DEATH WHISPER [066-066-5.0]

By Don Pendleton

A GOLD EAGLE BOOK
From Worldwide Library

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STOCKHOLM - ATHENS - TOKYO - MILAN
MADRID - WARSAW - BUDAPEST - AUCKLAND

Copyright (C) 1996 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,
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publisher, Worldwide Library, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada
M3B 3K9.

First edition April 1996

ISBN 0-373-64208-3

(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

#205 Hell Road

#206 Hunting Cry

#207 Freedom Strike

#208 Death Whisper

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

Special thanks and acknowledgment to Chuck Rogers for his contribution to this
work.

Men rise from one ambition to another--first they seek to secure themselves
from attack, and then they attack others. -Niccole Machiavelli, Discorse 1531

Aggression unchallenged is aggression unleashed. -Lyndon B. Johnson, August 4,
1964

You have to fight fire with fire, give as good as you get. When America's
enemies attempt to gain a foothold, my response will be scorched earth all the
way. -Mack Bolan
THE MACK BOLAN LEGEND

Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man
called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of
Vietnam.

But this soldier also wore another name--Sergeant Mercy. He was so
tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and
Vietnamese civilians.

Mack Bolan's second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given
emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then
he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.

He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope
of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society's every rule. That
same society started gunning for this elusive warrior--to no avail.

So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism.
This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix.
With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new
allies--Able Team and Phoenix Force--waged relentless war on a new adversary:
the KGB.

But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet
terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.

Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the
Executioner has agreed to enter an "arm's-length" alliance with his government
once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting
War.

PROLOGUE

Within the corrugated steel walls of the shack the phone rang once.
There were no greetings. None was expected.

"You have succeeded," a woman's voice said coldly. It was a statement,
not a question.

The man snorted. "Of course."

"How?"

There was a pause, and the man's voice hinted at insult as he answered.
"I thought you said you did not wish to know of these things."

The woman's tone became irritated. "Tell me. Now."

"Very well. It was done by the roadside. He never expected it. It will
appear to be a random killing, and I am sure with your influence you can
have the case open and shut very quickly. Oh, you will also be pleased
to know our new friend was extremely helpful in the matter."

"Can we trust him?"

The man laughed. "Of course not, but, let us say that his help was
indispensable. Evidence of his indispensability in this matter is in our
hands, and he has been made very well aware of this. He has also been
very generously paid for his services." The man shrugged. "Do you wish
him killed?"

For a moment there was silence. "No, I believe he can be of further use
to us. You are sure there will be no trouble? I understand this man
Beckett was well liked in the community."

"We have Crucible--" the man wrapped his mind around the American phrase
"--in our pocket. He was well liked, yes, but even those in the
community we do not own are too scared to act. Besides, there is no
proof that it was anything other than a random, roadside killing. These
things happen in America. One reads about them all the time, and
Crucible is a small town, and the people are scared. There will be no
local reprisals. However-"

The woman cut in angrily. "I do not like, 'however.'"

"However, he was the chief of police. I agree his death was necessary,
but it could attract unwanted attention outside of Crucible."

"Leave that to me," the woman snapped.

"I am informed he was once a United States Marshal."

The woman sneered. "That was decades ago. He was long retired. No
connection he had could lead to reprisal, and even if it could, I could
stop it. You just worry about what happens inside of town. I will take
care of the rest."

"As you say. But there is one other thing."

The woman sighed irritably. "And just what is that?"

"Beckett's daughter has returned."

"A daughter?"

"I did not know of this either until she arrived."

"What does this mean to us?"

"It appears she is a lawyer, with an FBI background. She is poking
around, speaking with this citizens' committee, but she will find
nothing. There is only one thing of interest."

"What is that?"

"There is talk in town that she will replace her father as chief of
police."

"Unacceptable."

"I disagree. Our new friend can help us keep a close eye on her. With
her father gone she has little influence, and she has no recent
experience, apparently, in law enforcement. I say it is better we keep a
devil we know than risk having one we do not. Besides, I believe there
have been too many killings. The chief is dead. Now you wish the
daughter dead, as well. I tell you this will not look good."

"It will give their little citizens' committee something to think
about."

"You are sure? This could cause more problems than it would solve."

"Kill her. That is an order. But listen to me. Choose your moment well.
I don't want her murdered on the street. This must be subtle." There was
a moment of grim silence. "I want you to make her disappear."

CHAPTER 1

The Executioner waited in darkness. He knew they were coming. He had
beaten the grass to see what would come out and had picked up two tails
during the day. Now, the question of the evening was, just who were
they?

The heat in the adobe bungalow was oppressive. Many deserts were
bitterly cold at night, but along the border of Mexico, the Sonoran
Desert of Arizona held the burning heat of the day and radiated it back
into the moonless night. Mack Bolan stood in the inky stillness and
waited. It was nearly 4:00 a.m., the deadest time of night, when a
sleeper was in his deepest phase of slumber, when metabolism slowed and
the mind was in the most vivid depths of its dreams. In waking, reaction
times would be at their slowest--the ideal time of assassination.

The Executioner stood motionless against the central wall of the house.
The old adobe was shuttered against even the dim starlight of the
moonless night. Wearing a combat blacksuit, and with his body armor and
web gear as black as the night itself, Bolan was a shadow among shadows.

His finger slid around the trigger of the 9 mm Beretta 93-R. In his left
ear he wore a plug that ran to a receiver in the shoulder of his web
gear. The receiver was attuned to a number of simple trip sensors
attached to the bungalow's windows and doors, and it now chirped in
Bolan's ear for the second time.

Someone was at the back door.

Bolan waited several long seconds to see if any other part of the house
was being breached. For a moment all was silent, then the transmitter on
the back door peeped plaintively as its connection was cut. The door had
been opened. Someone was inside.

He slid his night-vision goggles off his forehead and fitted them over
his eyes. With a flick of a tiny switch the goggles powered up, and the
interior of the bungalow lit up in eerie hues of gray and green. He slid
the Beretta's fire selector to 3-round-burst mode and began to move. His
rubber soled shoes were silent on the stone floor as he glided along the
wall of the small house. The back door led to the kitchen, and from the
kitchen the intruder could move only in two directions. One was through
the kitchen and into the living room, where Bolan was now. The other way
led through a tiny hallway to the bedroom, where presumably the
Executioner lay sleeping.

He moved along the wall to flank the assassin. It was utterly still
inside the house. Whoever was in the bungalow was moving as silently as
Bolan. The soldier slowly released half a breath, slid around the corner
and entered the kitchen.

In the flat monochrome light of his night vision goggles, he saw a man
in dark, close-fitting coveralls carefully moving toward the rear
hallway. The man held a small automatic pistol with both hands before
him in the combat entry position. Protruding from the pistol's barrel
was the long, thin tube of a sound suppressor. Bolan leveled the
Beretta's muzzle squarely between the man's shoulder blades, his voice
sounding unnaturally loud as he spoke in the heavy silence.

"Freeze."

The man whipped around with the oiled speed of a professional. His upper
body swung like a turret as he leveled his pistol and pulled the trigger
in rapid semiautomatic fire. Bolan took a slanting step to the side as
the silenced pistol spit at him, then put a 3-round burst into the man's
chest. His adversary staggered back from the trip hammer blows but
didn't fall. Night vision equipment much like Bolan's protruded from the
man's face, and the lenses goggled at the Executioner like the eyes of a
giant insect as the man adjusted his aim.

A second burst into the man's chest also had no effect. The man was
wearing armor, and he was still firing. The Executioner flinched as a
bullet punched into his own armored vest and spoiled his head shot. The
assassin's pistol clicked open on empty, and without hesitation he
hurled it at Bolan's head. As the soldier dodged the flying gun, the man
lunged at him.

Fingers clamped onto Bolan's night-vision goggles, and the world plunged
into an inky blackness of churning limbs as they were ripped away from
his head. The man's other hand held Bolan's gun arm in a vise-like grip
as he drove him backward.

The Executioner was no stranger to fighting in darkness. He rammed his
gun hand back against the man's chest, and it told him by touch where
the rest of his opponent's body would be. Bolan struck out, twisting his
body and driving the heel of his left hand into his opponent's face with
all of his two-hundred-plus pounds behind it. The man's head snapped
backward brutally, and Bolan felt the lenses and filaments of the
assassin's night-vision gear snap and crush under the blow.

The soldier ripped his gun hand free and flicked the Beretta's fire
selector to full auto as the man flailed away and broke contact. He
squeezed the trigger, tracking his opponent's path with the remaining
nine rounds in the gun. For a split second the strobing muzzle blast of
the Beretta lit the room, and Bolan knew he had missed. His opponent had
maintained his composure enough to drop and roll away into the darkness.
Bolan shook his head to clear it. Flash spots danced in front of the
Executioner's eyes as his pistol fell silent and the room veiled in
darkness again. Through ringing ears he heard the rasp of a knife as it
left its sheath.

