, Collier?" he asked.

When the Executioner made no reply, the white-haired mercenary said,
"You're damn near the only guy I've ever known who's loonier than I am."

AN HOUR LATER Bolan pulled the Lincoln into the same space it had
occupied during the recon phase of the mission. He lifted the
communication apparatus from the seat next to him and wrapped the
headset over his head, positioning the voice-activated microphone in
front of his mouth. "Testing, one, two, three," he said. The
voice-activated microphone keyed on. "You read me, Tater?"

"Loud and clear," Walters replied.

"How about you, Duke?" Bolan asked.

"Quite," the plantation owner added.

"Roger," Bradfordson responded.

By now Walters would be setting up on the tree-lined knoll on the other
side of Karsimbi's compound. The two Englishmen were in the Ford pickup
Duke used on the plantation. Both teams were awaiting his orders to go
into action.

Bolan clipped the transceiver to his belt. The communication units were
hardly of the quality used at Stony Man Farm. They transmitted over FM
waves and had a range of only a quarter mile. Used primarily by
cyclists, hikers and hunters, these particular units had been used by
Godfrey Duke to establish hands-free communication with the men and
women working his cotton fields.

They were short-range, but should be enough to keep in touch during what
was about to go down.

The warrior raised the binoculars for one last look at the guards along
the wall. He was the only one taking any risk. Walters would be far
enough away that the guards wouldn't spot him during the short period of
time he'd be shooting, and the two Englishmen should be "in and out"
before the enemy was even aware of their presence.

The Executioner leaned over the backseat, jerked the blanket off the
Winchester and laid the weapon across his lap. He checked the sling
swivels to make sure they were secure, then worked the lever, chambering
the first of the 30-30 softpoints, then lowered the hammer. "Tater, you
set up?"

"That's affirmative. Ready when you are."

"Bradfordson and Duke?"

"Set to roll," Godfrey Duke replied.

"Then let's do it," the warrior said into the mike.

A second later Tater Walters pulled the trigger on the Weatherby rifle,
which sounded as if a cannon had gone off on the other side of the
compound.

Bolan heard the screech of tires as the roar died down. Through the
binoculars he saw the guards above the wall turn away. As he waited for
the next round, he could practically see Walters working the bolt of the
big elephant gun.

The pickup appeared down the street from the compound. Bolan opened the
door of the Lincoln and stepped out, slinging the Winchester over his
shoulder. He started his sprint across the park as the Ford slowed in
front of the wall. In the bed of the pickup, he could see Duke gripping
the rim of the small jogging trampoline that had been in his home gym an
hour earlier. As the Ford screeched to a halt, the plantation owner
jumped from the pickup to the sidewalk in front of the compound.

The Executioner slowed slightly as he stepped off the grass into the
street. He watched Duke lay down the trampoline, then dive to the side.
Picking up his pace again, Bolan frowned as he neared the sidewalk,
timing his last few steps so he could push off with his right foot.

A third massive .416 bullet rang out as the Executioner leapt into the
air. Both boots came down on the canvas, and the springs groaned as his
weight pushed them downward. He heard a thud as Duke got back into the
pickup, then suddenly he was flying into the air toward the top of the
wall.

The Ford's tires squealed again as Bolan reached up to catch the wall.
Hooking his elbows over the top, he scrambled up and over the barrier,
dropped to the walking ledge on the other side and tore the Winchester
from his back. Turning to face the courtyard, he saw the house in the
center of the compound. A glance at the guard tower to his right told
him that the sentry was still focused on the shooting coming from the
other side of the fortress.

Bolan turned to eyeball the man in the tower to his left, and as he did,
the guard looked his way.

The warrior dived from the wall as the guard brought his FN FAL assault
rifle into target acquisition. A short burst of fire sailed over the
Executioner's head as he fell from the wall, landing on the grass of the
courtyard. He jerked up the Winchester, thumb-cocking the hammer.

A quick shot at the tower forced the guard's head below the concrete
barrier.

Sprinting forward again, Bolan worked the lever to chamber another
round. The shots had drawn the attention of the man in the other tower,
and another burst of rifle fire tore up the grass just to the
Executioner's left.

Twisting as he ran, Bolan raised the Winchester one-handed and triggered
another bullet at the tower behind him. Again the round struck the
concrete just below the gun port, and the guard dropped down out of
sight.

Ten yards from the front door of the house, the Executioner dived
forward beneath a steady stream of automatic fire. Stroking the lever as
he flew through the air, he chambered another round a half second before
landing on his belly and sliding across the concrete patio into the
door.

As he'd suspected, the firing suddenly stopped as the guards paused to
consider the fact that their rounds would now strike the house. As they
contemplated their dilemma, the Executioner leaped to his feet, stepped
back and kicked the door.

A burly black man wearing a shoulder holster over his gray dress shirt
met the Executioner in the doorway, a compact Glock automatic in his
fist. As the weapon rose, Bolan brought the stock of his rifle around in
an arc, butt-stroking the man across the jaw.

A crack echoed against the walls of the entryway as the man dropped to
his knees like a felled oak. Bolan brought his own knee up into the
man's nose and moved over him as the guard flipped to his back.

Straight ahead, the Executioner saw a winding spiral staircase that led
to the second story. Three feet to his right a pair of house guards
suddenly appeared in an archway that led to the living room. The first,
a wide-shouldered man in a blue sport coat, held a nickel-plated
revolver.

Bolan twisted at the waist and shoved the barrel of his rifle against
the shiny frame of the revolver. He pulled the trigger, the lever action
exploded and the revolver spun away from the guard's hand as he screamed
in pain.

The second man opened his mouth in surprise. Bolan took advantage of the
delay, bringing the Winchester's barrel around to strike the guard in
the side of the head. The force of the blow knocked the man to one side.

The Executioner stepped in. Using the barrel like a lance, he rammed it
into the guard's sternum. Air rushed from between the house man's lips
as he fell to the floor.

Turning back to the man in the blue sport coat, Bolan reached out,
grabbing the back of his head and jamming the Winchester under his chin.

The guard looked down at the weapon, his eyes crossing as he rubbed his
injured gun hand. "Where's Karsimbi?" the Executioner demanded.

The man moved his lips soundlessly.

Passing the Winchester to his left hand, Bolan pulled two rounds from
the pocket of his jacket, pressed them against the spring cover and
through the loading port. "One more time," he growled. Where's
Karsimbi?"

The Executioner heard movement behind him. Keeping the Winchester under
the man's quivering chin, he drew the Browning Hi-Power from his hip,
took a half step back and turned.

Another house guard toting a sawed-off shotgun was raising the twin
barrels.

A 3-round burst of 9 mm rounds drilled through the guard's chest. He
stumbled backward, dancing out of sight into another room.

Turning back to the burly man, Bolan stuck the pistol into his belly.
With both guns ready to spit death, the man whispered, "I will take you
to him."

"Yes," the Executioner said, "you will."

At first Denise Lefevre had been flattered by Hubert Spaak's quest to
bed her. Then, as that quest became an obsession, the younger man's
intentions grew mildly irritating.

Now, as the actress plodded through the dark jungle night, she was
beginning to feel totally repulsed by Spaak. Added to that feeling was a
hefty dose of fear.

Lefevre had seen a new look in Spaak's eyes that afternoon, which
reminded her that she was the only woman with the three men, they were
miles from civilization and she, was therefore, to a certain extent, at
their mercy. Ahead of her, through the dense foliage, Lefevre saw the
shadowy outline of Dusty Morrison's cowboy hat. Behind her she could
hear the footsteps of Spaak and Streak. Spaak's voice was audible; he
was complaining under his breath again. She listened, realizing that
under the stress of running for her life, and the proximity she and the
others had been forced into, she had begun to truly, completely, and
with all her heart, hate the egotistical bastard's guts .

Morrison stepped out of the trees into a small clearing and stopped.
Lefevre trudged after him, willing one leg to follow the other, and
silently praying that he was getting ready to stop for the night.

As she stepped out from the trees, Morrison turned to her and smiled
faintly. "Here," he whispered. "We'll camp here."

The woman took two more steps, then collapsed to a sitting position on
the ground.

Spaak and Streak stumbled in. Both of the younger men were as exhausted
as she was, she suspected, but only Streak let it show. Denise watched
the makeup man fall to his back panting as Spaak came to a halt next to
Morrison. Her eyes moved back to the older actor. He had led the way,
even checked their position from the tops of several hills while the
others rested, all the while exhibiting an energy reserve that defied
his age.

Lefevre shook her head as she studied the two men side by side. Both
Morrison and Spaak were as macho as they came, but in completely
different ways. Spaak's masculinity was forced and overplayed. Dusty, on
the other hand was ...  well, Dusty was just Dusty. What you saw was
what you got, and as he stood tall and erect under the moon in his hat,
boots and gun belt, the costume he wore no longer looked like a costume.
It was part of the whole package that made up the man--symbolic of the
rugged individualism he exhibited whenever they needed him.

Slowly, almost ritualistically, Lefevre pulled her shoes off. They had
been walking for hours, and her feet reminded her of that fact. The trek
had been made even more unbearable by Spaak's constant complaining and
second-guessing of their leader's decisions on which paths to take. She
was worn out emotionally, as well as physically, and presumed the others
felt the same.

The actress rubbed her feet as she watched Spaak begin to circle the
clearing, picking up small pieces of wood.

Morrison turned toward him. "What are you doing?" he asked quietly.

"Gathering firewood," Spaak said.

The older actor shook his head. "No fires to night."

"oh, really?" Spaak said, spinning toward him. "It's night, Tex, in case
you hadn't noticed. YOU afraid the Apaches will smell the smoke, or
what?"

Morrison's voice was patient and controlled, but tinged with a trace of
sarcasm. "No, kid," he said. "But I'm afraid the flames Will get
spotted."

Spaak still held the small pile of sticks he'd gathered. "You learn that
in one of those cliched old Westerns with the fifty-dollar budgets?"

"No, it's basic common sense."

"We'll freeze without a fire," Spaak barked. Morrison shook his head.
"We won't freeze. We've got the blankets we brought and it doesn't get
that cold out here, anyway."

Spaak looked first at Streak, then Lefevre for support. When he saw he
would get it from neither, he slammed the firewood to the ground, then
sat down and scowled.

Morrison was suddenly standing in front of Lefevre and the woman looked
up. The older man smiled, and she saw the sadness in his pale blue eyes.
He handed her two blankets, said, "Better get some shut-eye," then moved
away.

Lefevre was about to lie down when the sudden roar of an explosion
sounded from the direction they'd come from.

"What in the world was that?" Streak almost shouted.

Morrison looked in the direction of the explosion. "Bomb of some kind,"
he said.

"Nothing gets past you, does it, Sherlock?" Spaak asked.

The actress lay on her back and pulled the blankets over her. As her
back touched the ground, dry grass bit into her flesh through her
T-shirt, and she rolled to her side. Now the grass jabbed her ribs, and
when she laid her head down, it stuck to her face and hair.

Sitting back up, the woman pulled the top blanket off, rolled it into a
pillow and lay back down. She closed her eyes as the grass cut into her
side again. Well, she was going to hurt and itch no matter what she did,
so she might as well get used to it.

That settled, the actress realized the waistband of her tight blue jeans
was now cutting into her. It wasn't only uncomfortable, it was
exasperating, reminding her of the three pounds she'd gained just before
leaving Belgium. Even as tired as she was she knew if she was going to
get any sleep she'd have to at least take off her jeans.

Opening her eyes, Lefevre looked over at Spaak. He lay on his side,
facing away from her. Morrison had dropped to his back on the other side
of the clearing. With the blanket covering him to the waist and his hat
over his face, he looked like something out of one of his movies.

Streak was between the two men. He was still awake, sitting huddled
under his blanket and sniffling softly.

Rolling to her back, Lefevre unzipped her jeans, then wiggled them down
her hips. Tossing them to the grass next to her, she lay back, closed
her eyes and felt sleep engulf her.

At first the actress thought it was a nightmare. She felt a tough hand
mauling her breasts as another hand pulled the crotch of her panties to
one side. She heard a rip as the thin fabric split, then the mixed odor
of foul breath and sweat filled her sinuses. Lewd, violent gasps echoed
in her ear. Something hard stabbed the inside of her thigh, and suddenly
she realized she wasn't dreaming.

Lefevre opened her eyes, and Hubert Spaak's lust-filled face looked back
at her. He grunted, and his penis rammed against her leg again. The
woman opened her mouth to scream, but Spaak's hand moved from her breast
to cover her lips. Leaning forward, he pinned her to the ground with his
shoulders as she felt his other hand move between her legs to guide
himself into her.

She twisted violently to one side, and Spaak rammed into her hip. He
cursed under his breath, forcing his knee between hers and rolling her
back again. Suddenly the stillness of the jungle night was split by a
loud crack.

For a moment Spaak just stared down at her. Then his eyelids dropped,
and he rolled off her.

Lefevre looked up to see Dusty Morrison standing over her. The cowboy
held the barrel of one of his pistols in his hand. He dropped to one
knee, grabbed a blanket and covered her to the waist. "Are you all
right?" he whispered gently.

The woman nodded. She looked at Spaak, unconscious at her side. "Is he
... dead?"

Morrison leaned over her, pressed a finger into Spaak's neck and shook
his head. He turned back to her, and suddenly the woman was in his arms,
sobbing.

The cowboy actor held her until the sobs died down, then pushed her
tenderly to arm's length. "Better stick close to me, at least the rest
of the night," he whispered in his strong, gruff voice. "And I reckon
it'd be better if you get your britches on." He stood and turned his
back.

When Lefevre was dressed, Morrison turned around, snatched her blankets
from the ground and led her back to the spot where he'd been sleeping.
He lay one blanket on the ground and rolled the other back into a
pillow.

Lefevre lay down and Morrison pulled his own blanket over her to her
chin, tucking her in much as her father had done when she was a little
girl.

That was the moment Denise Lefevre realized she was in love. Then, as
the gray-haired cowboy leaned over and kissed her on the forehead before
lying down with his hat over his face again, she thought she saw a trace
of tenderness in his eyes, too.

The Executioner holstered the Browning Hi-Power, grabbed the tall house
guard by the shoulder and spun him. With the Winchester 94 in his right
hand, he ran his left up and down the man's legs, across his chest and
around his waist. Finding no more weapons, he jabbed the rifle barrel
into the small of his prisoner's back. "Let's go," he ordered.

The guard didn't hesitate. He marched stiffly to the spiral staircase
Bolan had seen when he'd entered the house.

The warrior kept one eye on the man's back, the other tilted up the
stairs as they wound up the steps. When they reached the second floor
the guard led him down a hallway past several closed doors. Reaching the
end of the hall, the man stopped.

"Mr. Karsimbi will have me killed if I take you to him," he pleaded
without turning.

"And I'll kill you if you don't," the Executioner replied. "So take your
choice now, or later." The guard reached forward and opened the door.

Bolan shoved the man into the room. He heard a scream, then a
small-caliber pistol shot rang out.

The guard fell to the floor.

Without aiming, Bolan fired a round, then worked the lever as he dived
forward onto the carpet, the rifle aimed upward. What he saw was almost
amusing.

Cringing behind a stuffed reclining chair to one side of a large oak
desk was a man not much bigger than Ukewere. He gripped a .22-caliber
Colt Woodsman target pistol in both hands.

When he saw the Executioner and the Winchester, the Woodsman tumbled
from his shaking hands. "Please. Please don't kill me."

As Bolan rose to his feet, he kept the rifle trained on Karsimbi. "You
don't want to die?"

"No ... please ..."

The warrior nodded. "Fair enough. Then we'll agree on a verbal contract.
You take me to Big Billy Rukanwe, and you'll live."

The mobster shook his head. "Big Billy? I don't know where Big Billy
is."

The Executioner raised the rifle slightly and sighted it on the man's
chest. "Then the contract is null and void."

"All right!" Karsimbi shouted. "I'll tell you! I'll tell you!"

The Executioner waved the rifle toward the door. "No," he said. "You'll
take me."

The gangster came out from behind the chair. While not a member of the
Pygmy race by any standards, he would be pushing it to hit five feet. He
wore a canary yellow necktie and a well-cut navy blue suit. His soft
kid-leather loafers shuffled across the carpet, his gaze glued to the
Executioner.

Bolan poked the rifle into Karsimbi's back. They retraced their steps
down the spiral staircase and stepped through the broken front door onto
the porch. The warrior reached out with his free hand, grabbing Karsimbi
by the back of the neck. "We're going to have to pass your guards in a
minute," he said. "I suggest you tell them to set their guns down."

Karsimbi nodded his agreement.

The Executioner prodded him off the porch onto the grass, and they
started forward. Fifteen yards from the front gate, Bolan spoke again
into the microphone in front of his face. "We're coming out, guys," he
said. "It'd be nice if a cab was waiting."

"That's affirmative," Tater Walters replied. "Checker Taxi Service is en
route."

Bolan saw the rifles of the tower guards trained on them as they moved
on. He grabbed Karsimbi by the collar and stopped the man again. "This
would be a great time for a speech," he growled into his ear.

Karsimbi took a deep breath. "Hold your fire!" he shouted. "Don't
shoot!"

"Tell them to lay their rifles down," Bolan ordered.

Karsimbi complied, and a second later the men on the wall were unarmed.

Duke's Lincoln pulled up outside the front wall as they reached the
gate. Moving around the man in front of him, the warrior threw the bolt
back and swung the gate outward.

Karsimbi moved through the opening, the Executioner at his heels. As
they came out from under the wall, Bolan moved closer to the man and
cast a quick glance to both towers to make sure the rifles hadn't been
picked up again. So far, so good.

Moving around to Karsimbi's front, Bolan spun the man and wrapped an arm
around his neck. He dragged the Rwandan gangster backward, the man's
heels scraping across the pavement all the way to the rear door of the
Lincoln.

Walters was behind the wheel, and he twisted to open the back door.
Bolan pushed Karsimbi into the backseat and climbed in after him. The
merc floored the accelerator, and the vehicle took off in a cloud of
dirt and dust.

The Executioner saw Duke's pickup at the corner a block away, and the
Ford fell in behind them as they sped out of the area.

"Where to?" Walters asked.

Bolan hesitated. Duke and Bradfordson had done a good job of delivering
the trampoline, but they had exceeded their usefulness. And each step of
the way that they tagged along, the two unskilled warriors took a chance
of getting killed. He wanted Ukewere with him throughout the remainder
of the mission in case he needed the man's contacts. But there was no
use risking the lives of the Englishmen.

"Back to Duke's," Bolan replied. "We need to pick up Ukewere, and we'll
leave Bradfordson and Duke there."

Walters nodded. "Good idea. But I've got to warn you. Those two are
getting their rocks off on the action. They don't understand the
inherent dangers, and they won't be easy to dump."

Ten minutes later they were pulling back into the circular drive and
parking in front of the house. Bolan sent Walters to fetch Ukewere, told
Karsimbi not to move, then got out of the Lincoln and hurried over to
the pickup as it slowed.

The Executioner leaned into the open driver's window and spoke to Duke.
"We're leaving again as soon as Ukewere gets out here," he said.

"All ready on the western front!" Bradfordson said.

"Tallyho!" Duke added.

Bolan frowned. The two Britons appeared to be having the time of their
lives, and it hadn't sunk in yet that they could get killed. But the
Executioner knew the hard realities of what could happen on this next
leg of the mission, and he didn't want their deaths on his conscience.

"I need you two to stay here," he said. Before they could protest, he
added, "We've sent word on to the Belgians that this plantation is a
safe haven. They'll be trying to get here on their own. If we miss them,
they'll need protection until we can get back. That's where you come
in."

Bradfordson nodded, but Duke frowned and said, "How in the name of Queen
Lizzie were you able to communicate with them, old chap?"

"No time to explain," Bolan said. "But get inside, grab your favorite
guns and batten down the hatches. If you don't hear from us again, it'll
mean we found them and got safely out of the country." He turned and
walked away before they could say more.

Walters came out of the house trailing Ukewere, the two men heading for
the Lincoln. Bolan watched the Twa as they approached the vehicle from
opposite sides.

The Executioner frowned. Something was missing, and for a moment he
wondered what. Then he realized that the antagonistic expression Ukewere
wore like a uniform had vanished. The man looked almost pleasant, and
Bolan couldn't help wondering why.

Walters opened the front door and pointed for Ukewere to get in, then
took the backseat next to Karsimbi as Bolan slid behind the wheel. The
Executioner threw the car in gear. A few moments later he slowed as they
neared the road again.

"Okay, Karsimbi," Bolan said. "Which way?"

"I don't know."

Bolan looked into the rearview mirror and stomped the brake. Walters
braced his arms on the backseat as Karsimbi flew forward. The
Executioner drew the Smith & Wesson, turned and shoved the barrel under
the gangster's nose. "Karsimbi, I don't intend to play that game with
you now any more than I did back at your house." He cocked the hammer
with his thumb. "You're roughly three pounds of trigger pressure away
from death, and I suggest you start talking."

A lump appeared in Karsimbi's throat. When he spoke again his voice had
risen at least two octaves. "I meant ... Big Billy has more than one
place he hides out when the fighting starts. I know only of one."

Next to the frightened little man, Walters drew his .45 pistols. He
placed the barrel of one against Karsimbi's temple; the other he jammed
into the man's ribs. "On the count of three?" he asked, looking up at
the Executioner.

"One," Bolan said.

Tears began to run down Karsimbi's face. "Please. I know only the one,
I-"

"Two," the Executioner said.

"You've got to believe me! He has more than one hideout, but I'll take
you to the one I know about!"

Bolan lowered the hammer on the revolver but kept it under his
prisoner's nose. "Like I asked before, which way?"

"Right," Karsimbi replied shakily. "Turn right."

Twelve miles east along the road to Butare, the Executioner spotted the
Isuzu Trooper in the rearview mirror. Walters caught his frown and
turned.

"Tutsi troops?" the aging mercenary asked.

"Maybe," Bolan said. "Maybe not." He almost hoped it was Tutsis in the
Trooper rather than who he suspected it might be as he drove on.

Spotting a sharp curve ahead, the Executioner waited until he'd rounded
it, then stomped the gas. The Lincoln shot forward toward a cluster of
large boulders to the right side of the road. Tire tracks led from the
road around the back of the rocks, and on the other side of the trail,
Bolan saw a paint-chipped green picnic table under a crumbling awning.

With a quick glance in the mirror to make sure the Trooper hadn't yet
rounded the curve, the Executioner twisted the wheel and turned off the
road. He brought the Lincoln to a halt between the picnic table and the
boulders, then turned in the seat to make sure he was out of sight from
the road.

"Tater," Bolan said as he got out of the Lincoln, "stay here and watch
our friends."

Staying close to the rocks, Bolan hurried to the front of the cluster,
then dropped prone with his head facing the road. He heard the Trooper
coming before he saw it, then the vehicle flashed around the boulders
and continued on toward Butare.

The Executioner felt his blood grow hot. Art Bradfordson sat behind the
wheel, and in the passenger's seat he could see Godfrey Duke. The men
were singing loudly, and as they passed the boulders Duke raised a quart
bottle of whiskey to his lips, then passed it to his partner.

Bolan was on his feet and headed back to the Lincoln a moment later.
Ripping open the door, he slid back behind the wheel and threw the
transmission into gear.

"Tutsis?" Walters asked as they pulled out from behind the rocks.

The Executioner shook his head as he pulled around the boulders. "No,
idiots," he said. "Duke and Bradfordson. Drunk."

Walters knew the problems the Trooper could bring. "If the government
troops spot them-"

"They'll be dead," Bolan finished for him. He floored the accelerator as
the Lincoln's front wheels hit the road, bringing the vehicle up to a
fast eighty miles per hour. The tires squealed as the Executioner guided
the car around the curves in pursuit.

Bolan estimated that the Trooper would be a good mile ahead by now. But
if he could overtake the two well-meaning but imprudent Englishmen
before the Tutsis spotted their Trooper, he might be able to save them.

The Executioner's hopes for a fast rescue vanished as a sudden flurry of
gunshots exploded ahead. The sound of screeching tires and screaming
metal met his ears as he piloted the Lincoln around another curve, then
into a straightaway.

Ahead, perhaps three-quarters of a mile, Bolan saw the Trooper lying on
its side just off the roadway. Two more Troopers had pulled up on both
sides of the overturned vehicle, and Tutsi soldiers in camouflage
fatigues were still shooting into the wreck.

The Executioner leaned hard on the gas pedal, driving the speedometer
close to the hundred mark as he raced down the road. Behind him, he
heard Walters work the bolt of the Weatherby.

"As soon as we're in range," Bolan said, "take out the closest man."

"Got you," Walters said.

"Ukewere, you and Karsimbi get your heads down." Bolan glanced up into
the mirror, then to his side. His words had been wasted. Karsimbi was
out of sight in the backseat and Ukewere was already huddled in a fetal
position on the floorboard.

A second later the .416 Magnum Weatherby boomed with a deafening roar.
Bolan saw a Tutsi facing away from the Lincoln jackknife as he fell to
the ground. The heads of the other soldiers snapped toward the oncoming
Lincoln.