There was no time to reload. His .44 Magnum Desert Eagle was holstered
on his hip, but in the total darkness its firepower was an uncertain
edge. Bolan dropped the empty Beretta pistol, and his fighting knife
whispered slightly as it left its sheath. He took three rapid steps back
to his right while the Beretta clattered to the floor in front of him,
then he froze. The silence was total. Bolan's senses probed the
blackness for any clue, but they told him nothing. Despite their
skirmish, the man was controlling his breathing as well as Bolan was. He
was obviously very well trained. Now it would be naked blades in the
dark, and any move would be a gamble, but Bolan had given himself a
slight edge. His opponent had to come to kill him, and he hadn't broken
and run. He would almost certainly make a move on Bolan, given his
obvious skill. But the Executioner had a card to play. He had emptied
his gun, and the Beretta had left fifteen empty 9 mm shells littering
the floor. The automatic pistol ejected empties to the right, and he had
moved behind them under the covering noise of his pistol falling to the
ground.

The trap was laid. The Executioner waited.

Without warning the tinkle and scrape of a brass shell casing being
crushed underfoot sounded directly in front of him and Bolan lunged. The
fighting knife whipped forward and up from waist level and rammed into
sudden resistance. The knife's chisel point punched through thick
fabric, then skidded off a hard, smooth surface. Bolan continued his
lunge. The fingers of his left hand felt the fabric of the assassin's
coveralls, which he seized to maintain contact. He felt the shock as his
opponent's knife slammed into his side. The blade drove, twisting
through his armor until the point snagged on the densely woven Kevlar
fibers and stopped.

A knee slammed up against Bolan's thigh and barely missed his groin. He
took the opportunity to unbalance his opponent and drove forward,
hooking the assassin's leg and toppling him backward. The man grunted as
he hit the floor with Bolan's full weight on top of him. The grunt and
the man's body position told the soldier all he needed to know. The heel
of his left hand clapped his adversary's chin up and back, and the point
of the fighting knife drove home. Warmth flooded over Bolan's hands, and
the body beneath him stiffened convulsively, then relaxed into a final
sag.

The Executioner rose into a crouch and listened intently. One man had
come in for the kill, but there had to be a backup, or at least an
observer. The assassin's gun had been silenced, but the staccato
trip-hammer action of the Beretta would wake the dead. Bolan felt for
the wire on his shoulder. His earpiece had come out during the fight,
but it still dangled from his web gear. he replaced the plug and pressed
the test button. The receiver chirped that it was still functioning. He
didn't know where his night vision goggles were, but hard won battle
instincts told him exactly where he had dropped the Beretta. The clack
of the bolt slamming forward on a fresh magazine sounded deafening in
the silent darkness, but its clamor was coldly reassuring. Bolan sank
back into a crouch as the earpiece suddenly peeped.

Someone had just tried the front door.

The Executioner swiftly moved through the house, guided through the dark
by memory and sense of direction. He stopped beside the front door and
pressed himself against the relative cool of the adobe wall. Bolan
controlled his breath and listened. Someone outside had taken a step
outside the door, and for a moment silence reigned.

Then someone took a deep breath.

The front door smashed open under a booted foot. The front entry of the
house lit up as a powerful light blazed into life. A large, shiny
revolver glittered as it preceded its owner into the doorway.

"All right! Freeze!"

Bolan rapped the Beretta across the gunman's wrist, eliciting a shriek
of pain and indignation. As the gun clattered to the floor, he seized
the gunman's wrist with his free hand and yanked him into the house in a
sprawl. The flashlight fell and spun on the stone floor. It stopped
under Bolan's foot and pointed at the intruder.

A woman crouched on the floor, holding her wrist and squinting against
the harsh light in her face. "You're under arrest!" she yelled
defiantly.

Bolan held her at gunpoint and ran a quick survey. She appeared to be in
her late twenties. She wore a khaki shirt and dark pants with a stripe
down the sides. A standard Sam Browne belt with an empty holster circled
her waist, and a walkie-talkie and a nightstick sat in the belt sheaths.
On her right breast she wore a silver star with a small metal nameplate
underneath. A brown trooper's Stetson lay on the floor beside her.

Bolan calculated. The uniform and equipment didn't prove anything, but
her clumsy entry separated her from his assassin by a mile. Bolan spoke
to her quietly.

"Stay in a crouch. Keep your hands away from the radio and the club.
Move to your right, out of line with the doorway."

The woman glared. "Who the-"

Bolan cut her off with a voice like stone. "Do it. Now."

The trooper glanced nervously into the muzzle of the Beretta, then
gingerly crab-walked deeper into the interior of the house. She sank
back down and watched him warily. Bolan bent and flicked off the
flashlight. Darkness fell again, but his eyes adjusted quickly as
starlight filtered into the house through the broken doorway.

The woman was little more than a low shadow on the floor, but Bolan
could easily see her if she moved. Her voice spoke in a husky whisper in
the gloom.

"Who are you?"

Bolan modified his tone. "I need you to be quiet for a moment."

He strained his senses, probing the environment outside of the house,
and tensed as he heard a dim but familiar metallic noise. It was the
distinctive sound of an AK-type assault rifle's safety coming off.

The woman started as shots rang out. The rifle fired twice, and Bolan
heard the loud bang and bleeding hiss of his Bronco's tires bursting and
deflating. Moments later a motorcycle's engine roared into life. The
engine gunned, and the sound rapidly drew away in the distance. Bolan
started to move when the distant engine sound paused and idled. Two more
shots rang out, then the engine noise spurred again and faded away into
the night.

"Where did you leave your car?" Bolan asked.

The shoulders of the shadow on the floor slumped visibly. "About half a
mile down the road, in the arroyo."

"I suspect you're going to be having car trouble."

The woman snorted.

"You were tailing me."

The woman sounded startled. "You knew?"

"I had two tails today. Who are you?"

"I'm the Crucible chief of police. Who are you?"

Bolan's voice hardened. "Bob Beckett was murdered. There is no chief of
Crucible."

The woman's voice hardened, as well. "Well I'm the new one, friend."

"What's your name?"

"Larquette, and you had better start answering some of my questions or
you're going to be in a hell of a lot of trouble."

Bolan paused at the name. His mind swiftly went through the scant
briefing Brognola had been able to give him. He looked more closely at
the woman. "Patricia Lynn Larquette. You're Beckett's daughter. You kept
your married name when your husband died."

The woman stood up as her anger and loss overcame her caution. "Just who
are you?"

She wouldn't like the answer, so the Executioner decided to sidestep the
question. "I believe Hal Brognola was a friend of your father."

The woman's face was dimly illuminated where she stood and he could see
her looking at him quizzically.

"Uh ... now I remember. My dad used to speak of a friend in Washington.
Could it  ... ?"

"The same. Now I need some answers. When did you become chief of
police?"

Larquette's voice dropped in embarrassment. "Two days ago. The citizens'
committee elected me. Can we turn on a light?"

Bolan moved to the standing lamp and the room lit up. He surveyed
Larquette as she blinked in the sudden light. She was short, with broad
shoulders for a woman, and a narrow waist. He noted she was well tanned
and athletic looking, with long dark hair done in a low-maintenance
French braid in the back. Her uniform had obviously been hastily
tailored down to fit her, but she filled it out surprisingly well. She
appraised Bolan just as frankly, taking in his blacksuit, body armor and
Beretta with a raised eyebrow.

"So, you work for the Justice Department?"

"I work with Hal. He heard about your father's death and asked me to
come down here to see if there was anything I could do to help."

She peered at him speculatively. "He sent you?"

"Yes."

"Did he-" Her eyes flew wide as she suddenly took in the dead man lying
in the middle of the living room. She paled slightly at the spreading
pool of blood on the floor. "Oh, God." She bit her lip and visibly
pulled the reins on her composure as she looked at the body clinically.
"Who is he?"

Bolan shrugged. "I was hoping you could tell me." Bolan scooped up her
fallen revolver. The big nickel-plated Colt Python .357 Magnum looked
time-worn with long use but was obviously well maintained. He spun the
big pistol in his hand and presented it to her butt first. "I believe
this is yours."

Larquette's face reddened as she took the gun. She snapped out the
cylinder to check the load and holstered it with a satisfied nod. "It
was Dad's."

Bolan shot a glance outside. "You don't seem to have any backup."

Her lips tightened angrily. "Oh, I have a deputy. Good old Ken Severn."

"And where is he?"

"That's a damn good question. In the past two days he seems to disappear
just when I need him. He's a local boy, but some friends on the
citizens' committee told me he and my father didn't get along well. He
ran for chief against Dad, and he lost big time. I guess he was
expecting to get the job after dad died." She shrugged. "I don't think
he loves me much, either. I think my father would have fired him, and
frankly so would I except that Crucible is so shorthanded these days."

Bolan filed that away. "By the way, what kind of car do you have?"

"I've got a Jeep Cherokee."

"Did you have a spare tire?"

"Of course."

"Give me your keys. I'll get the spare from your truck. If mine's
intact, between the two of them we might get one of our cars moving."
Bolan picked up his night-vision goggles and fitted them over his face.
"Don't open the door for anyone but me."

She suddenly looked around.

"What am I supposed to do while you're gone?"

"You keep an eye on our friend here."

The phone in the shack rang once. "Report."

"Failure, Commander."

"The man is still alive?"

"Yes."

"How is this possible?"

"I heard automatic fire within the house, however, Yuri's weapon was
silenced. I believe Yuri is dead."

The commander's voice turned to ice. "You did not finish the job?"

The caller swallowed hard. "There was a complication, Commander. The
woman arrived on the scene. She was armed, and in uniform. I had no
authorization to kill her, and to have done so would have betrayed my
position to the primary target. Neither emerged. I believed they were
laying in wait for further attack. I had orders to maintain radio
silence and the situation had deteriorated. I disabled their vehicles
and broke contact."

There was a long pause. "Very well. It is done. It seems the woman
really has assumed her father's office, as reported. I believe it is
most likely she and this man will go to The jail. Put an observer on the
jail now, then assemble a full strike team. I will meet you within the
hour and take command personally. We must end this quickly."

The caller almost sighed with relief. There would be no reprisal for
this failure.

CHAPTER 2

"Do you recognize him?"

Larquette gave the corpse on the table a hasty look as Bolan dropped a
heavy nylon gear bag by her desk. Its head was tilted back and the wound
in its throat gaped horribly. She wrinkled her nose and peered at it
more closely. "I don't know. Maybe. There are a lot of new men out at
the mine. But you don't hardly see them in town. I can't go into the
mining camp itself without a warrant, and the county seat won't issue me
one."

Bolan ran it over in his mind. What little he knew about Crucible would
barely fill a travel pamphlet. The little Arizona border town had been
dependent on cattle and cotton until copper was discovered just after
World War II. For two decades Crucible had been a boom-town, until the
mines had coppered out. The isolated little town had slowly shrunk back
to its agricultural roots, while some hunting and spectacular rock
formations in the nearby desert added a trickle of tourism to the
economy.

"Tell me what you know about the mines."

Larquette frowned tiredly and rubbed her temples. It had taken them over
an hour to cannibalize tires from their two vehicles and transport the
corpse back to the jail. It was nearly dawn. "Well ... they're open. Red
Star Mining bought out the land rights about a year ago."

A ghost of a smile passed over the Executioner's face. "Red Star
Mining?"

Larquette blinked at him. "Yeah, Red Star. So?"

"Come over here." Bolan went over to the folding table Larquette was
using for evidence and pointed at the dead man's pistol. "Do you know
what that is?"

"I don't know, a gun?" she said sarcastically.

"It's a Russian made PSM automatic, fitted with a silencer."

"So?"

Bolan locked her eyes with his. "So let's go over a few things. Why did
you become chief of police?"

Larquette stared at him. "Because my father was killed."

"How was your father killed?"

Larquette's lip trembled slightly. "He was killed ... by the roadside."

"How?" Bolan pressed.

"He was shot. Eight times through the chest, with a .22-caliber pistol."

"He'd taken the job as chief of police, but before that he had been a
U.S. Marshal for two decades. Didn't he wear body armor out on patrol?"

"He always wore his vest."

Bolan folded his arms. "Then how could this have happened?"

"The coroner reported it as a catastrophic failure of the armor, and
that--" her voice almost broke "--he wasn't wearing it properly."

"Does that sound like your father?"

Larquette looked up, and her face twisted into a mask of anger. "No! He
always checked his guns, he always wore a seat belt and he sure as hell
knew how to put his vest on in the morning! That coroner is full of it!"

Bolan nodded. "It doesn't sound like the man Hal Brognola described as
the best cop he ever knew. You're right. The coroner is full of it."

She shook her head. "But how could it have happened?"

He pointed at the pistol lying by the corpse. "That is a Russian PSM
pistol. It shoots a .22 caliber, steel-sleeved, steel-core projectile at
just under the speed of sound. The pistol was designed with one function
in mind. To penetrate soft body armor. It's an assassination weapon."
Bolan gestured at the corpse. "Now look at this man's vest. It took four
3-round bursts of high-velocity 9 mm ammunition, and not one shot
penetrated."

Bolan leaned over and thumped the corpse's chest with his knuckles. "Its
core is titanium plate, Russian manufacture. Look at his goggles." The
Executioner hooked the back-strap with his finger and held the device up
to the light. Larquette could see strange letters and numbers engraved
in the side of the shattered lens towers.

The Executioner watched as she tried to read it, then stated, "It says
made in Moscow."

Larquette stared at him incredulously. "You're saying the Russians have
invaded Crucible?"

Bolan folded his arms across his chest and thought about how to answer.
After a moment he shrugged. "Yes."

"How? Why?"

The Executioner frowned. "I don't know. But I suspect it has something
to do with the mines."

Larquette shook her head in bewilderment. "I think I should call
someone."

"You might, but think about this. Your father was killed, and the case
was filed away as a random killing. You wanted a warrant to go out to
the mines, and you were denied. You should probably assume that the
county coroner, the county sheriff and the county circuit judge have all
been bought off or gotten to. This would undoubtedly mean corruption at
a very high level."

Larquette brightened suddenly. "Anne Tyler!"

Bolan cocked an eyebrow.

The chief sat at her desk and grabbed the phone. "The Arizona attorney
general! I met her at a Women in Law conference in Phoenix last year.
She gave me her card." She began to flip through a card file on the
desk.

Bolan's face tightened. He had to admit it was a good ace she had pulled
out of her sleeve, but his presence here wouldn't stand up to federal
inquiry. "I don't think that would be a good idea just yet."

Larquette stared at him quizzically as she punched numbers into the
phone. "I don't see why not." She suddenly looked at the phone and
pressed the receiver several times. Bolan's eyes narrowed. "What is it?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "It's dead."

"Try the radio."

Larquette swiveled her chair and keyed the transmitter button. She
flinched and jerked away as a blast of high-pitched static shrieked
through the speaker.

"Do you have a rifle?" Bolan asked.

She glanced at him distractedly as she flicked dials on the radio. "Yes,
of course."

"Get it."

The lights cut out with a popping of fuses.

After several long seconds a low whine hummed through the walls, and the
emergency lights popped into dim life as the jail's generator kicked in.
Larquette glanced about in confusion. "What the hell is going on?"

Bolan dropped low and began to unzip his gear bag. "We're about to be
attacked."

Across the Street, the side door of a brown van slid open soundlessly on
well-oiled tracks. Inside, men in dark blue coveralls checked their
weapons a final time. Each man carried a large, heavy automatic pistol
with wire shoulder stock attached to the butt and the long black tube of
a silencer screwed onto the threaded muzzle. The communications man
spoke in a soft whisper from his stack of electronic gear behind the
driver's seat.

"Success, Commander. Power to jail is down. Phones to jail are down,
police-band radio has been overcome across all frequencies."

The commander nodded in satisfaction. "Team one, the front, as planned.
Team two, the rear. He slapped the shoulder of a man armed with a long,
scope-sighted rifle. You are our insurance, Comrade, deploy now."

The man slid from the van and disappeared into the night.

The commander observed the dim glow of the second hand on his watch. "I
want a simultaneous breach of the jail in two minutes from go.
Synchronize now."

Ten men watched the second hands crawl interminably across the dials of
their watches.

The commander suddenly sliced his hand down. "Go!"

Dark figures moved swiftly through the predawn, like the silent shadows
of wolves on the scent.

Larquette looked at him incredulously. "Attacked?"

Bolan nodded as he chambered a round in the M-16 A-4 carbine, then
opened the breech of the 40 mm grenade launcher mounted underneath the
barrel. He scanned his grenade belt, passing over the high-explosive,
fragmentation and smoke rounds, and slid in a 40 mm projectile with a
cylindrical, crimped nose. He racked the grenade launcher into battery
and flicked the carbine's selector to full-auto.

"Yes. Attacked. We don't have much time. Are there any other entrances
besides the front door?"

Larquette seemed almost in a daze. "Um, yes. The back. But it's steel,
and it's always locked."

Bolan checked the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle pistol and slung the grenade
bandolier over his shoulder. He glanced at Larquette. She was looking
about herself wild-eyed. He knew she had backbone. He had seen it when
she had entered the bungalow and tried to arrest him. But in combat,
training was the key. She had obviously never been in a firefight. Now
she was freezing up. Like any green soldier, she needed direction.

The Executioner scanned the room quickly, then barked a command. "Chief
Larquette! Get your rifle and get between the two cabinets by the rear
hall. Shoot anything that isn't me."

She stared at him.

"Move!"

Larquette snapped out of her daze. She pulled a lever action rifle from
a rack off the wall and chambered a round. With a sudden afterthought,
she snatched up an extra box of shells and then positioned herself in a
crouch between the filing cabinets.

Bolan looked down the hall toward the back door. The rear hall was
little more than a narrow corridor with a door to a bathroom and a
closet halfway down. It would make a perfect fire lane. He positioned
himself by the doorjamb and jerked his head at Larquette.

"Cover the front."

The Executioner pulled a stun grenade from his bandolier and pulled the
pin. His other hand held the carbine and grenade launcher ready across
his knee. He mentally calculated. It had been almost a minute since the
power had been cut off. If there was going to be an attack, it would
have to come soon.

Twin hissing cracks split the air. Bolan recognized the sound of the
cutting charges even as a heavy booted foot kicked the steel security
door off of its shattered hinges. He heard Larquette's rifle firing
toward the front door as heavily armed men swarmed into the rear hall.