"Pass me the Winchester, then take out someone else," Bolan ordered. He
held his hand up and felt the stock of the Winchester slap into it.

Bolan pulled the rifle over the seat and jammed the stock between his
knees. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he used his other to work the
lever, then lowered the hammer. Behind him, the big elephant gun roared
again and another man dropped.

"Hold on," the Executioner said, then shifted his foot from the
accelerator to the brake.

The Lincoln's tires screamed in protest as the brake pads set in. The
car slewed sideways, sliding down the asphalt toward the Troopers, then
fishtailing back. Bolan fought to keep the vehicle under control as a
half dozen FN FAL rifles were aimed at them.

The Lincoln fishtailed the other way, bringing the driver's side around
to face the massacre on the road. Bolan drew the big .44 Magnum revolver
and got off two thunderous rounds before the vehicle straightened again.
Two more of the soldiers fell to the asphalt.

Suddenly the Lincoln stopped. The front and back ends were still trying
to settle on the shocks as Bolan holstered the revolver and grabbed the
Winchester. He dived from the vehicle as a burst of rounds buzzed over
his head, hitting the ground on his shoulder as another volley of fire
burrowed holes in the asphalt.

Coming to a halt on his belly, Bolan thumbed the hammer back and
triggered a softpoint round that split a soldier's breast bone. The man
screamed in pain, then fell next to the front tire of the overturned
Trooper.

On the other side of the Lincoln, Walters had abandoned the bolt-action
Weatherby for his faster shooting Colts. The Executioner heard an almost
steady string of .45 rounds burst from the twin Government Model
pistols.

Bolan shifted the Winchester's sights to two men twenty yards ahead of
the wreckage. As he aimed at the Tutsi on the right, he saw the hand
grenade hanging from the man's battle suspenders. Adjusting his aim, his
finger squeezed the trigger.

The softpoint round hit the grenade, and a microsecond later both the
man wearing the battle harness and the soldier next to him
disintegrated. Bolan ducked his head as shrapnel and bits of flesh
rained from the sky. As the rubble from the explosion settled, he looked
up again.

The ground was littered with dead soldiers and pieces of the last two
men. Silence had fallen over the battlefield, the hum of the idling
Lincoln the only sound.

The Executioner rose to his feet, walked to the nearest body and dropped
the Winchester next to it. He pried the FN FAL rifle from the dead
fingers, then lifted a half dozen extra magazines from the man's
rucksack.

From the corner of his eye Bolan could see Walters had followed his
lead, appropriating another of the rifles. "Gather up all the extra
ammo, and throw a couple of spare rifles in the trunk," the Executioner
said.

He moved toward the chassis of the overturned Trooper, then circled
around to the other side. The side of the vehicle had been smashed down
with the wreck, and he had to drop to his belly to look into what was
left of the window opening.

The Executioner wasn't surprised at what he saw, just saddened.

Bullets had torn Bradfordson's scalp from his head. Other rounds had
turned his chest and back into a pin cushion that still oozed blood.

Godfrey Duke had died easier. All but one of the rounds seemed to have
missed him. But that one deadly missile of lead had found his heart, and
he stared Open-eyed back at Bolan, every bit as dead as his fellow
Englishman.

"Turn here," Karsimbi's shaking voice said from behind Bolan.

The Executioner slowed, turning off the asphalt onto a dirt trail that
led into the hills. Karsimbi guided him through several forks in the
road and down into a valley. They came to an abrupt dead end surrounded
by rocky cliffs and thick foliage.

Bolan threw the transmission into Park and turned around. "I hope for
your sake this wasn't a joke."

Karsimbi shook his head. "No, it isn't. But from here, you have to
walk."

"Wrong," Bolan answered. "From here, we have to walk. How far?"

"One mile," Karsimbi replied. "Maybe a mile and a half." He indicated a
steep cliff with his eyes.

All four doors of the Lincoln opened and the men got out. Bolan and
Walters pulled out their assault rifles and began to fill their belts
and pockets with spare magazines. As they prepared themselves for the
hike, the Executioner heard the sound of feet approaching from behind.
He turned to see Sal Ukewere.

The man had raised hell about going to see Karsimbi. It had worked out
that he wasn't needed, and Bolan had been a little surprised that
Ukewere hadn't tried to get away from the plantation while he and
Walters were gone. He had been even more surprised that the man hadn't
complained about going on to find Big Billy.

As the man looked up at the Executioner, Bolan saw again that the
chronic hatred of all he saw seemed to have left Ukewere's face. Had
something happened back at the plantation during his absence? "Can I
have a gun?" Ukewere asked.

Bolan looked at the man. "Why?" he asked.

"Because if we're going to get shot at, I want to shoot back," Ukewere
said simply.

"Back in Cyangugu, you told me if you had a gun you'd kill me," he
reminded the man.

Ukewere's gaze fell to the ground. "I would have," he said. "But that
was then. This is now."

Bolan studied the man. Had he really had a change of heart? The
Executioner reminded himself that Salewe Ukewere had survived the
war-torn nation of Rwanda by being an exceptionally fine con man, and
playing both sides of the fence that ran between the Tutsis and Hutus.

Okay, Ukewere might have changed. On the other hand, this could be just
another of his well-thought-out hustles.

Ukewere looked back up. "Please," he said. "I want a gun to protect
myself." He paused, looked down again, then mumbled something else under
his breath. Bolan frowned. "I didn't here that last part."

"I said, "And to help you.'"

The warrior reached into his jacket and pulled out the FEG .380 he'd
taken from the Tutsi earlier in the day. "Just in case this is a con
job, Sal," he said, "you need to be aware of the reality of the
situation. You might be able to sneak up on me and put a bullet in my
back before I kill you. I doubt it, but anything's possible in this
world. But if you do, Tater will kill you." He looked over to where the
white-haired man was slamming a fresh 20-round magazine into his assault
rifle.

Walters had been listening. He raised his weapon and gave Ukewere a
smile that would have curdled milk. Bolan handed the man the .380 butt
first.

Karsimbi hurried up next to Ukewere. "I'll need a gun, too," he said.

The Executioner just shook his head, then pointed at the hill with his
rifle barrel. "Lead the way," he ordered.

For thirty minutes they climbed the trail leading up out of the valley
where they'd left the Lincoln. By now the Executioner was no longer
surprised that Walters could scramble up the steep incline over the
rocks with the agility of a mountain goat. And Ukewere again showed the
same stamina he'd exhibited during their earlier run into Cyangugu. But
by the time they reached the summit of the hill, Karsimbi's chest heaved
with every breath, and his lips had grown pale.

As he tried to catch his wind, Karsimbi pointed into another valley on
the other side of the hill. Bolan followed the man's finger. At the
bottom of the slope, partially grown over with weeds, vines and other
vegetation, he saw the entrance to an abandoned mine shaft.

Walters stopped between Bolan and Karsimbi. "Gold mine?" he asked.

Karsimbi nodded. When he'd caught enough breath to speak, he said,
"Played out years ago."

"And Big Billy's inside?" Bolan asked.

Karsimbi shrugged. "Like I told you, maybe."

The Executioner led the way now, moving as quickly as he could down the
steep slope into the valley. The others followed, turning sideways and
using the length of their feet to get more traction in the loose earth.
When they reached the bottom, Bolan turned to Karsimbi and Ukewere. "You
two stay here. And don't waste your time trying to get away. We'll just
find you. And if we have to do that, I'll kill you."

Without waiting for an answer, the Executioner moved quickly to one side
of the mine opening. Tater Walters took the other side of the hole, his
FAL pointed into the air. He looked at Bolan.

The Executioner nodded, and they both darted around the corner into the
mine at the same time.

In the semidarkness Bolan could see the remains of rail tracks leading
deeper into the mine. He pulled a miniflashlight from his pocket,
twisted the beam and moved forward. Twenty yards into the old mine, he
could see light coming from a bend in the narrow passage. Staying on the
rusted iron rails of the track, he walked silently forward, trailed by
Walters.

At the bend in the tunnel, Bolan stopped, then peered around the corner.
What he saw made him shake his head in wonder.

The tunnel led into a large cavernous room that had been converted to
crude living quarters. At the angle at which he stood, the Executioner
could see only part of it, but visible was a king-size bed, a nightstand
and a plywood wardrobe. Turning the corner, Bolan walked cautiously down
the tunnel, Walters at his heels. When he reached the entrance to the
large underground room, he raised the assault rifle to his shoulder and
stopped.

From this new vantage point he could see the entire cavern. The area to
the left of the bed had been turned into a combination kitchen-dining
room. An old kitchen table stood in the center of the space, with four
unmatched chairs circling it. Behind it was another table that held a
microwave oven attached to a small electric generator. Lining the cave
walls were boxes that bore the markings of canned food.

To his right Bolan saw several well-worn couches and chairs that had
been set up to form a make-do living room. But it was not what he saw
that piqued the Executioner's interest. It was what he heard. To the
right of the bed, another tunnel led out of the room, and from it came
the running-water sound of a shower.

Bolan crossed the room slowly, careful to peer into every nook and
cranny provided by the furniture as he passed. He glanced over his
shoulder to see that Walters, ever the good soldier, had taken up a
position where he could cover both the room and the tunnel they'd come
from. As he reached the passage on the other side, the warrior stopped.

Just around the corner he could hear more than just the water. A deep
bass voice was softly singing the signature show tune from the musical
Annie.

The Executioner stepped around the corner, the barrel of the rifle
leading the way. Again, what he saw caused him to shake his head.

A giant black backside faced him. The fat man to whom it belonged stood
beneath the faucet of a fifty-five-gallon drum that showered water over
the shampoo in his hair.

"Hey, Big Billy," Bolan said.

The man screamed as he jumped straight up in the air. When he came back
down, he turned toward the Executioner, madly trying to wash his eyes
clear enough to see.

Bolan dropped the barrel of the rifle toward the floor. "Relax. I'm not
going to kill you." He paused, then added, "Unless, of course, you don't
tell me what I want to know."

The Executioner stepped around the corner into the main room as a
still-uncertain Big Billy Rukanwe began to dry himself with a towel.
"Walters," he called across the room, "I've found him. Go back outside
and bring in the other men."

The white-haired merc turned on his heel and disappeared into the
tunnel.

Bolan waited until Big Billy had squeezed his corpulent frame into a
pair of khaki work pants and a white T-shirt, then followed the man to
the living room area of the cavern. As they reached the couches, Walters
stuck his head back inside the room. "You'll never believe what Sal
found outside," he said.

A moment later, Ukewere shoved Karsimbi through the tunnel opening, then
stepped to one side.

A tall, slender woman bearing the traditional tribal markings of the
Tutsi entered, holding the hand of a little girl. Bolan glanced at
Rukanwe. Big Billy was Hutu, which meant he had a mixed marriage. No
wonder he had hiding places all over the country--every time war broke
out the radical elements of both tribes would go after his family just
as they did Belgians.

Bolan looked at the woman and girl as they walked toward the living
area. The little girl was dressed identically to her mother. In one arm
she cradled a baby doll.

Rukanwe nodded as he lowered his bulk into a chair. Bolan waited until
the woman and little girl had taken seats on one of the couches, then
dropped into a chair across from the producer. Walters, Ukewere and
Karsimbi joined them, finding seats in the circular pattern of chairs
and couches.

Rukanwe's eyes bored holes through Karsimbi. "Judas," he muttered.

"I don't like him much either," Bolan said. "But he didn't have a
choice."

Rukanwe turned his attention to his wife and daughter, watching them
with nervous eyes.

"I have no intentions of hurting them," the Executioner stated. "Or you,
if you tell me what I need to know." The man's face relaxed, but only
slightly.

Bolan came right to the point. "My name is Collier, and I'm looking for
the Belgian acting troupe."

The producer looked at the floor. "So are both the Tutsi government and
the Hutu rebels. They are probably dead by now."

"I don't know that," Bolan said. "And I want to keep it from happening."

Rukanwe looked up. "Why?"

Bolan looked the man in the eye. "Dusty Morrison is a friend of a
friend. I was sent to get him out. As long as I'm here, I might as well
get the others to safety, too."

The man nodded. "Your intentions are honorable. But you have no idea how
impossible a rescue from Rwanda can be." The man glanced nervously to
his wife, then back to the Executioner.

"Nevertheless, I intend to try," Bolan said. "I need to know where
they're hiding. And you're the man who can tell me."

Rukanwe used his arms to pry himself from the chair, stood, then turned
and faced the wall of the cave. "How do I know I can trust you?" he
asked. "How do I know that you, too, do not want to kill my friends?"

"Which tribe do I look like I belong to, Rukanwe, Tutsi or Hutu?"

"Both the Hutus and Tutsis have hired mercenaries before," he replied.
Again, he glanced at his wife.

So far the woman hadn't spoken. But Bolan was beginning to suspect there
was something Big Billy was afraid she would hear. The man kept looking
at her, and his words were coming out only after careful deliberation.
"Does your wife speak English?" Bolan asked.

"I do," the woman stated.

"Then please try to convince your husband that I'm trying to help," the
Executioner said to cover the real reason he'd asked the question.

The tall woman stood and moved next to her husband. She looked at Bolan,
then said to her husband, "I trust him."

"Why? Why should we trust him?"

"I do not know," the Tutsi woman said. "But I do."

Rukanwe flopped back into his chair. His wife pulled another chair to
his side and sat down, motioning the little girl to join them. Big
Billy's daughter jumped up and, clutching the doll to her chest, hurried
over to her mother's lap.

The producer sucked in a deep breath. "They are in another of my hiding
places," he said.

Bolan nodded. Racial prejudice on both sides of the Tutsi-Hutu feud
required the Rwandans to trust no one but themselves. The Executioner
sighed. He had seen the same thing the world over. Every race on the
face of the planet had its share of racial prejudice, but nowhere was it
any more pronounced than in Rwanda.

"So, where is this hideout?" Bolan asked.

"In the Rugege Forest," Rukanwe said. "But there are only four of the
original cast who survived the attack at the theater. He paused for a
moment. "Dusty Morrison was one of them. It was his guns that allowed
even those four to escape."

"The Rugege is a big place," Bolan said. "Where in the forest are they?"

"I have an underground house there that is equipped for long stays."
Again he looked nervously at his wife.

The Executioner frowned as he looked around the cave. "So how come you
didn't go there?" he asked. "It sounds more isolated and probably more
comfortable than this place."

Rukanwe was almost shaking as he watched the woman at his side. When he
spoke, it was as if the words had to be pried from his mouth with
pliers.

"We ... went there last time," he said. "I was afraid someone would know
of it."

The Executioner studied the man closely. That might be part of it, but
there had to be more. Two and two wasn't quite adding up to four yet.
Bolan looked at the woman. "Mrs. Rukanwe, could you and the child excuse
us for a few moments? I'd like to talk to your husband privately."

The Tutsi woman looked at her husband. Big Billy looked relieved as he
nodded. Mrs. Rukanwe patted her husband on the hand, stood and led the
little girl out of the cave into the tunnel.

"Tell me the truth now," Bolan said as soon as she was gone. "There's
more, and I know it."

Rukanwe's eyes had been an over-stressed water dam waiting to burst.
Tears suddenly flooded his face and he leaned forward, clasping his
hands over his eyes. His entire body shook with sobs when he said, "It
is I who am the Judas, not Karsimbi. I am a traitor to my friends!"

Bolan waited until the man calmed down, then said, "Tell me what
happened."

The producer sat back up and wiped his face with the back of his arms.
"As I left the forest after delivering the troupe," he stated. "I was
stopped by Tutsi soldiers. One of the men recognized me, and they knew I
had to know where the actors were." He paused to wipe his running nose,
then went on. "They not only threatened to kill me, Mr. Collier, but
also my wife and child! So ...  so ...  So I told them where the house
was located!" He broke into tears once more and buried his face into his
hands.

The Executioner stood. "I'll need directions to the house," he said,
lifting the rifle from where he'd leaned it against his chair.

His face still hidden by his hands, Rukanwe shook his head. "It is too
late," he moaned softly. "By now they are dead."

"Maybe not. In any case, we've got to find out. How do we get there?"

Rukanwe's hands dropped to his lap and he looked up, his features a
masterpiece of spiritual misery. "I will take you there, Mr. Collier,"
he said. "It is the least I can do after what I have already done."

Depression wasn't part of Mack Bolan's psychological profile. Even as a
young soldier in the jungles of Southeast Asia, he had instinctively
recognized despondency as an enemy that stood in the way of a success as
substantially as the Vietcong or NVA regulars. He had learned early on
to force dejection from his soul whenever it threatened to raise its
ugly head.

No matter how long the odds or how hopeless a predicament appeared,
Bolan knew that a positive outlook was always more productive.

The Executioner's willpower in this area, however, was tested to the
limit as he walked up on the remains of the underground house.

Bolan stood at the edge of the trees, letting his eyes take in the
wreckage he saw before him. The evidence that Rukanwe's underground
house had once hidden in this clearing was everywhere: in the scraps of
lumber, the slivers of steel support rods, the pieces of drywall and the
white drywall dust that now mixed with the damp earth.

The producer stepped out of the trees and stood at the Executioner's
side. "Oh my God," he said softly.

Bolan moved into the clearing. Charred pages from books, components from
electronic devices, torn upholstery and splinters of furniture lay
within the giant cavity that now gaped in the jungle floor. The concrete
staircase leading down from what had once been the hidden entrance
appeared to be the only thing left intact. Slowly the Executioner
descended the steps, stepping over more rubble as he went. He reached an
area that looked to have been a living room, and amid the wreckage saw
the remains of a television set lying on the blistered carpet. Bits of
plastic from videotapes covered the remains like black hailstones that
wouldn't melt, and more pages from what had to have been a fairly
extensive library fluttered in the scant breeze.

Moving on into what had once been a kitchen, Bolan saw exploded cans of
beans, vegetables and other foodstuffs, their contents covering the
floor and what remained of the walls. The plumbing in the bathroom had
been ripped from within the walls, and the water from a hidden tank had
gushed out to cover the floor ankle deep.

In the bedroom, the Executioner saw wet bed springs, mattress stuffing
and feathers lying in the water that had run down the hall and entered
the room. Both men's and women's clothing--some intact, some blown to
pieces--lay beneath the already-stagnant puddles.

The Executioner looked up to see Rukanwe standing at the edge of the
hole, his chest heaving with sobs as he stared down in horror. "What
were they wearing?" Bolan called up.

The producer looked down at him without answering.

"What were they wearing, Rukanwe?" Bolan asked again.

He seemed to come out of a trance. "The men still had on their costumes
when we got here," he said. "Tuxedos ... But Morrison had on his cowboy
Suit. Boots, chaps, spurs ... that sort of thing."

Bolan glanced at a black bow tie next to his feet. "Did they have other
clothes with them?"

Rukanwe seemed to have sunk into his trance of guilt once more. He said
nothing.

"You want to make up for what you did?" the Executioner asked.

The producer nodded.

"Then snap out of it, get a grip on yourself and answer my questions."
He paused, then repeated, "Did they have other clothes with them?"

Big Billy nodded.

Bolan began wading through the mess, his eyes searching the floor. He
had already seen pieces that might have once been tuxedos, as well as
shreds of material that sparkled with sequins and would have been an
evening gown. And as his eyes continued to roam, he saw two large silver
Mexican spurs. One lay intact in the corner. The other had been blown
apart, with the shank, rowel and band gleaming up through the water from
various parts of the room.

The futility that the Executioner had fought against upon seeing the
destruction began to fade. True, the Tutsi soldiers had destroyed the
underground house with the same savagery with which they destroyed the
Hutus--and the Hutus destroyed them--but they hadn't destroyed Dusty
Morrison or the other surviving members of the troupe. At least not yet.

Nowhere in the wreckage of Big Billy's underground hideout did Bolan see
a trace of anything human. And regardless of how heavy the explosives
used had been, there would be at least some body parts that were still
identifiable.

"John!" Walters's voice called from somewhere above. "Tracks!"

Bolan moved to the edge of the bedroom, reached up and hauled himself up
to ground level. Walters stood at the opposite edge of the clearing, and
he jogged to the white-haired mercenary's side.

The merc pointed down at a heelprint in the soft earth. Small, probably
a woman's shoe, it had a zigzag pattern typically found on athletic
footwear. Just beyond it a vine growing along the floor of the forest
had been broken almost in two, and next to it the Executioner saw a
print that could only have been made by a cowboy boot.

Bolan turned back to the clearing where Rukanwe, Ukewere and Karsimbi
stood next to the hole in the ground. "Rukanwe, you and Karsimbi head
back. Ukewere, come with me."

Karsimbi looked up at him. "We'll need the keys to the car."

Bolan shook his head. "Walk. You'll make it. And it'll be just that much
longer before you can alert the Tutsi troops to the fact that we're
here."

"I would never do that," the producer vowed.

"I believe you wouldn't want to," Bolan replied. "But you already did
once. So maybe you wouldn't do it again, but your little friend wouldn't
hesitate."

Karsimbi looked up at the Executioner, his eyes frightened. "But there
are animals in this forest," he stated. "What if we come across a lion?"

"Then you'll be eaten," Bolan said simply.

"But-"

"There's one other alternative." The Executioner drew the big .44 Magnum
revolver. "I can kill you where you stand."

Without further argument, Karsimbi and Rukanwe turned and hurried back
toward the trees.

Bolan watched them go, taking a second to compare the two men. There was
a difference. Karsimbi was an opportunistic little gangster with no
morals. He'd inform on them in a heartbeat if he saw any profit in it.

Rukanwe, on the other hand, had been a decent, ordinary man who found
himself in extraordinary circumstances. Big Billy had given up his
friends to save his family. That didn't make it right, and the blood of
Dusty Morrison and the Belgians would still be on Rukanwe's head if the
Executioner didn't find them in time. But it did make a difference.

The Executioner turned back to where Walters and Ukewere were waiting at
the edge of the trees. If they could find the actors' tracks as easily
as they had, then so could the Tutsi soldiers. And the Rwandan
government troops had a head start.

With a quick look at his two companions, Bolan said, "Let's go," then
led the way deeper into the forest.

The transformation hadn't been sudden, nor was it yet complete. But it
was going on. Somehow, he was changing, and Salewe Ukewere knew it. He
watched the big man ahead of him as they made their way through the
thick trees. Yes, he was changing. Or, perhaps he should say, he was
being changed.

And the catalyst of that change was the big man in front of him.

Ukewere stepped over the thick roots of a tree and moved on. Behind him,
he could hear the soft steady breathing of Tater Walters. There had been
a time when he had thought of Walters as no different than himself.
Walters bought and sold information just as Ukewere did. But the
white-haired man had never dealt with the Tutsis or Hutus, peddling his
intelligence only to American agencies like the CIA.

Even in a war-ravaged nation like Rwanda, Walters had kept his values.
The man had a code of honor that he didn't violate, and that, Ukewere
realized as he ducked under a low-hanging limb, was the difference
between Walters and himself: a code of honor, a system of doing things
that took into consideration the rights of other people. Ukewere had
been taught a code like that as a child, but had abandoned it after his
parents' murders. Since then he had thought of no one's welfare except
his own.

Ahead, Bolan stopped suddenly, raising a hand and cocking an ear.
Ukewere and Walters stopped immediately. The African heard the faint
rustling of leaves ahead and to their right. He gripped his gun as his
heart jumped to his throat.

Then a jungle rat darted across their path to disappear again in the
thick foliage. Bolan moved on. Ukewere and Walters followed.

Ukewere watched the jungle floor as they walked. The Belgians and the
American cowboy with them knew nothing of covering their trail, and the
Tutsi troops who had followed had seen no need to do so, either. The
ground was a mass of broken sticks and vines that pointed the way as
clearly as road signs.

Ukewere followed his two companions down an embankment and across a
narrow trickling stream. The big American stopped, then squatted to look
at a print in the mud. Ukewere moved up next to him and saw the prints
of several combat boots.

Just to the side of the mass was a slightly different impression,
another boot, but this one lacked the lug soles of the Tutsi soldiers'
footwear. The toe was more pointed, and the heel had sunk far deeper
into the mud than the sole.

The African followed the two men up the other side of the bank and they
moved on. Collier was a good tracker, and he wondered where the big
white man had learned the skill. He himself had been taught by his
father and uncles as a child, sometime during the period when they had
also taught him the use of traditional weapons of the tribe, such as the
bow, spear and blowgun.

The memory of his early weapons education caused Ukewere to look ahead
at the rifle under Collier's right arm. Behind him, Walters carried an
identical weapon. His hand moved to the small pistol stuck in his belt,
and he let his fingers run along the checkered plastic grip.

Ukewere had never fired a gun, and he was glad that Collier had given
him the small one. The rifles looked heavy and complicated. You could
shoot the little pistol in his belt by simply pulling the trigger,
Collier had said it was double action, whatever that meant.

The big American paused as they reached another break in the trees.
Ukewere saw him study the open area ahead for several seconds, then move
cautiously into the clearing. Ukewere followed, his hand still on the
grips of the pistol. When they reached cover once again Ukewere let his
arm fall back to his side.