The Executioner snugged the carbine against his shoulder and squeezed
the M-203's trigger.

Pale flame erupted from the 40 mm muzzle of the grenade launcher, and
the lightweight weapon recoiled savagely. The narrow hallway became a
killing zone as the M-203 filled the corridor with buckshot. The
defensive munition was literally a 40 mm shotgun shell. The lead man
twisted and fell before the lethal point-blank swarm of lead.

Bolan released the arming lever of the stun grenade in his left hand and
lobbed it into the hall. He jerked back around the doorjamb and shut his
eyes as the hallway erupted in a storm of sound and light. The rear hall
channeled the concussion wave into the main jail in a hurricane of force
and blinding brightness. Windows blew out and papers flew everywhere.

The soldier opened his eyes and whirled on the front door. A man in dark
coveralls filled the doorway, shaking his head to clear it from the
unexpected explosion. He cradled a silenced machine pistol in both
hands.

It was incriminating enough for Bolan. He put a short burst from his
carbine into the man's chest. The attacker staggered, fumbling to bring
his weapon into line. Larquette's rifle boomed three times in rapid
succession. With the third shot his head snapped back and he fell
backward through the door and out onto the pavement. Bolan moved
forward, sliding a fragmentation grenade into the M-203's breech. He
caught Larquette's eye as she shoved fresh shells into her rifle.

"Switch. Cover the back."

He approached the shattered front door in a crouch and saw the fallen
man's boots disappear as he was dragged out of view. Bolan hurled
himself past the open door and glimpsed the street for a split second
before he rolled to safety behind the other doorjamb. He briefly saw a
brown van across the street, moving figures, and the muzzle flash of the
sniper on the opposite roof as the man reached out to kill him. Bolan
crushed himself against the wall as bullets spanged off the linoleum
floor of the doorway and ricocheted into the jail. He flipped up the
ladder sight of the grenade launcher and popped up in one of the
shattered windows. Bolan heard the supersonic crack of a rifle bullet as
it passed near his head as he aimed at the muzzle-flash on the roof
across the street.

The M-203 boomed and Bolan dropped beneath the sill. A moment later the
40 mm fragmentation grenade detonated.

The sniper fire fell silent, and for a moment nothing moved.

Larquette hissed at Bolan from across the room. "What are they doing?"

Bolan slipped a fresh magazine into the M-16 and racked a high-explosive
grenade into the launcher. "Regrouping. We've given them more than
they'd been bargaining on. How many are down in the hall?"

Larquette shrugged as she peaked around. "None. They're all gone."

The Executioner's eyes slitted. He didn't like it. There was no way his
opponents were hit men or local drug muscle. They had cut off all
communications and executed a perfectly timed two-headed attack. When
they had been met with automatic weapons and grenades they had fallen
back in good order and carried off their wounded.

Bolan's face tightened. There was no doubt in his mind. They were being
attacked by professional soldiers.

He calculated the odds. His opponents were professional soldiers, and
they had met unexpected resistance. They would do one of three things:
break contact, lay in ambush or regroup and attack in force. The odds
kept coming up ugly. They were in a small town in the United States. The
enemy couldn't sit around while a growing army of witnesses watched a
siege. Nor could they allow the chief of police to survive and report
what had happened to the FBI. They would have to finish it. Immediately.

The jail erupted into an eerily silent war zone as the enemy opened
fire. Bolan could barely hear the rapid metallic clicking as a dozen
silenced weapons fired on full-auto. The silent bullets tore through the
doorway and the shattered windows, smashing furniture as if by magic.
The only real sound was the spattering they made as they ricocheted off
the walls. Green tracers streaked through the night like silent swarms
of angry wasps as the whispering firestorm went on unceasingly. The
Executioner recognized the fusillade for what it was--covering fire.

He gritted his teeth and rolled prone into the doorway. Green tracers
streamed through the door over his head. The enemy was expertly laying
down covering fire for a man charging the jail. The runner held a
silenced machine pistol in one hand, and in the other he carried a large
canvas satchel. As he ran, he reached over with his gun hand and pulled
a metal ring on the package. A fuse hissed into life. The man's head
jerked up in surprise as Bolan suddenly rolled into view in front of
him.

For a moment the soldier was protected from the covering fire by the
body of the man it was trying to protect. Bolan could see the bulge of
armor under the man's coveralls, so he aimed low and drilled the entire
magazine into him on full-auto.

The man staggered in mid-step as the hail of bullets hit and walked up
his chest in a ragged line. With a grunt he stumbled and fell forward
onto the demolition charge he carried. Bolan squinted his eyes as the
street lit up in a ball of orange fire. Storefronts along Crucible's
main street blew out in showers of broken glass as the blast wave hit.
He ducked his head and grimaced as the blast and heat washed over him.
There had to have been at least fifteen pounds of high explosive in the
charge. He rolled back into cover as avenging fire raked the front of
the jail. He knew he had bought only a few seconds. The enemy would
storm the jail now, and if they had any more explosives, the jail would
be a death trap.

A voice across the street roared angrily in the unmistakable sound of
command.

"Ataku!Ataku!"

The Executioner's gaze narrowed with recognition. He had heard those
same words shouted from Africa to Afghanistan. All too often he had been
the subject of those words. The language was Russian, the words clear
and easy to understand on the battlefield.

Attack! Attack! Bolan moved. They had to get out now. He jerked his head
at Larquette. "Follow me." She didn't need any urging.

Bolan slung the carbine and drew two grenades from his belt as he moved
in a crouch to the rear hall. He could hear the thud of boots on the
street outside. Tracers streaked through the windows. Larquette stared
at the grenades in Bolan's hands.

"Wait!"

With sudden determination she smashed the remaining glass from a
standing cabinet with the butt of her rifle. She reached in and grabbed
four dull blue metal cylinders from the shelf. In the dim glow of the
surviving emergency lights, Bolan could read the block lettering on
their sides: CS TEAR GAS.

Bolan jerked his head toward the jail. "Two of them, in the middle of
the room. Now."

Larquette pulled the pins and rolled two of the grenades back into the
jail. She picked up her rifle and jammed the two remaining grenades into
her belt as she followed Bolan down the narrow, blood-spattered hall to
the shattered security door. Behind them the gas grenades detonated with
a popping hiss.

The Executioner pulled the pins on the grenades in his hands. "Stay
behind me. Shoot anything that moves." He flattened himself against the
wall and released the cotter pin on the first grenade. "Close your
eyes."

Bolan squeezed his eyes shut and tossed the grenade out the back door.

Out in the open air, the earsplitting sound and concussive wave of the
stun grenade would do little, but the incandescent dazzle of its burning
magnesium flash would destroy the enemy's night vision for vital
seconds. He pulled the pin on the frag grenade and tossed the bomb out
the door. There was a sharp crack and a scream of pain. Bolan jerked his
head at Larquette as he moved.

"Come on!"

The Executioner came out the door firing on full-auto. He twisted around
and saw two men supporting a third who sagged between them. One of the
men brought up his machine pistol and fired a whispering burst. Bolan
threw himself against the wall and returned fire as the enemy tracers
flew past.

The men ducked around the corner of the jail, all three covering
themselves with long bursts as they sagged behind cover and Bolan and
Larquette dived to the ground. A voice rang out in Russian from the
street in front of the jail.

"Break contact! Now!"

Bolan slung the spent carbine and drew the Desert Eagle. It was time he
and Larquette broke contact, as well. He scanned the surroundings behind
the jail. There was a single row of houses and some sheds, then Crucible
faded into open desert. He shot a glance at Larquette. Blood stained her
hands and shoulder, but she didn't seem to have noticed yet.

He peered out into the desert. Dawn was just beginning to break, and the
bright stars were slowly beginning to dwindle. He could see the purple
humps of rock formations out in the gloom. He grabbed Larquette's hand.
"Come on."

They passed a house and Bolan could hear the muffled sound of a woman
screaming hysterically. He couldn't blame her. It had to have sounded
like World War III had just started. Dogs began to bark and howl in a
wide-spread chorus of indignation. Bolan grabbed a watering can from the
screaming woman's porch, and it sloshed satisfactorily when he shook it.
The pair slipped past the last houses and moved into the deeper shadows
outside of town. The Executioner had been right. It seemed the Russians
really had invaded Crucible.

CHAPTER 3

The woman's voice rang with anger over the telephone. "How has this
happened?"

The commander took a deep breath. The bitter fact of the matter was
simple. He had failed. Throughout his military career, it had been
drummed into him that failure was unacceptable. However, more than two
decades of war had taught him that battle was an uncertain thing. Now he
needed answers as much as his superior. "We encountered unexpected
resistance."

The woman's voice sounded incredulous. "You assaulted the jail without
authorization! Are you mad?"

The commander bit back an angry retort. "Beckett's daughter is now
Crucible's chief of police. The man who was asking questions out at the
mines was with her."

"This is the same man that you failed to kill earlier in the evening?"

The word tasted like bile in his mouth. "Yes."

"SO you and your men could not kill one man and an inexperienced woman?"