How did you point a pistol? Collier had said to line up the sights, and
he knew those were the black things on top of the gun, at the front and
back. But how exactly did you do it? With a blowgun you just pointed,
and he supposed that would work with a firearm as well. In any case,
that was the method he would have to employ if he was forced to shoot at
someone. He would just have to do it and hope for the best.

The thought of a blowgun took his mind into the past once more, to his
father and his father's two brothers. His uncles had tried to talk him
into fleeing to Zaire after his parents' murders. For centuries the Twa
of Rwanda had joined their cousins in the neighboring country when war
broke out at home. In Zaire the Twa had resisted all government attempts
to integrate them into mainstream society. The Twa of that country still
lived in the mountains and jungles--as the tribe should, according to
his father's brothers.

Ukewere had refused the offer to go with his uncles, choosing instead to
stay and avenge his parents in the only way he knew how.

Collier bent to study more tracks, and Ukewere saw him lift something
white. He looked closer an saw it was the butt end of a cigarette. The
big man turned to him and Walters. "We're close," he mouthed silently.
"It's still warm." He took off again, moving even more slowly and more
precisely now.

Ukewere felt the tension mount in his chest. They would come upon the
Tutsi soldiers, and they would come upon them soon. How would he fare?
Would he fight valiantly as did the Twa heroes in the stories he had
listened to as a child? Or would he panic and flee like the cowards also
contained in those stories? He had been trained in weapons, yes, but he
had never before faced a man with them. He had avenged the murders of
his parents by trickery rather than confrontation, and although he knew
he was responsible for the deaths of many Hutu and Tutsi, those deaths
had come from information he had sold, not fighting.

He had sold the information, but others had done his killing for him.
How would he behave in a face-to-face encounter with an armed adversary?

Suddenly, as they moved on through the Rugege Forest to meet their
enemy, Ukewere realized that his transformation had been completed. He
might not know yet how he would react to actual battle, but he knew he
could no longer engage in the long-distance assassination of faceless
men. The men who had died because of him, both Hutu and Tutsi, had more
than likely not been the individuals responsible for his parents'
deaths. They were just men--like himself--who had been caught up in the
carnage that had infected the land since the Tutsis and Hutus had
arrived.

These men--both Hutu and Tutsi--murdered, raped and looted, and their
acts were shameful. But they were no more shameful than the acts of
Salewe Ukewere. The Tutsi slaughtered the Hutu because they were Hutu.
The Hutu butchered the Tutsi for being Tutsi. Ukewere had orchestrated
the deaths of men and women from both tribes for the same bigoted
reasons.

Bolan stopped suddenly and raised his hand again.

Ukewere froze. He listened, but heard nothing. He looked, but saw
nothing in the thick foliage on the other side of the big man.

As he strained to see whatever it was that had caused the big man to
stop again, Ukewere came to another sudden realization. He knew he could
never again go back to the long-range assassination of Hutus and Tutsis
he didn't even know. He suspected he would go on fighting injustice, and
in that way continue to try to avenge the deaths of his mother and
father. But from this day on he must distinguish between the Tutsis and
Hutus who were responsible for the bloodshed in his country, and those
who were victims.

In short, Ukewere realized he wanted to become more like this man who
called himself Collier.

Suddenly it dawned on the African that what had stopped Collier couldn't
be seen or heard, for it had been neither sight nor sound.

The odor had been infiltrating his nostrils since Collier held up his
hand, but only now did Ukewere's brain identify it as out of place.
Smoke. Cigarette smoke.

His hand trembling, Ukewere drew the pistol from his belt.

Dusty Morrison watched the sun peek through the thick trees and saw
Streak rise to a sitting position under his blankets. The makeup artist
looked sick as he rubbed his eyes. Morrison knew how he felt, and
thought of the immortal words of W.C. Fields: "I feel like the Russian
army's been walking over my tongue in their stocking feet." He couldn't
remember which movie the line had come from, but it had been the great
comedian's description of a hangover.

Well, Morrison didn't have a hangover, hadn't even had a beer in maybe
twenty years. And his mouth wasn't particularly dry, although he could
use a drink of water. But every muscle, bone and joint in his body
ached, and his eyelids felt as if they each weighed twenty pounds. So
when Streak rose to his feet, walked over and asked how he was feeling,
he altered Fields's words slightly. "Like the Russian army's been
walking over my body in iron boots."

Streak caught the line, gave a weak, frightened smile and shuffled off
into the trees to relieve himself.

Morrison looked across the clearing to where Spaak still lay huddled
under his blanket. The would-be rapist was responsible for the older
actor's heavy eyelids. Morrison had found sleep impossible after what
the arrogant young man had tried to do to Denise, and had lain awake all
night watching to make sure Spaak didn't try a repeat performance. His
vigilance had been unneeded. Spaak had awakened sometime during the wee
hours of the morning, gone into the bushes to do what Morrison assumed
Streak was doing now, then returned to his blanket. Otherwise he'd just
lain there quietly.

Feeling Denise rustle at his side, Morrison forced himself to his feet
as quickly as his aching body would allow. He began to gather up the
blankets and other supplies they'd unpacked for the night and tucked
them into the backpacks. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Spaak
awaken and sit up.

The man rubbed the back of his head and glared at Morrison, who was more
than happy that Spaak's head hurt. He deserved more than that for what
he tried to pull.

Lefevre stood and began to roll up her blankets, and the confused
mixture of emotions Morrison had felt all night intensified. He drew the
ten-inch bowie knife from the sheath on his Buscadero rig and knelt on
the ground. Digging in the dirt, he busied himself burying the empty
cans of food they'd opened. He didn't want to look at the woman--he knew
how it would make him feel. He was confused, and a little voice in his
head told him that at this point it would be better to stay confused
than confront the bewilderment in his soul.

All night, as he lay awake, he had pondered why Denise reminded him so
of Lois. They looked nothing alike. They acted nothing alike. Denise had
a Belgian accent, and Lois had been from Kansas, with a typical Midwest
lack of any accent.

So what was the connection between the two women? Ever since he'd handed
Denise his blanket after the attempted rape, and their eyes had met, his
brain had fought against facing the answer that his heart already knew.
But now, as Dusty Morrison stood up from the ground and felt the ache in
both knees, he could escape reality no more.

The reason Denise Lefevre kept making him think of Lois was simple: he
had been in love with Lois, and now he was in love with Denise Lefevre.

The immediate guilt that followed the acceptance of his feelings swept
over the man like some massive tidal wave. His weary bones ached more.
The twenty-pound weights on his eyelids became forties. He could barely
force his legs to hold him upright, and when he tried to walk those same
limbs refused the command.

Then Streak stepped back out of the trees zipping up his pants, and it
dawned on Morrison that even in the midst of the worst guilt he had ever
felt in his life, something had reawakened in his soul that had been
asleep for a year.

Morrison was no longer apathetic about his life. For the first time
since Lois had died, he cared whether he lived or died. And he wanted
more than anything else in the world to go on living.

When the other three had finished packing, they turned to Morrison, who
said, "Ready?"

Streak and Lefevre nodded. Spaak turned his head to one side but didn't
say anything.

Morrison started into the trees. As his boots clomped over both dry and
green leafage on the forest floor, he felt his heart begin to lighten
from the guilt. It was as if LIFE were about to start anew.

A hand touched his shoulder.

"Are you okay?" Streak asked, his voice trembling in fear. It was only
at that moment that Morrison realized he had stopped dead.

The aging actor felt the grin break across his face. "I'm fine," he
said, then chuckled. He felt twenty years old again.

Lefevre squeezed his arm. "I love you," she whispered. "Dusty, I love
you."

Morrison nodded, wondering now if the joy he felt in his heart might
overwhelm him. "I love you, too," he said, taking her into his arms. "So
what do you say we get out of here and start a life somewhere?"

Lefevre smiled up into his eyes. Taking her hand, Morrison started
forward again through the Rugege Forest. Where he was going, he had no
idea. What he would do when he got there, he didn't know. But he did
know that his heart was lighter, and he was happier than he'd been since
that day so long ago when the doctor had brought him the bad news about
Lois.

Which was why it seemed like such incredibly bad timing when the men
with the rifles suddenly appeared through the trees.

The first tangible sign of the enemy might have been the cigarette
smoke, but the Executioner had known he was close a good five minutes
before he smelled the smoke.

Innate ability, intense training and experience often combined to
produce skills in a warrior far beyond what could be explained.

The Executioner had sensed the sentry's presence for a hundred yards
before the smoke drifted his way. What had spawned his awareness?

He didn't know. Exactly how he had become aware of the man's presence
would forever remain a mystery known only to his subconscious mind.

But he knew the man was there.

Bolan waited, listening, his hand in the air to halt both Ukewere and
Walters. A faint rustling sounded through the trees, and he waited for
it again. The sound was familiar--the brush of a lightweight BDU blouse
sleeve rubbing against more of the same material.

Turning to Ukewere, Bolan handed the man his rifle, then stooped to
whisper in the man's ear. "Stay here. I'll be back for you."

Ukewere looked down at the rifle in his hands as if it were a
rattlesnake.

Looking up and behind the little man, Bolan saw Walters frozen in place.
With hand signs he told the merc to explain the workings of the battle
rifle to Ukewere, then turned back toward where the enemy awaited him.

The Executioner drew the heavy Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum revolver and
dropped to his hands and knees. Careful to keep the weapon out of the
damp dirt, he moved slowly forward through the thick undergrowth of the
jungle. Bolan's nostrils flared like those of a bloodhound as he
followed the cigarette-smoke trail that linked him to the man marked for
death.

Twenty yards farther into the trees, leaves and vines, Bolan saw a
flicker. He froze, watching, waiting to see more. It looked as if the
leaves themselves were moving--not an uncommon sight in the thin breezes
that invaded the thick jungle.

But something was different. Something was out of place.

The Executioner continued to watch patiently until he saw the movement
again. His eyes focused on the spot, and he saw that the moving leaves
weren't leaves at all. All around the area of movement, the leaves and
vines were a bright jungle green. But the area that moved was a darker
brown and looked more like a tree limb covered with bark, which was
exactly what treebark camouflage fatigues were designed to look like.

The Executioner moved forward on all fours. He made his way around
several trees, taking a circuitous route toward the man who had chosen
the wrong camouflage gear.

By the time he was within ten yards of the movement, the Executioner
could see the man sitting with his back against the tree trunk. The
tall, slender Tutsi was alone, which meant he'd been posted as a rear
sentry while the other soldiers rested.

The orange glow of the cigarette tip moved in an arc from the man's
mouth back to his lap where his forearm rested on his thigh. In addition
to the tree-bark cammies, Bolan could now see that the man wore a
leather garrison belt and flap holster. An FN FAL assault rifle leaned
against the tree trunk next to him.

Employing all the stealth he could muster, the warrior crept forward
until he was less than three feet from the unsuspecting sentry. In one
fluid motion, Bolan rose to his feet, swinging the heavy .44 Magnum
revolver in an arc that struck the soldier against the temple. Without a
sound he dropped to the forest floor.

Bolan lifted the assault rifle and pulled two more magazines from the
holder on the sentry's garrison belt, then hurried back to where Ukewere
and Walters waited. The African was sighting down the barrel of the
rifle Bolan had given him.

"You feel like you can use it?" the Executioner asked.

Ukewere looked at him, his eyes betraying his doubt. "How about the
pistol?" Bolan asked.

The man nodded, his expression displaying more confidence this time.

The Executioner nodded. "Then leave the rifle. We'll pick up another one
in a few minutes." He turned to Walters. "Tater, I took out the sentry.
The others must be close. I'm going to circle to the front--they'll have
another man posted there. Take Sal and move in from the rear. Give me
twenty minutes, then wait until you hear the first shot."

He turned back to the African. "You can stay clear if you want to, Sal."

Ukewere shook his head.

Bolan studied the man's eyes. There had been a change. He didn't know
exactly when, where or why, but Ukewere was no longer the bitter,
antagonistic, self-centered semioutlaw he had been when Bolan had first
met him.

"Okay, then," the Executioner said. "Let's move out."

The Hutu tribesmen who stepped out of the trees were as surprised to see
Dusty Morrison and the Belgians as the acting troupe was to see them.

Morrison pushed Lefevre to the ground, drawing the twin Colt .45
Peacemakers.

A short, stocky black man wearing multicolored tribal robes started to
raise the assault rifle he held. Morrison thumbed back the hammer of the
.45 in his right hand, and a split second later the Peacemaker fired its
load.

The man in the colorful robe dropped the rifle. He screamed as tiny dots
of blood appeared just below his chin in the V-shaped opening of the
robe. The man looked down at his chest, now peppered with red where the
bird shot had struck.

Another robed figure stepped forward and aimed a pistol Morrison's way.
The aging actor shifted slightly, firing again with the Colt in his left
hand. More bird shot flew from the Peacemaker, catching the tribesman in
the face from roughly six feet away. This man made no sound.

Morrison saw the blood in the man's right eye and knew at least one of
the tiny pellets had entered the optic nerve. Then the man's eyes rolled
back in his head and he fell forward onto his face.

Raising both single-action revolvers, Morrison aimed at the remaining
two Hutus. He had thumbed both hammers back when he felt the jolt in the
back of his neck.

Fire raced through the actor's brain as he fell to his knees. He tried
to focus his blurred vision on the ground in front of him, but his eyes
refused to steady. Behind him, he heard Spaak scream, "Don't shoot! I
stopped him! Don't kill us!"

The rattle of automatic fire threatened to burst the aging cowboy's
eardrums. Unseen to his rear, Spaak screamed again. But this time the
Belgian actor's scream was one of pain.

Morrison saw a blurry pair of bare feet move into view in front of him.
He tried to get up, but the pain in the back of his head stopped him
cold. He saw what happened next in slow motion.

One of the feet rose off the ground. The robe parted to reveal a knee
and part of a thigh, then the knee struck under the cowboy's chin and
sent him flipping onto his back.

Strangely the new blow washed the waves from Morrison's eyes. He could
see clearly now as more feet moved in at his sides. He tried to move,
but his arms and legs wouldn't cooperate. A sharp tingling raced through
his outstretched limbs as if they'd gone to sleep and the blood was just
now rushing back into them. He watched the angry face above him flip the
rifle over in his hands and raise it high into the air.

Again, Morrison tried to roll out of the way. Again, he couldn't make
his body follow the orders from his brain. He watched the rifle butt all
the way to his face, then he closed his eyes.

Fifty yards ahead of where the sentry in the treebark camouflage now
lay, Bolan heard the rest of the Tutsi soldiers resting in the forest.
Their voices were low, hushed, but now and then a loud laugh broke the
stillness. Each time that happened the Executioner heard what he
perceived to be an admonishment in Kinyarwanda.

Bolan skirted wide around the men, making his way through the dense
foliage as quickly as silence allowed. As he darted from tree to tree he
caught brief glimpses of heads, arms, elbows and knees. The men appeared
to be seated in a circle, their backs against the tree trunks.

The Executioner moved twenty yards in front of the assemblage, then
slowed when he sensed a new presence to his side. Slinging the assault
rifle over his back, he dropped to his belly, pulling himself forward
with his elbows. When he reached a wide boulder, he jerked several
handfuls of long grass from the ground and wove it through his hair.

Bolan rose slightly, peering just over the top of the boulder. Unlike
his counterpart to the rear, the point guard was alert. He stood with
rifle ready, turning frequently to check all sides. He didn't smoke,
either.

Dropping back behind the boulder, the warrior considered the situation.
The man stood in the center of a clearing, a good ten yards away. There
was no cover after the boulder, and unless the guard moved closer to the
trees on another side of the open area, there was no sense in trying to
move around him.

Bolan's eyes scanned the forest floor for a rock or limb, anything small
enough to throw. Seeing nothing, he pulled one of the spare FAL
magazines from his belt and thumbed off the top round. He risked one
more quick glance over the boulder and saw that the man had turned
again. He still faced away from the Executioner, but now stood at a
slight angle.

Rising slightly higher, Bolan drew back his arm and cast the bullet over
the man's head, across the clearing and into the trees. The round struck
a tree trunk just to the guard's left, causing him to twist that way.

He now faced directly away from the Executioner.

Bolan was over the boulder before the guard knew what had caused the
sound in the forest. Swinging the assault rifle, he smashed the stock
against the back of the man's head. The guard dropped to the ground as
blood spurted from the wound.

The warrior moved quickly now, making his way back through the forest
toward where the rest of the Tutsi soldiers sat. He heard the laughter
again, then moved behind a pair of trees that had grown together two
feet over his head. Peering between the trunks, he could see the faces
of two men who sat with their backs against a trunk.

One of the men had a beard cropped close to his face. His rifle rested
across his lap. The other wore a tree-bark camouflage BDU cap over
frizzy black hair that stuck out from the sides. His weapon leaned
against the tree to his side.

Projecting from the sides of a tree facing the two men were the arms and
knees of another pair of Tutsi soldiers. A fifth man sat cross-legged on
the open ground to the left. A sixth reclined on his elbows just beyond
him.

Bolan looked past the men and saw a small rustling in the trees. Walters
and Ukewere were in place. They'd be together; the aging mercenary was a
pro, and he'd have kept an inexperienced fighter like Ukewere close to
him.

The Executioner moved away from the intertwined trees, taking up a
position at a forty-five-degree angle from where he'd seen the movement.
The last thing they needed was to kill one another in a cross fire.
Slowly, methodically, he unslung the assault rifle and flipped the
selector to semiauto.

Taking careful aim on the bearded man, Bolan drew a deep breath, let
half of it out and squeezed the trigger. The bullet struck its target
squarely between the eyes and made the top of its head disappear.

The rest of the soldiers froze in stunned surprise. Bolan took advantage
of their shock to swing the rifle to one side, sighting in on the man in
the BDU cap. His next round took the Tutsi in the center of the chest.
Before the body had quit its death throes, the Executioner was moving
out into the clearing.

He heard the SOUND of Walters's rifle on full-auto as he flipped his own
weapon to "rock and roll." A quick burst of fire caused the man sitting
in the open to jerk in a macabre dance of death. Another volley of
rounds took out his reclining companion.

The Executioner moved farther into the open, twisting to fire at the
final two men on the other side of the tree trunk. Before he could pull
the trigger, he saw both of them fall to Walters's withering blasts of
fire.

Sudden silence replaced the booming explosions of the guns.

The trail left by Dusty Morrison and the Belgians hadn't been hard to
pick up again. And had the Tutsi soldiers known how close their prey had
been, Bolan doubted they would have chosen to stop and rest.

Morrison and the rest of the company had escaped the Tutsis, but they
hadn't escaped the Hutu rebel force that the Executioner now saw as he
peered down through the thick leaves and vines.

From his vantage point near the top of a tall tree, the Executioner
watched the valley a hundred yards away through his minibinoculars. Four
men in bright tribal robes sat in a circle just to the side of the bound
and blindfolded actors. They appeared to be in the midst of a heated
discussion. Faint traces of blood were visible on the chest of one of
the men.

Two other men--one white and wearing blue jeans, the other black and
dressed in Hutu robes--lay on the ground to the side of the circle,
apparently dead.

Bolan shifted the binoculars slightly and saw Dusty Morrison's trademark
ten-gallon hat, pulled low above the blindfold. The actor still wore his
boots, chaps and an empty hand-tooled Buscadero-style gun belt sporting
sterling-silver studs and buckles.

The Executioner squinted through the glasses. Dried blood caked the
cowboy's face around the blindfold.

Next to Morrison, Bolan saw a smaller man with a thin goatee hanging
beneath the black cloth tied over his face. The man's frail shoulders
were shivering in fear. On his other side sat a woman in blue jeans and
a T-shirt. She, too, was blindfolded, and her hands had been tied behind
her back.

Bolan passed the binoculars to Tater Walters, who sat on the limb next
to him. As the white-haired merc studied the scene below, the
Executioner looked down at Ukewere on the ground. "Pass up our rifles,"
he whispered.

Ukewere did as ordered.

Walters handed the binoculars back to Bolan. "Think they're trying to
decide whether to kill them or not?" he asked.

The Executioner shook his head. "That's a foregone conclusion. They're
just trying to decide how to do it."

Walters nodded as he took the rifle Bolan extended to him. He looked
down at it, then back up to the Executioner. "We need a couple of decent
bolt actions and scopes for this, you know."

"The Rugege Forest sporting goods store is closed, Tater," Bolan said as
he lifted the stock of his own rifle to his shoulder. "Start on the left
and work your way toward the middle. I'll start on the right."

"That's affirmative."

In his peripheral vision Bolan saw the merc jam the stock of the assault
rifle into his shoulder and sight down the barrel.

The man on the right sat almost full profile to the Executioner. Bolan's
first shot drilled through his temple, blowing blood, brains and bone
fragments out the other side of his head to shower over the face of the
man seated at his side. The man's hands shot up instinctively to wipe
away the gore.

The Executioner dropped the front sight on the back of one of the man's
hands. To his side, Walters's weapon exploded. Squeezing the trigger
again, Bolan saw the Hutu's little finger fly off just before the bullet
went on through the skull.

As he moved the sights toward the third Hutu in the circle, Bolan saw
Walters's first target stretched out on the ground. He and his companion
pulled their triggers simultaneously, and the Executioner's next round
entered the Hutu rebel's throat and severed the jugular vein.

Walters's round exploded through the man's heart. Blood shot from both
wounds as if they were open fire hydrants.

Bolan slung the rifle over his shoulder, grasped the branch beneath his
hips with both hands and started to swing down out of the tree. He
stopped when he saw the flicker of color on the hill just beyond the
valley where the actors sat in blind confusion.

Focusing on the color, Bolan saw it was a Hutu robe. The head and
shoulders of a man appeared, then his waist, and finally his feet as he
sprinted over the crest of the hill.

A second later two dozen more Hutu rebels followed. All carried FN FAL
assault rifles.

"Sal, stay here!" Bolan shouted as he launched himself from the limb.

He heard Walters drop to the ground behind him as he landed on his feet.
"Let's go, Tater. We've got to get them out of there before the rebels
reach the valley."

Dodging tree trunks and hurdling logs, stumps and boulders, the two men
sprinted forward through the forest. When they reached the valley, Bolan
saw the first of the rebels leading the others down the hill. The man
was still a good two hundred yards away, but closing the gap fast. The
rest of the Hutus were only a few feet to his rear.

Bolan snapped a hip-shot up the hill as he raced forward toward the
blindfolded actors. The shot flew wide, but hit close enough to the
leader to slow his pace. Reaching Dusty Morrison, the Executioner ripped
the blindfold from the actor's face and jerked the man to his feet. "My
hands," Morrison began, "they're tied behind-"

"No time to worry about that now," Bolan said as he reached down and
hefted the woman over his left shoulder. "Can you run?"

Morrison nodded.

"Then do it."

Bolan pushed the cowboy ahead of him toward the other side of the
valley. He turned and fired a one-handed volley of rounds up the hill as
Walters draped the goateed man over his shoulder.

Two of the Hutus fell to the ground. The others stopped in their tracks.

Turning back toward where he'd left Ukewere, Bolan saw Morrison running
awkwardly, his bound hands in tight fists behind his back. The
Executioner sprinted after the cowboy as the first burst of return fire
ripped chunks of grass and earth from the ground around his feet. Just
behind him and to his rear, Bolan could hear Walters's labored breathing
as he carried the other man.

The Executioner ran on, twisting back to fire again with one hand, his
rounds dropping another of the Hutu rebels. Turning back to the trees,
he saw Ukewere suddenly step out from cover.

The African held the assault rifle Walters had checked him out on.
Aiming high over Bolan's head, he cut loose with a steady stream of
full-auto cover fire that shook his entire body.

Morrison reached the trees and fell to the ground, panting. Bolan
followed, dropping the woman next to him, then turning to grab Walters
and jerk him to cover. Ukewere continued to fire until his magazine ran
dry, then fumbled with a full box, trying to remember how to get it into
the weapon.

As Walters and the man with the goatee fell to the forest floor behind
him, the Executioner dropped to one knee, steadied his elbow on the side
of a tree and squeezed the trigger of his rifle.

The two Hutus in the lead fell to the ground in the center of the
valley, the bullets shredding their torsos. The rest of the rebels fell
back quickly, dropping to the ground or behind available cover.

Bolan took a head count as things quieted. There were roughly twenty
Hutu rebels left. He turned and saw that Walters had lifted the
blindfolds from the Belgian man and the woman, and cut the ropes that
bound the hands of all three. Ukewere had finally forced a new magazine
into his rifle, and stood waiting to see what the Executioner had in
mind.

"Tater," Bolan said, "you remember the way back to the vehicles?"

Walters nodded. "Then you and Sal take these three and get started."

The white-haired merc frowned. "What about you?"

"I'll hold them off, make them think we're still here, until you get a
good head start. Then I'll follow." Bolan paused. "Now get going."

Walters helped the woman to her feet, and Bolan got his first good look
at her. In her mid-forties, she was still enormously attractive and
exhibited an almost aristocratic dignity, even under the present
circumstances. She looked vaguely familiar, and the Executioner guessed
he had to have seen her on-screen.