"He had automatic weapons and explosives, grenade launchers, gas. He
knew tactics and was in a well-fortified position. How was I to know
this?

My tactics were perfect." His tone lowered into accusation. "You are the
one who is supposed to keep federal agents out of Crucible. If
interference is to come from the outside, you are supposed to keep me
informed. Now I have men dead because you do not even know that United
States Special Forces troops have infiltrated Crucible!"

"What? You are being ridiculous, Major. Do not try to cover your
incompetence with lies. Do not test my patience further, or you will
regret it."

The commander's anger boiled over. "I am Major Pietor Ramzin! I am a
Hero of the Soviet Union, and I have the medal to prove it! I have
fought United States Special Forces troops in Afghanistan, Central
America and Africa. This man is no Yankee policeman or some undercover
cop. I tell you he is a professional soldier. You are the one with your
vaunted status and connections. You tell me what this man is doing in
Crucible."

For a moment there was silence on the line. The woman calculated. She
didn't like Ramzin, but she knew he was extremely competent. One did not
reach the rank of major in Spetsnaz by being a fool, and the honor of
Hero of the Soviet Union was earned only in desperate battle. That
Ramzin and a squad of his hand-picked men had been defeated by one man
and a woman was a disturbing anomaly. She also knew that Ramzin was a
dangerous man, and she needed him. She could afford to push him only so
far. "Very well, Major Ramzin. I accept your report as given. What do
you suggest?"

Ramzin allowed himself to be molified. "Very well. Let us dispense with
accusations for the present. A fox has entered the henhouse. I propose
we do not let him out. My men are already at work. The Crucible phone
exchange will have an immediate failure that shall last for several
days. Radio frequencies shall continue to be jammed. The man and woman
fled into the desert. I believe we should make use of our friend to have
the roads in and out of Crucible closed. We will blame the attack on
Mexican drug gangs. That will at least temporarily explain the road
closure. Within seventy-two hours, I will hunt down this man and the
woman, Larquette, and kill them. In the meantime, I believe you must do
two things. Exert any necessary influence to keep federal agencies out
of Crucible during this time frame, and find out who has sent this man."

"Yes, Major, we are in agreement. Now, our partner's next shipment will
be ready in two days. Will this be a problem?"

Ramzin considered. "No. The man and Larquette will be running from my
men. I will make this Captain Baibakov's responsibility. He is very good
at these sorts of things. He hunted a lot in Afghanistan." He waited in
amusement as there was no response. Ramzin knew the Witch didn't like
him very much, but Baibakov actually frightened her. He enjoyed her
revulsion a moment more and then continued.

As I see it, even if the man and woman are not dead in forty-eight
hours, they will be too busy running for their lives to interfere. I
will maintain the schedule as planned."

She cleared her throat. "That is good, but you must do one other thing."

"Oh?"

"If at all possible, extract whatever information you can from the man
and Larquette before you kill them. The methods I leave to you and
Baibakov's discretion, as long as no bodies are found."

An unpleasant smile crossed Ramzin's face. "Certainly, Comrade. I am
sure that Captain Baibakov is up to the task."

Bolan watched the sun rise over the Arizona desert. It was nothing short
of spectacular. The purple shadows of rock and mountain took on a rosy
glow and then caught in golden fire as the sun rose up over the horizon.
The sky was cloudless, giving up the purple of dawn for a few moments of
orange fire before finally crystallizing into the brilliant azure blue
of day.

Larquette managed a tired smile. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

Bolan nodded his agreement. He allowed himself another drink from the
water can. The water was tepid and tasted of rust, but it was wet. He
handed the can over, and Larquette looked at him. "How much more should
I-"

Bolan cut her off with a smile. "You've lost blood. Drink."

She looked at him guiltily for a moment and then began to drink with
gusto. Bolan smiled. For a lawyer who had left her policing days far
behind, she was holding up well. Bob Beckett hadn't raised a shrinking
violet. She wiped her lips and handed the can back to him. "So what
now?"

The Executioner looked her up and down appraisingly. "How do you feel?"

She snorted. A bullet had grazed the fleshy part of her shoulder, and
she had cut both of her hands on broken glass. "Well, tired, bloody,
shaky ..." She grinned at him and touched her shoulder gingerly. "And
shot. That's a new one. But I can walk out of here, if that's what you
mean-"

"I figure it will take two hours to skirt town and hike out to the
bungalow."

Larquette frowned. "We're not going back to the station?"

Bolan shook his head. "Not now. They'll be watching it, and I suspect
the body and the evidence has conveniently disappeared by now. I have
equipment that I need back in my truck."

"So where are we going to go?"

"Where they don't expect us."

Larquette shrugged. "And where is that?"

"Among them."

Her jaw dropped. "You mean actually go to the mining camp?"

"Why not. I want a closer look. I assume you do, as well."

Larquette mulled it over and then picked up her rifle. "Lead on."

The Executioner looked across the desert, and he didn't like what he
saw. The noon sun beat down on him in near-vertical brutality as he lay
on the lip of the mesa. He ignored the shimmering heat and adjusted the
focus of the range-finding binoculars as he swept the Red Star Mining
camp again. From the road it looked like any other fenced industrial
complex. From up on the mesa, it took on a disturbingly familiar face.
The electrified perimeter fence was topped with razor wire and formed an
irregular six-pointed star that conformed to the terrain. Brush, cactus
and any boulders large enough to conceal a man had been removed within a
hundred-yard radius of the fence, creating a featureless killing zone.
To the untrained eye the arrangement of sheds, lean-tos and ditches
would have seemed random, but Bolan recognized them for what they were.
They were strong points, strategically placed to form interlocking
fields of fire in all directions of possible attack. He would bet
anything that the sheds were rein forced on the inside with concrete and
sandbags. In the center of the camp was a helicopter pad and a number of
large corrugated iron warehouses. Large dogs rested in a shaded kennel,
and an observation tower loomed in the mining camp's center.

There was no doubt in Bolan's mind. What he saw below him in the desert
of Arizona could be only one thing--a firebase.

The question was, what was it defending?

Bolan swung the binoculars across the camp and out to the hillside. A
road led out from the camp to the main mine entrance. Earth-moving
machines, bulldozers and mining equipment churned up the red dust of the
desert in huge shimmering clouds.

Something was going on. Red Star Mining was more than just a front. Work
was being done. It looked like some kind of mining, but what was being
mined? What was going on under the red earth of the Arizona border?

He needed more information before he went on a close-range
reconnaissance.

Larquette lay below the mesa. She had gamely said she would climb, but
fatigue and blood loss had left her exhausted. Once he had forced her to
sit in the shade she had been asleep in seconds.

Bolan rose and moved to the other side of the mesa. It was time to find
out all he could about Red Star Mining. Then tonight he would pay them a
visit.

"We really need a car."

Bolan looked at Larquette critically as they trudged through the desert.
Her face was red and covered with dust, and her shoulder was oozing
blood through the dressing. The water can had been emptied hours
earlier, and he could tell she was on her last legs. Only will and a
sense of humor were keeping her going.

You're the chief of police. Requisition one."

I should have thought of that."

A small spring went into her step as the idea buoyed her. Bolan scanned
the horizon. "Only about a half mile back to the bungalow. Think you'll
make it?"

She ran her tongue across cracked lips. "I'll make it."

The Executioner suddenly pulled up short. Larquette nearly stumbled into
him. "What?"

Bolan pointed at a footprint in the red dirt. He squatted on his heels
and examined it. The pattern was distinctly different from his own, it
was made by a foot several sizes larger. The impression dwarfed
Larquette's small feet, and went startlingly deep into the gritty soil,
as well. The man who had made it would have to be a physical giant.

The surrounding desert was still as the Executioner scanned it. His
instincts ranged over the terrain together with his senses, searching
for any discernible clue. Larquette spoke in a hushed whisper. "There's
something wrong. I can feel it."

The Executioner could feel it, too, as it crawled up and down his spine.
He knew it lay waiting out there in the rocks.

An ambush.

He sat motionless. The desert breeze slowly blew over him from the east,
raising small dust devils in the flats as he waited. Suddenly his
nostrils flared. Almost indistinguishable, but still it was there. It
lingered for a moment in the heated air. Tobacco smoke.

The Executioner flipped up the ladder sight of the grenade launcher and
fired.

CHAPTER 4

Captain Igor Baibakov sat and waited. He sat on his heels, his huge
frame impossibly folded into the shade and cover of a small overhang of
rock. The heat, dust and discomfort didn't bother him. He could maintain
the position for hours if necessary. Hunting was his passion, and
nine-tenths of the hunt was waiting. His prey was out there, and he knew
it. He could feel it in his massive bones. His AK-74 rifle, with its 30
mm grenade launcher clipped under its barrel and low-power scope sight,
rested lightly across his knees. It was his favorite weapon for hunting
men, and it had been modified to his specifications.

His stratagem for hunting men was simple: encircle the prey, drive it
before you with suppressive fire, corner it, then blast it to pieces
with grenades. Anything that lived through being brought down, well  ...
Baibakov's face split into a mirthless grin as his knuckles cracked
around the stock of the rifle. If the prey still lived, then he used his
hands.