Ukewere was suddenly standing in front of him. "I'll stay with you," he
said.

Bolan glanced at Morrison. Except for the nasty gash on his forehead,
the actor looked to be in fairly good shape. He'd already taken the
woman's arm from Walters and it looked like he planned to help her along
the way. Turning to the little man with the goatee, Bolan saw that
although terrified, he hadn't been harmed and would be able to run of
his own accord.

The Executioner turned back to Ukewere. "Suit yourself," he said.
"Switch your selector to semiauto. The rest of you take off."

Bolan turned to Ukewere. "Don't waste any ammunition. If you see a shot,
take it. But the main thing we want to do is to keep them pinned down,
remind them that we're still here and they'll get shot if they stand
up."

Ukewere nodded.

Bolan and the African waited silently as the footsteps of the others
faded behind them. A minute went by, then five. Finally a head rose from
behind a cluster of rocks in the middle of the valley.

The Executioner let loose a volley.

Five minutes became ten. Bolan continued to wait, watching the valley
with the trained eyes of the sniper. He knew that traveling through the
thick forest would be slow going for inexperienced woodsmen, but by now
he guessed the others would be several hundred yards away.

Another head peeked over a tree stump.

Bolan fired again, his hurried round striking the stump an inch below
his target. The head jerked back out of sight as Ukewere sent two rapid
rounds after it.

Out of the corner of his eye the Executioner could see his companion
smile with satisfaction.

"We'll give them another five, lay down a few rounds, then take off,"
Bolan whispered. "You ready to run?"

Ukewere nodded.

The Hutu rebels had decided to play their own waiting game. Ten minutes
later, no one else had risked peering from behind cover. Bolan turned to
Ukewere, said, "Get ready," then fired a short burst of rounds across
the open space.

A moment later the Executioner and Ukewere were racing through the trees
after Walters and the others.

By the time Bolan and Ukewere caught up with the rest of the group, they
had passed the remains of Big Billy Rukanwe's underground house and were
almost to the side road where they'd left the Lincoln. After the last
shots had been fired, it hadn't taken the Hutu rebels long to realize
their quarry was escaping through the woods, and for the past half hour
Bolan had listened to the running footsteps behind them grow ever
nearer.

Introductions had come as the Executioner packed Walters, Ukewere,
Morrison, Lefevre and Streak into the vehicle and slid behind the wheel.
As he pulled the Lincoln from under the brush that had hidden it, the
first of the Hutus had appeared a hundred yards behind them. The vehicle
had sped away with rebel bullets falling inches short of the back
bumper.

The performers were in high spirits as the Executioner guided the
vehicle back along the road toward Cyangugu. Morrison, Lefevre and
Streak had escaped death, and they were ready to celebrate with
laughter, cheers and tears.

"I hate to break the news to you," Walters said over the merriment, "but
we're not out of the woods yet. Literally or figuratively."

The revelry died a quick death.

Bolan took up the briefing. "By now the Tutsis will have found their
dead, and Duke and Bradfordson. They'll put two and two together and
head for the plantation. We've got to go get Waseme and Janet. As soon
as we've got them, we've all got to get out of the country. The closest
border is Zaire."

"If they've found the bodies along the road, they'll have that border
sealed up tight," Walters commented.

The Executioner guided the Lincoln toward the plantation. "You're right,
Tater. We can't cross at Bukavu," he said. "So we're going across Lake
Kivu.

A stunned silence met Bolan's ears.

The plantation appeared ahead. "Sal," Bolan said, you told me you had
relatives in Zaire."

The man nodded. "My uncles and their families."

"Any way you can get word to them?"

Ukewere moved forward, resting his arms on the back of the seat and
sticking his head over the top. "They live in the mountains with the
tribe," he said, "but I have a cousin who has moved into Goma." He
shrugged. "He has a phone. I could try. Why?"

"Because we need them to pick us up on the other side of the lake. And
we'll need a place to hide out. There's no guarantee that the Tutsis or
the Hutus are going to pay any attention to international boundaries if
we're spotted."

The Executioner slowed, then twisted the wheel guiding the Lincoln onto
the road to the plantation. When he stopped in front of the house, both
Waseme Duke and Janet Nyungwe waited on the porch, suitcases at their
sides.

"Sal, get inside and make your call," Bolan ordered.

Ukewere got out and sprinted past the women on the porch as they lifted
their luggage and hurried to the Lincoln. Waseme bent down, looking
through the window at Walters. "He is dead," she said softly.

Walters nodded.

Waseme closed her eyes as the merc opened the door for her, then helped
her into the crowded backseat. Janet got into the front between Bolan
and Morrison, with Lefevre taking a place on the cowboy's lap.

"I knew I would have to flee when this was over," Waseme said. She
looked at Walters. In her eyes Bolan saw a confused mixture of sorrow
for the loss of her husband and the excitement of a new life made
possible by the same loss. "I just didn't know for sure who I'd be
fleeing with."

Twenty minutes later Ukewere rushed out of the house and squeezed into
the backseat. "I got him!" he said excitedly. "And my uncle was
visiting. He's on his way to alert the tribe right now."

Bolan threw the car into drive. Gravel spun from beneath the rear tires
as they hurried toward Lake Kivu.

The small harbor north of Cyangugu was hardly a showplace of the
yachting world. On the other hand, it had boats. A few, at least. The
Executioner braced himself against the rocks overlooking Lake Kivu and
peered through the minibinoculars. To the northwest the large body of
water stretched over the horizon. A finger-like peninsula supporting
short hills hid the other end of the lake. In between, small vessels in
dire need of repair were tied to rotting wooden posts. Trash had
gathered along the quayside, and several holes were obvious in the dock.

There was no sign of Tutsis, Hutus or any other human presence.

The binoculars moved along the row of boats. Bolan considered, then
rejected each craft in turn. Some were too small. Others bore such
obvious signs of disrepair he was surprised they hadn't sunk there in
the slips.

The binoculars finally rested on a Carver, roughly thirty-six feet in
length. The vessel sported an aft cabin and enough deck space for the
entire party--if no one exhaled. The Executioner moved the lenses slowly
along the starboard side of the craft to the engine. It was a Kohler,
and he saw no signs of rust or other damage.

Bolan lowered the binoculars from his eyes and stared at the boat. It
would do, and at least from a distance it looked to be in shape.

Turning, the Executioner hurried back along the rocks to the small
plateau where he'd left Walters in charge of the others. He found
Ukewere and the aging mercenary standing guard, with the others pressed
into semiconcealment behind an outcrop at the foot of the hills.

"I've found a boat and I'm going down to try to get it started," Bolan
stated. "Move everybody down to the rocks but keep them out of sight
until you hear the engine turn over."

Walters nodded and began readying the others while Bolan returned to the
rocks. The assault rifle slung over his shoulder, he made his way
swiftly down a steep slope to the marina, then jogged across the
decomposing planks that led to the Carver.

The Executioner's eyes scanned the area as he boarded the craft: quiet,
deserted, easy.

Too quiet and too deserted and too easy. It made no sense. There had
been more than adequate time for the Tutsi government troops to discover
the bodies of Duke, Bradfordson and their own men. They had been lucky
to beat the soldiers to the plantation, but by now there should be
guards posted not only at the border near Bukavu but at all obvious
points of disembarkation.

The Executioner had chosen this marina because common sense told him
that wartime and pleasure yachting didn't go hand in hand. Further
reasoning told him the Tutsis would know this, too, and therefore the
guard would be lighter. Common sense, however, didn't say there would be
no guard at all.

Bolan knelt next to the engine, inspecting it. Clean and oiled, it
showed no signs of the obvious disrepair that he'd seen on the other
engines through the binoculars. Looking up toward the rocks, he saw that
Walters had the others gathered at the edge, ready to hurry down the
slope.

Again the Executioner's eyes swept up and down the bank. The uneasiness
in his soul intensified--the same feeling he'd had in the forest just
before he smelled the cigarette smoke of the Tutsi sentry.

The Executioner turned back to the engine. The real test of the Carver's
seaworthiness would be in the actual operation. With a deep breath, he
cranked it over.

The Kohler coughed twice, started to stall, then began to roar like some
giant jungle cat.

Bolan moved behind the wheel as Walters led the way down the slope. He
waited, each second that ticked away seeming like an hour as he watched
the group move toward the dock.

Behind them, on the small plateau from which they'd come, the
Executioner saw a buffalo walk slowly from the trees and gaze down at
the peaceful water. The huge creature sniffed the air, then suddenly
moved back into hiding.

Bolan dropped to the deck instinctively as the blast of full-auto fire
drilled through the cabin window. He had set down the assault rifle to
inspect the engine, and drew the big .44 Magnum revolver. More rounds
exploded from the other side of the craft as he dragged himself to the
port side and peered over the rail to see a Tutsi soldier standing on
the deck of a twenty-eight-foot Sea Ray docked two slips down.

The Executioner fired once. The soldier dropped as blood spurted from
the cavity where his left eye had once been. Bolan switched his
attention to the people still on the dock and saw that all but Walters
and Ukewere had dived to the ground. The two men stood blasting away at
a Viking Sport Fish on the other side of the Carver.

More gunfire drove Bolan back below the rail. He began to crawl across
the deck to the starboard side.

What had happened was painfully clear. Three Tutsis had been guarding
the marina. They had seen him approach on his recon mission but held
their fire, waiting out of sight on the boats until the others came down
the slope.

Rising above the rail again, the Executioner saw that Walters or Ukewere
had taken out one of the soldiers. The other crouched low on the Viking,
still firing his rifle.

Bolan let the red front ramp sight of the Model 629 fall on a point
halfway between the man's armpit and waist, then pulled the trigger.

The big .44 Magnum spit flame as it exited the four-inch barrel, then
drilled through the Tutsi's ribs and dropped him out of sight on the
Viking's deck.

Bolan rose to his feet. "Come on!" he shouted, and watched Walters and
Ukewere jerk the others to their feet. "Tater! Pick up a couple of extra
rifles and all the magazines you can round up!"

The Executioner hurried back to the wheel as Morrison helped Streak and
the women on board the Carver and Ukewere and Walters went after the
munitions. Less than thirty seconds later the two men leaped on board.

Without a word the Executioner threw the engine in reverse, backed out
of the slip and started out into the lake.

The Carver had barely left the marina when the Tutsi patrol boat roared
around the finger-like peninsula into view. THE FIRST RIFLE ROUND from
the patrol boat fell a hundred yards short as the Executioner kicked the
Carver into high gear. Three more rounds followed, then the firing fell
off.

But the Tutsi patrol boat didn't slow. The government troops weren't
giving up their pursuit; they were just waiting until they got into
better range.

Bolan turned to the men and women crowded onto the small craft. He
needed someone who could pilot the boat if he was going to be free to
lead the return fire. He glanced at Walters, who was jamming some of the
newly acquired magazines into the waistband of his jeans. No, the
white-haired merc was too valuable as a shooter. And Ukewere had now
proved he could pull the trigger, as well.

Droplets of water shot up over the front of the Carver as the craft cut
its way through the gentle waves. Bolan's eyes moved to Dusty Morrison,
who sat with Lefevre, crowded in between the other two women. Morrison
could guide the boat, but he might be able to shoot, too. Somewhere in
the back of his mind he remembered that the Western actor was an avid
trap-shooter and hunter.

"Morrison!" the Executioner shouted over the roar of the engine and the
breaking water. "Can you shoot?"

Morrison turned to look at him, then glanced at the assault rifle in
Ukewere's fists. "Never shot anything like that before except with
blanks in it," he yelled back.

"Streak!" Bolan yelled. "Get in here!"

The little man with the goatee looked up from where he was squatting on
the deck, then rose to his feet and stumbled into the cabin. "Ever
piloted before?"

The man shook his head.

Bolan placed his hands on the wheel. "Just like driving a car," he said.
"Almost. Just follow the shoreline north. I'll be back before you have
to change course."

"But-"

"Streak," the Executioner said, placing both hands on the man's
shoulders and looking into his eyes, "just do it."

Streak nodded.

The Tutsi patrol boat had closed the distance considerably by the time
Bolan got back on deck outside the cabin. Another shot rang out, falling
less than twenty yards behind the Carver's stern. The Executioner
ordered the women inside with Streak.

Shoving one of the extra rifles into Morrison's hands, Bolan said, "You
know firearms, Dusty, and if you've fired full-auto with blanks, you've
fired full-auto. There'll be a little more recoil, but that's about the
only difference. Find a place along the rail and keep your head low. The
show's about to begin."

The Executioner turned to see that Walters and Ukewere had dropped to
their knees behind the rail. Ukewere was practicing with the sights,
rising and falling with the waves. Walters looked like the old warrior
that he was, a modern-day gladiator in the dressing room beneath the
Coliseum waiting for his match to begin.

The Executioner raised the binoculars again and stared through the
lenses at the oncoming patrol boat. He was surprised to see that the men
on the deck were dressed in Hutu robes rather than Tutsi army uniforms.
He handed the binoculars to Walters.

"Well, I'll be damned," the white-haired merc said. "Hutus. I'd lay some
money there's some dead Tutsi troopers somewhere in their wake."

Bolan nodded. "That doesn't mean much to us, though."

As if to prove his point, another shot rang out, falling less than a
foot behind the Carver.

"Open up," Bolan ordered as he worked the bolt on his FAL to chamber a
round.

Suddenly bullets were flying both ways across the lake. The Executioner
sighted in on the chest of the nearest man, timed the rising and falling
of the Carver as it sped through the water and pulled the trigger.

The colorful robe fell back to the deck.

More rounds were exchanged, but the two craft were still barely within
range of each other. The distance, combined with the bouncing waves,
brought no further hits.

"Hold your fire," the Executioner ordered.

A moment later the rounds from the patrol boat died, as well. The vessel
cut speed until it was riding along the waves like some giant bobbing
fishing float. Then it turned and headed back in the direction from
which it had come.

"What the hell's going on?" Walters said.

"They weren't expecting resistance," Bolan told him. "They're rebels,
not soldiers. They like to kill Belgians, but their first priority is to
take out the Tutsi government." He turned to the cabin and relieved
Streak at the wheel, peering through the cracked and broken windows to
see that they were passing Mbuye on the east. A few miles to the west he
could see the island of Katana in the middle of the lake.

Walters moved into the cabin next to the Executioner. The white-haired
merc was grinning. "Let's hope everybody we run into shows an equal lack
of dedication to the task."

Bolan started to answer, then stopped as two specks suddenly appeared on
the water to the east. He lifted the binoculars to his eyes. "That would
be nice, Tater," he said, "but I wouldn't count on it."

"Huh?"

"Those are more Tutsi patrol boats bearing down on us from shore," he
said.

THIS TIME the Tutsi patrol boats were manned by Tutsis. As they drew
closer, the Executioner could see the camouflage fatigues he'd grown to
know during the rescue mission. And as he stared through the
minibinoculars, he could see another distinction between the new boats
and the one that had given up the chase a few moments earlier.

Both of the vessels racing to cut them off before they left Rwandan
waters had M-60 machine guns mounted on the foredecks.

The Executioner gunned the engine, coaxing every ounce of power out of
the Carver as they cut on through the waves. Ahead, he could see the
northern end of Katana Island in the center of the lake. To their rear,
the faster patrol craft gained steadily.

Soon, Bolan knew, they would be within range of the M-60. The
American-made machine guns could cut a boat like the Carver to shreds
long before their own assault rifles did any noticeable damage to the
enemy.

Cutting the wheel, the Executioner guided the Carver along Katana's
short northern coast. Ukewere's uncles had agreed to meet them in a
small cove approximately nine miles south of Goma. The Zaire Twa would
be waiting when the Carver arrived.

But would it arrive? the Executioner wondered. He glanced aft again. The
patrol boats were nearing the range of their M-60s. The Carver would
soon be in Zairian territory, but what if the Rwandans ignored the
international boundaries and swept into the cove after them?

The Executioner might well bring death to Ukewere's family and its
tribe, as well as Walters, Morrison and the others.

The Executioner faced front again. It was too late now to second-guess
his strategy. He had made the best decisions he could with the available
information, and he had no choice but to stick with them.

It was simple, really. They'd make it. Or they wouldn't. "Streak!" the
Executioner called. The man hurried into the cabin. "Take the wheel
again. Keep it on course. When we near the cove, I'll send Ukewere to
guide you in."

The goateed man visually gulped, then nodded and took the wheel.

Bolan hurried back on deck. "Waseme," he said, "take the women inside
and help Streak. The rest of you, get ready. We're about to rock and
roll one more time."

From across the water in the Carver's wake, a loudspeaker came on with a
screech. "This is the army of the Republic of Rwanda!" a deep voice said
in French. "Cut your engines and prepare to be boarded immediately."

Bolan turned to his companions. "You guys ready?"

To a man, they nodded.

"Repeat!" boomed the voice over the loudspeaker. "Cut your engines!
Prepare to be boarded! This is your last warning!"

Bolan glanced toward the island. Something caught his eye as he looked
away, and he turned back. In the distance he saw another small marina,
and just leaving the dock was a small private craft.

The binoculars returned to his eyes. The boat was a thirty-six-foot
speedboat, but he couldn't make out the men on deck.

The first burst of gunfire came from the M-60 on the right. Most of the
rounds hit the water on the port side of the Carver, but two struck the
rail, gouging steel shrapnel from the side of the craft.

The voice boomed again, giving them one final chance.

Bolan's answer was a steady stream of fire that took out two
fatigue-clad men on the deck of the Tutsi patrol boat.

Both M-60s opened up, forcing the men on the Carver to the deck. Ragged
holes appeared in the hull, but the boat moved on through the water.
Bolan, Walters, Ukewere and Morrison took turns, darting up over the
rail to return fire, then falling back out of sight when the M-60s
erupted.

Bolan raised his head high enough to see around the cabin to the water
in front of the boat. The coastline of Zaire was now visible in the
distance. "Sal!" he yelled. "Get inside and show Streak the way!"

Ukewere rolled across the deck, came up on his hands and knees and
crawled into the cabin.

Bolan waited until the machine guns had quieted, then rose and shot
another burst their way. He dropped down again as soon as the big guns
returned fire, waiting for the impact of the heavy 7.62 mm rounds on the
hull. It didn't happen.

More gunfire exploded behind them, and with it came the distinctive
sound of FN FAL assault rifles. But again the Carver sustained no hits.
Bolan rose again and saw that the speedboat he'd seen leaving the island
was bearing down on the Tutsi boats. Men in the colorful robes of the
Hutu crouched on deck, rifles dancing in their hands.

The patrol boats had turned toward the speedboat, their M-60s firing
round after round at the rebel craft.

Bolan took advantage of the lull in the battle to rise and hurry into
the cabin. He found Streak and Waseme copiloting the vessel, with
Lefevre and Janet sitting cross-legged on the deck. Ukewere stood next
to the wheel, pointing toward the entrance to a small lagoon on the
Zairian shore, now less than two miles away.

The Executioner returned to the deck and raised the binoculars. At least
a mile separated the Carver from the patrol boats, but as he watched,
the M-60s quieted. He shifted the lenses slightly. The speedboat's deck
was littered with corpses, and as he watched, the ruptured vessel sank
below the waterline and the bodies floated off into the lake.

The Tutsi patrol boats turned back toward the Carver.

"Collier! We're going down!"

Bolan dropped the binoculars and looked at Walters. The aging merc stood
next to the rail, ankle deep in water. The vessel had taken too many
hits and was swiftly dropping in the water.

Across the peaceful waves, the Tutsi boats raced toward them.

The Executioner turned back toward the cove where the Twa tribesmen
would be waiting. They had closed to less than a half mile now, and the
Carver still chugged through the water. But the added weight of the
water had slowed the craft to a crawl.

The simple fact was, there was no way they were going to make it.

Bolan's eyes moved from Walters to Morrison. The cowboy knew what was
happening, but his face showed no fear. Turning to look back in the
cabin, he saw Ukewere standing to one side of the wheel.

Walters, Morrison, Ukewere--good men, all three of them. If it was time
for the Executioner to die, he would go in brave company.

Since the beginning of his one-man war against injustice, the
Executioner had known he was living on borrowed time. He had dealt death
to the world's wicked on an almost daily basis, always wondering when
his own time would come.

This day, he might have the answer to that question. But just as he had
refused to veer from the strategy he had planned for this escape from
Rwanda, he wouldn't deviate from the overall design of his long career
against evil. If the next few moments were to be his last, he would make
the most of them. He would go down still fighting the fight he had
fought for so long.

And a few more Tutsi soldier-terrorists would go down around him.

Bolan's jaw set as he brought his rifle to his shoulder and waited for
the oncoming enemy. Walters suddenly pointed to the rear of the
Executioner, then shouted, "Collier! Look!"

The water had risen to knee depth as Bolan turned to see the Twa
tribesmen launch two canoes from the Zairian coast. A pair of men jumped
into each of the hide-covered boats, and the long, slender vessels began
bounding over the gentle waves.

The warrior looked over his shoulder to see the Tutsi boats a quarter
mile away. Through the binoculars, he could see the M-60s rotating
toward them.

"Tater! Morrison!" the Executioner shouted. "Get the others ready!" He
stuck his head in the cabin. "Sal! You pilot until they've come
alongside!"

The aging merc and the actor sloshed through the thigh-high water into
the cabin, returning a moment later with Streak, Lefevre, Waseme and
Janet. They waited at the starboard rail as the canoes paddled forward.

Bolan hurried to the stern, dropping to his knees in the cool water. The
top of the hull rode less than an inch above the waterline as he raised
the assault rifle and sighted in on the patrol boats.

Behind him, the Executioner heard the excited voices of the Twa as the
canoes bumped the Carver's hull. He glanced over his shoulder to see
Morrison and Walters pushing Streak and the women over the sides of the
boat, then turned back, sighted down the barrel of the assault rifle and
pulled the trigger.

Rounds ripped from the weapon in a steady stream. One cammie-clad Tutsi
fell to the deck of the patrol boat to the Executioner's right. Bolan
swung the rifle to the side, hosing the boat to the left. Two more of
the Tutsi soldiers went down. The magazine cycled dry and the bolt
locked open as Lake Kivu finally climbed over the side of the vessel.

Bolan found himself treading water as the boat disappeared through the
water beneath him. Dropping the empty rifle, he turned and swam toward
the nearer canoe. A man who looked like an older version of Salewe
Ukewere dropped his paddle and reached out, grabbing his arms and
helping him into the craft.

As he drew the big .44 Magnum revolver from wet leather, the Executioner
saw Morrison, Lefevre and Waseme in the canoe between the Twa. Morrison
had retained his rifle, and fired a steady stream of 7.62 mm NATO rounds
at the closing Tutsis.

Bolan turned as the Twa paddled madly for shore. In the corner of his
eye, he caught a glimpse of Janet in the other canoe. She was flanked by
Walters and Ukewere, who were firing steadily at the patrol boats.

The M-60s opened up again, drilling into the water around the canoes as
the Twa paddled in choreographed unison. They were forty yards from the
lagoon now, but the Tutsis were almost on them. Bolan squeezed the
handgun's trigger repeatedly until the hammer fell on an empty chamber.
He pulled a speed-loader from his pocket and swung the cylinder from the
frame.

The other three men continued to lay down fire as the Executioner jammed
a fresh load into the big revolver. The M-60s roared on, their giant
steel bullets splashing the water inches from the canoes. One round
skimmed past the Executioner's knee, slashing through the hide at the
top of the primitive boat.

Then, seeming louder than the explosions from the patrol boats, Bolan
heard Walters's rifle bolt click open, empty. A split second later
Ukewere's did the same, followed by Morrison's.

As the Executioner slammed the cylinder back into the Smith, he saw
Walters drop his rifle and draw the twin .45s.

Then, suddenly, rifle rounds entered the foray again. But they lacked
the familiar ring of the FALS, instead sounding like AK-47s on full
auto.

Bolan fired two more rounds at the Tutsis, then turned to see two
Zairian patrol boats shooting forward through the water from the south.
Uniformed men stood on deck, their Kalashnikovs vibrating as they blazed
away at the invading Rwandan craft.

New explosions boomed just to the north of the canoes, and the
Executioner did an about-face to see a third Zairian vessel heading
their way, a 12.7 mm machine gun on the deck of the craft firing on the
Rwandan boats.

A final volley of 7.62 mm rounds drilled into the canoes. Bolan heard a
muffled grunt a second before he emptied the rest of the .44's cylinder
at the Rwandan boats. As the Magnum roars died in his ears, a low moan
drifted across the water.

Then the Rwandan craft began a hasty retreat, the Zairian patrol boats
close at their heels.

Bolan turned toward the other canoe as the Twa guided them into the
lagoon. Walters had dropped his .45s and now held Sal Ukewere's head in
his lap.

A huge hole gaped in the center of Ukewere's chest, blood covering the
man from feet to throat. His eyes stared blindly at the sun.

On the shore, Bolan saw dozens of men holding spears, bows and blowguns.
They jumped up and down in excitement as the canoes neared.

With the machine guns and rifles still roaring in the distance, Tater
Walters reached down and closed Sal Ukewere's eyes.