It had been remarkably effective in Afghanistan. So effective that he
had been decorated many times during that conflict. In the sand and rock
of that distant land Baibakov had consistently been able to outwit his
native opponents. The rebels had called him the Red Demon, and used
stories of his atrocities to frighten their children into being good.

Baibakov scanned the desert. It was good to be hunting again in clean
air, rather than digging beneath the cramped earth like a mole. It was
good to be hunting for Major Ramzin. He was an excellent commander. He
cared only for results, and Baibakov would move heaven and earth to
deliver them to him.

He scratched the blond stubble on his chin. It was an intriguing quarry.
One man and a woman. The man was an unknown, the woman an inexperienced
police officer. Yet they had escaped the assault on the jail. Ramzin
said he believed the man was military. But if so, why would he be
operating by himself within his own country?

Baibakov grinned. It didn't matter. He had brought down American
commandos before on several continents. He would bring down this one,
and then the man would beg to divulge all he knew under the knife. It
wouldwhat the devil! Baibakov's eyebrows shot up in disbelief as he
smelled the air. He quickly scanned the half circle of firing positions
he had set and a snarl split his face. It was their American ally. The
man sat with his back to Baibakov in his ridiculous khaki uniform,
oblivious to the simplest of ambush tactics, smoking a cigarette!
Baibakov's teeth ground against each other in rage. He yearned to kill
the man, to break him in his hands like kindling. But that would have to
wait. Baibakov scanned his men's positions angrily.

Markov was closest.

Baibakov picked up a small rock and winged it into the corporal's side.
Markov flinched and looked back nervously at his captain. Baibakov
pointed at the American and brought his fingers to his lips in a smoking
gesture, then suddenly clenched his hand into a fist with a silent
snarl.

Markov glanced at the American and was utterly appalled. He nodded
quickly and slung his assault rifle over his shoulder as he began
slithering silently through the dust toward the oblivious American.
Markov slunk up behind him and, with a lunge, grabbed the back of the
man's head and rammed it brutally into the sand, grinding out the
offending cigarette and keeping the idiot from shrieking at the same
time.

He held the thrashing American's face in the dirt for several long
moments with one hand, and with the other shot Baibakov a smart salute.
Baibakov snorted silently and returned the salute. Markov was a good
man.

Now, if only- A hollow thump split the stillness close by to the west.

"Grenatya! Grenatya!" Baibakov roared.

The grenade exploded with a crack, and shrapnel flew through the air and
shrieked off of the surrounding rocks. His men instinctively opened up
with their rifles, firing for effect into the general direction of the
enemy sound. Through ringing ears, Baibakov heard a second thump, then a
moment later a third. He flipped up the ladder sight of his own grenade
launcher and estimated the distance. He squeezed off the fragmentation
round and stayed in cover, reloading his launcher and waiting for the
incoming enemy grenades to hit. There was a sharp second explosion,
followed immediately by a third. Baibakov instantly broke cover and
began the charge. They would overwhelm the enemy with superior numbers
and firepower now, before the situation could deteriorate.

Baibakov's voice boomed over the desert like thunder as he waved his men
to follow him.

"Attaku!"

Bolan fired the third grenade and grabbed Larquette's hand. "Move!"

Return fire raked the surrounding rock formations as the enemy performed
reconnaissance by fire. Bolan heard the thump of a grenade launcher and
shoved Larquette to the ground among a clump of rocks. Shrapnel whizzed
by overhead and spattered against their cover. He yanked her to her feet
as tracers drew smoking lines through the air around them. They heard
the thump of a grenade launcher, and another one from a different
position joined it a second later.

They dived behind a large outcropping as the two grenades landed against
the rock with shattering impact.

The enemy was getting close.

Larquette racked the lever of her rifle. Bolan grabbed the muzzle and
swung it back down. "Not yet. It'll tell them exactly where we are." He
listened for a moment. The enemy was close enough that he could hear
them moving out in the rocks. "The tear gas. There should be two
grenades left."

Larquette reached into her fanny pack and pulled the two metal cylinders
free. Bolan took them and pulled the pins.

In the open, the gas wouldn't stop trained soldiers for long, but it
would slow them, and men choking on gas had notoriously bad aim. If they
had gas masks, they would waste vital seconds pulling them out and
putting them on.

Bolan hurled the first grenade out over the outcropping and sent the
second one to the left of it a moment later. He heard the pop and hiss
of detonation and then startled shouts of anger. He tossed a frag
grenade between the two blossoming gas clouds to keep the enemy's heads
down.

"Move!"

They broke cover and ran over the sand.

Larquette gasped. "Where?"

Bolan looked around as they ran. He dropped a gray smoke grenade behind
them, giving the enemy a false gas cloud to skirt. A flash of reflected
light caught his eye in the distance.

"The road."

He caught the reflection again. It was moving in from town, down the
agricultural road that led to the bungalow. They had to intercept it
before it got past them and ran into the Russians. He grabbed
Larquette's hand and urged her to greater speed. They hit a flat section
of ground and broke into a dead run.

Bolan could see the vehicle now, a dusty blue pickup, tooling down the
road at a good clip. He judged the speed and the distance and instantly
knew.

They weren't going to make it.

He released Larquette's hand. "Keep running!"

She faltered and turned with a gasp. "But-"

"The road! Move! I'll stop the truck. You grab it!"

Her face set in grim determination, she sprinted for the road fifty
yards away. Bolan crouched and broke open the breech of the M-203
grenade launcher. He slipped a grenade into the chamber and slammed the
weapon into battery. He hastily adjusted the sight and tracked the
moving truck. He adjusted his aim to lead the vehicle and fired.

He was up and running as the grenade looped through the air. The truck's
brakes screeched, and the locking tires boiled up the desert dust as the
white phosphorous grenade detonated thirty yards ahead of it. There was
a burst of white light and fire, and burning streamers of white
phosphorous arced through the air over the desert like the Fourth of
July.

The Executioner sprinted for the road. He saw Larquette by the side of
the truck, brandishing her badge in one hand and her rifle with the
other. He shunted to the side as a stream of bullets raked the sand to
his right. He bellowed over the sound of incoming fire.

"Turn it around! Toward town!"

Larquette yelled at the driver as she swung into the cab, and the truck
churned up dust as it squealed into reverse. Bolan charged on to the
dirt road and leaped onto the old Ford's running board. "Step on it!"

He grabbed the doorframe and swung himself back into the truck bed as
the vehicle surged and fish-tailed forward. Bullets struck the cab and
bed, and tracers stitched the road's surface, reaching for the truck's
tires. Bolan brought the carbine to his shoulder and fired burst after
burst. He could see the enemy now as they came out into the flat.
Heavily armed men in body armor and gas masks fell prone to aim accurate
fire at the moving vehicle. He dropped the empty carbine and pulled his
last smoke grenade and another white phosphorous. As he tossed the
grenades, he saw a figure move out onto the road.

The man was a giant.

Through the boiling dust it was hard to get perspective, but the man
dwarfed the other soldiers around him. Bolan brought up the carbine,
rapidly slipping in a fresh magazine as the giant brought his own rifle
to his shoulder and took aim through a telescopic sight. Ribbons of
burning phosphorus shrieked into the air, and thick white smoke bloomed
between the two men as the grenades detonated and mixed with the clouds
of red dust churned up by the truck's tires. A bullet shrieked off of
the lip of the truck bed in a shower of sparks, but the vehicle was
already obscured and quickly accelerating out of range. Bolan slipped a
frag into the grenade launcher, then leaned back against the truck's
cab. They had been lucky.

Baibakov stood in the middle of the road, enraged. He lowered his rifle
and stripped the gas mask from his head. Its lenses cracked and snapped
in his hand, and he hurled the ruined mask to the ground.

His quarry had escaped.

He let the rage roll through him, yearning to kill something with his
bare hands until he sensed someone waiting behind him. He whirled and
found Corporal Lukov staring at him nervously at attention. The corporal
knew well that Baibakov didn't take failure lightly. Baibakov stared at
him with eyes like tombstones until Lukov shuddered and looked away.

The captain took a long, slow breath. "Casualties?"

Lukov sighed with relief. Baibakov wasn't going to kill him. "Three
wounded, and one dead, Captain."

"Who?"

Lukov frowned. "Corporal Markov. He shielded the American when the
grenades hit. His armor stopped most of the fragments, but he received
shrapnel in his throat. The American is shaken, but remains unharmed."

Baibakov's eyes closed as he began to see red. His men were loyal and
capable. The American was an idiot and a coward, but he was also a
valuable intelligence resource. He had killed Beckett when he had been
told, though the appearance of this American commando seemed to show
that he had bungled it somehow. Markov had defended the idiot as a
needed asset. Now he had another man dead due to bungling. Baibakov's
pulse pounded in his temples. First the Witch hadn't done her job and
failed to ascertain the nature of their enemy, ruining the first
assassination attempt and the assault on the jail, as well. Now Markov
was dead, defending the fool who had betrayed their position and
destroyed the ambush.

Worse still, he would have to explain this failure to Major Ramzin.

But first he would have to minimize the damage. Baibakov opened his eyes
and spoke in a low voice.

"Corporal Lukov, gather the men and prepare them to move. Contact base.
Tell them the quarry is in a light blue truck headed toward town. Alert
the roadblocks for possible intercept. Tell base I want the helicopter
in the air in ten minutes. Then  ..." Baibakov shook his head. This
wasn't going to be an enjoyable experience. "Then get me commander
Ramzin."

Lukov saluted sharply. "Yes, sir."

Baibakov watched as Lukov ran to carry out his orders, then turned to
regard the cloud of smoke and burning phosphorus as it dissipated in the
hot desert wind. The American was very good, and he was lucky. A
formidable combination in the hunt, but it wouldn't be enough to save
him. The playing field was set, and he had only so far he could run.
Baibakov's eyes slitted. He would bring this American down, and he would
extract every last shred of information out of him.

The captain smiled horribly. Then he would twist off this Yankee's head
with his hands.

Tom Donovan gripped the wheel shakily as he sped down the road toward
town. "Lord, Almighty, Patti, I would have stopped!"

Larquette shrugged. "I'm sorry, Tom. I didn't know it was you, and I
couldn't take a chance that you might have just kept on going when you
saw our friends."

Donovan slowly regained some color in his face. "You didn't have to pull
a gun on me." He peered past Larquette and glanced at Bolan. "And G.I.
Joe here didn't have to try and blow me up, either."

Larquette grinned in embarrassment. "Oh, I'm sorry Tom, this is  ..."

She trailed off and looked at Bolan inquiringly.

The Executioner offered his hand. "The name's Mike Belasko. Sorry if I
startled you."

Donovan gaped and shook Bolan's hand with a slight tremble. "Startle me?

You nearly-" He gave up. "Pleased to meet you, Mike. Tom Donovan, acting
chair of the Crucible citizens' committee."

Larquette cut in. "Mike is a  ..." She searched for a word and smiled.
"A friend. He's helping me with the current trouble we're having."

"Current trouble? That looked more like World War III! Patti, we all
thought you were dead after those Mexicans attacked the jail."

"Mexicans?" Bolan queried.

"Yeah, they said a Mexican gang trying to bring some drugs through
Crucible decided to shoot up downtown. Damnedest thing I ever heard."

Donovan shook his head. "They said you were dead, Patti."

"Yeah, well, I'm not."

He noticed her shoulder. "Patti, you've been shot!"

"Yeah, well, sort of-" She whirled on Bolan. "Hey! Why the hell did you
start shooting at them?"

"I needed to get them away from the bungalow. I didn't expect them to be
there in platoon strength."

"We could have been killed!"

Bolan shrugged. "It was a gamble."

"Well, gee, is there anything else I should know?"

Bolan nodded. "Yeah. We're going to Mexico."

"What!"

"I don't believe they'll expect it. I figure it's a four- to six-hour
hike to the border."

Larquette regarded the Executioner silently for a moment. "All right,
Tom. Pull over."

He pulled over hesitantly, giving Bolan a long look. "Are you sure,
Patti? I can take you into town."

Bolan slung his carbine as the truck pulled to a stop by a series of low
cliffs and buttes. "They'll be watching town, and I think we'll stand a
better chance heading for the border. Tom, you'll probably be questioned
by someone claiming federal authority. Tell them you dropped us off just
outside of town. If they start talking about aiding and abetting
fugitives, tell them we took you at gunpoint."

Donovan snorted. "Well, you did." He looked at Larquette again. "You
sure you'll be all right?"

She gave him a tired grin. "No, but I'm as safe running around with Mr.
Belasko here as anywhere else at the moment. You'd better get going."

He nodded and put the truck into gear. "Luck!"

Bolan watched him pull away. "Is he trustworthy?"

She shrugged. "Well, Bob started the citizens' committee. He got me
elected, and he's had a crush on me since high school. I think he's
okay."

She looked at him calculatingly. "We're not heading for Mexico, are we?"

The Executioner shook his head. "We're heading for the mines."

CHAPTER 5

Ramzin sat in the swivel chair and cleaned and checked his 9 mm CZ75
pistol. The Czech pistol was locked and loaded with fifteen hollowpoints
in the magazine and one in the chamber. If it wasn't for its dark blue
finish, the gun would have sparkled. The pistol had been given to Ramzin
by his father, who had gone to great lengths to acquire the pistol on
the black market in Moscow for a son who was going to the war in
Afghanistan. It had saved Ramzin's life on more than one occasion. As
the telephone rang, he ran a cloth over the slide to wipe off any oils
from his fingertips and slid the pistol into his shoulder holster. He
picked up the receiver on the second ring. "Report."

Ramzin was startled to hear Baibakov's voice. Usually he let his
adjutant do it. "Trouble, Commander."

"Explain."

There was a lengthy pause. "The quarry has been ... temporarily lost."

Ramzin himself paused, letting the moment draw out while he sensed
Baibakov squirm on the other end of the line. Finally he spoke.

"This is not like you, Igor. I am very disappointed. How has this
happened, and how am I to explain this to the Witch?"

There was silence as the captain let the words sink in. Ramzin knew that
Baibakov wasn't a completely sane human being, but he was an incredibly
lethal weapon. Under his command in Afghanistan, Baibakov had
flourished. Ramzin knew the giant would die for him if it was asked, but
he had to be kept in line.

"The man and the woman escaped by luck. They were picked up on the road
by this Tom Donovan of the citizens' committee. I had our idiot Yankee
friend speak to him. He says that they talked of heading to Mexico, and
he let them off outside of town. I have men in the desert between the
town and the border. I have instituted around the clock aerial
reconnaissance. If they had tried for the border, I find it unbelievable
that they could have slipped past." Baibakov's voice lowered an octave.
"I do not believe this Tom Donovan. I do not believe that they have run
for the border of Mexico."

Ramzin nodded. It was time to release the reins. "I accept your report,
Captain. You have acted correctly. I accept your assessment. I do not
believe our quarry is running anywhere. I believe he will soon show
himself again. Have our agents in town run a sweep. Have the men along
the border mobilized and brought back to base. We are going ahead with
tonight's operation as scheduled. Base camp is now activating full
security protocols. Meanwhile, we do not know if the chairman of the
citizens' committee is lying or not, so I wish you to make sure of this
personally."

"Yes, Commander."

"I do not wish him killed, Igor, but make the precariousness of his
situation clear to him. When you are finished, bring him here. Report
immediately after my orders have been carried out."

"Yes, sir."

Ramzin hung up the telephone and scanned the geological survey map over
his desk. He didn't envy Tom Donovan. Baibakov was on the hunt, and he
wouldn't be gentle. Ramzin peered at the map. A man and a woman, on
foot. They had broken two ambushes and had eluded Baibakov in the
desert. Incredible. Truly the man had to be a fox. He smiled slowly.
This fox was brazen, as well. Perhaps he didn't know where this fox was
now, but this man had a mission. Ramzin gazed at the red star of the
mining-camp site marked on the map. He nodded in satisfaction. Yes,
sooner or later, Ramzin suspected, he knew where this fox would show
himself.

The Executioner cut the bread diagonally with his fighting knife and
neatly flipped the pieces together into a pair of sandwiches. Larquette
stared at him in utter amazement.

"I can't believe you're making peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches while
there are two Russian Green Berets outside."

Bolan peered through the bungalow's kitchen shutters at the two Russians
in position down by the road. They wore camouflage and had chosen their
positions well. They would be invisible to anyone approaching the
bungalow from town.

"They're not Green Berets. They're Spetsnaz, Russian special purpose
troops." He handed her a sandwich, and she tore into it ravenously. "But
they might as well be Green Berets. They're highly trained, highly
motivated elite soldiers. But we're safe from those two as long as we
don't make noise and their orders don't change. They're watching the
road for anyone who might come by. They weren't expecting us to flank
them on foot and come hide right under their noses."

"So what is the Russian Spetsnaz doing here?"

Bolan frowned as he poured two glasses of milk. "I don't know. The
Russians downsized their armed forces after the Soviet Union broke up.
Many of their special warfare units got downsized during the reductions,
as well. That left a lot of very dangerous, capable men without jobs.
You can find Russian special warfare officers and men working as private
mercenaries and advisers in the Third World. Some are even providing
security and body-guarding services for respectable companies overseas.
But the group we've run into, they're operating on U.S. soil, and in
platoon-strength units. It's ... puzzling."

"So what are we going to do?"

"Wait until dark. Which means you get a nap."

Larquette narrowed her eyes. "How about a bath?"

Bolan cleaned the fighting knife's blade on the kitchen towel and slid
it into its sheath. He gave her a rueful smile. "I'm sorry, Patti, but
if the Russians suddenly come bursting in unannounced, you're not going
to be much good to me if you're sitting in a tub of water."

"I get your point."

He turned to the window again and checked on the Russian sentries. "Tell
me what you can about Red Star Mining."

She concentrated as she finished her milk. "Well, they came into the
county about a year and a half ago and bought out the rights to the old
copper mines south of town. Then they started buying up all the land
around it that wasn't federal. They paid big money for it, too. Not a
whole lot of haggling, just a lot of big checks. Some people didn't want
to sell, and the word is some of them got muscled into it. Red Star also
pumped money into civic projects and gave money to the school. They made
a lot of friends in town and bought a lot of influence. They also
started moving a lot of dirt. According to Dad, you could hear them
blasting around the clock."

"So there wasn't any real trouble locally?"

Her frown deepened. "Well, not initially. At least nothing you could put
your finger on. Some people up and left without any explanations. Most
of the local prospectors disappeared. Red Star fenced off all of the
land they bought, which irritated the hunting and camping folks. But the
real weird thing was that they didn't hire any labor locally. That made
a lot of people mad. Folks in town were expecting substantial job
opportunities to open up, but Red Star brought in all of its own labor.
What's weirder, the miners hardly ever come into town. The local
merchants were expecting a boom, as well. I mean, some of the businesses
have gotten big orders, like for food, clothes, blankets, tools and
such, but the bars, the restaurants, the hotels, hell, even the cathouse
by the county line, they just haven't seen any business out of Red Star.
Most people think they're just doing their rest and recreation across
the border to save money. But it's plain weird. You just don't see any
Red Star employees. Just the local representatives, who do their
business for them."

"But you're sure the mining site is active?"

Larquette shrugged. "They're moving one whole hell of a lot of dirt and
rock." She looked at him narrowly. "Why don't you tell me how you got
yourself on their good side the other night?"

I showed up at the gate in a suit and started talking about being a land
assessor, asking to inspect the facility. They didn't like that at all.
They told me I'd have to come back the next day while they checked with
the management. I told them I'd be back the next day with a court order.
They got very frosty when I said that. When I left I noticed a
helicopter in the air as I drove away. When I got into town, I picked up
a tail, and that's when I picked up you on my trail, as well."

She rolled her eyes. "Okay, so I'm not James Bond yet. But you were
another stranger in town, and I thought if I followed you I might get a
lead."

She grinned. "And, boy, I was right."

"How did your father figure into things?"

Her lips pursed. "Dad was born in Crucible. He came back here to retire.
He didn't like Red Star, or the way they threw their money around. A lot
of other people didn't like it, either. Ken Severn was the old chief,
and a lot of people thought that Red Star owned him, too. When the post
came up for election last year, Dad won hands down. Then Dad started
poking around, and he formed the Crucible citizens' committee." She
stared at the wall for a moment.

"But this is just what I've heard. I mean, I hadn't talked to Dad in a
while. He and my husband didn't get along that well. Dad really didn't
like lawyers much. He didn't like the fact that I left the FBI and went
off and became one, much less married a defense attorney. When my
husband died, Dad and I, well, we just didn't really communicate much,
and now he's  ..."

Her voice trailed off and she turned away, too proud to let Bolan see
her cry.

"Can you tell me about anything that your father may have found, or
suspected?"

She pushed at her face with the heel of her hand and let out a broken
laugh. "Well, I don't think Daddy suspected a Russian invasion, if
that's what you mean. He thought it had more to do with crooked land
dealings. a lot of that here in the Southwest. There's a lot of it
everywhere." She rubbed her eyes tiredly. "So what now?"

Bolan nodded toward the couch. You get some sleep. We've got a long hike
after it gets dark."

"Okay, but what about you?"

Bolan pulled a chair up to the kitchen window and sat down. "I'm going
to keep an eye on our friends."

Tom Donovan wanted to scream, but a massive hand covered his mouth and
clamped his nostrils shut. A thumb as hard as a chisel ground inexorably
into the inner joint of his elbow. His whole body locked rigid, then
sagged as his elbow was suddenly released. His face was brutally shoved
back down onto the coffee table. The tabletop had a wet, greasy sheen
from the sweat that was bursting out all over his body. His arm was on
fire from his shoulder to his elbow. Below his elbow he couldn't feel
anything. If it wasn't for the fact that he could feel his hand and
forearm flopping against his side, he would have believed they had been
twisted off completely. Fingers cruelly twisted into his hair and yanked
his head up to face the muzzles of two automatic rifles. Even if there
hadn't been two men with machine guns, Donovan knew he would still be
utterly helpless. The giant's strength was inhuman. He could barely
comprehend how physically powerful the man was. The man could kill him
in an instant, and there was nothing he could do to stop him. The
giant's voice grated in broken English.

"Tell me, again!"

"I already-"

He was cut off as his face was rammed into the table hard enough to make
him see stars.

"Again!"

"I hit the brakes when the grenade went off. Patti got in my truck."

"Patti, the chief of police, yes!"

"Yes, Patti Larquette, the chief of police. Then the man got in, and
everyone started shooting. I stepped on it."

"Then?"

"I dropped them off outside of town. They said they were headed for
Mexico."

Without warning, the hand clamped over his face again, and Donovan's
elbow became the howling center of his universe. After an eternity, the
pain stopped. The giant shoved him down against the table again. "I do
not believe you."

Donovan gasped. "I've told you everything. I swear to God I've told you
everything."

The giant leaned very close to Donovan's ear.

"Listen to me. Listen to me with great care. I am going to give you an
opportunity to live. Cooperate fully. If you do not, you will die. Your
sister and her family live two and a half kilometers from your home,
yes?

Your mother six kilometers outside of town, yes? You have relations with
the woman who works at the newspaper, yes? If you do not cooperate
fully, these women will be raped and killed in front of you, before you
yourself are killed. Your own death, it will require a great deal of
time. You understand, yes? Cooperate, and you will live. Cooperate, and
you will be given an opportunity to work with us, using your influence
on the citizens' committee. You will be given an opportunity to make
great profit from this experience. Do not-"

The world exploded in agony once again. The blinding pain continued on
and on until Tom Donovan could feel almost blissful blackness close in
around the edges of his senses as he approached unconsciousness from the
choking. His lungs heaved in a shuddering breath as he was hurled down
again.

The giant loomed over him implacably. "Decide. Now."

Donovan tried to think of anything to stall, to delay, but his mind was
as numb as his arm. "Listen-"

He felt his arm yanked back up behind his back, and the rasp of a knife
leaving its sheath. "Decide!"

Willpower failed, and Donovan found he would say or do anything to make
the pain stop. The words came out of his mouth as if someone else was
speaking for him. "I'll cooperate.. I'll do anything you say."

"This is good."

He fell in a heap as he was thrown onto the sofa. The giant yanked him
up by his shirtfront into a sitting position and held his gaze with eyes
as flat and gray as tombstones. "Where did you let them out?"

Donovan took a ragged breath, his insides shriveling at his betrayal.
"Barely a mile or two past where I picked them up."

The fist tightened in his shirt. "One mile or two?"

He flinched as the huge man held up the knife. Its blade was a flat
black except for the edge, which glinted silver in the light. "One, two,
I don't know. We were still in the rocks before you hit the flats
outside of town."

The giant turned his gaze to one of his men, and they spoke rapidly in
Russian for several moments. The giant returned his attention. "You
would say, twenty to twenty-two kilometers from town?"

Donovan shook his spinning head. "I don't know kilometers ... I-"

The giant shook him into silence, and he flinched as the behemoth looked
through him, apparently lost in thought. The giant's stone-colored eyes
suddenly narrowed. "How many minutes?"

"What?"

"How many minutes from the town? Answer!"

The answer was suddenly terribly clear in Donovan's mind. He knew the
exact spot. The Kiowa Buttes. He had driven past them thousands of
times. His shoulders sagged. "The Kiowa Buttes. They're about fifteen
minutes outside of town." He felt sick as the words came out. "I can
take you there."

Baibakov nodded and released him. The giant sheathed his knife and
calculated. They had left the truck only minutes from the ambush site.
The woman was wounded. Mexico would hardly be an option by foot. He
consulted his map. There were several smaller roads that exited the town
and scattered ranches along them. Any of them could act as a refuge. The
ranchers had no love for Red Star Mining. Or perhaps the man had a
hidden lair in the cliffs. Either way there would be a trail. The giant
hunter grinned savagely.

This time there would be no escape. "Lukov, get me base camp,
immediately."

Baibakov drummed his massive fingers on the coffee table while Lukov
patched into the secure line.

Lukov handed him the receiver. "You are on line, Captain."

Baibakov spoke rapidly to the base camp communications operator. "This
is Captain Baibakov. Mobilize a strike team to converge on these
coordinates." He quickly read off the numbers from the map's survey
grid.

He handed the receiver back to Lukov and jerked his head at Donovan.
"Bring him."

The giant grinned as he felt his adrenaline start to flow. The hunt was
on.

CHAPTER 6

Bolan rose swiftly from the chair, his eyes narrowing in the gloom. The
Russians were moving. One man stood, held his canteen upside down and
shook it. The second Russian nodded and gave a short series of hand
signals before returning to watching the road. The first Russian began
walking toward the bungalow.

The Executioner moved rapidly through the house. Larquette lay sleeping
on the couch, and he shook her foot to wake her. She snapped awake with
a start, reaching for her pistol. She shook her head to clear it as she
looked up at him.

"What's happening?"

"One of the Russians is coming. Get your rifle."

Larquette grabbed her Winchester. "What do you want me to do?"

"Get in the kitchen. If something goes wrong, get out. If you see anyone
besides me, shoot him."

Bolan headed to the broken front door. He could hear boots crunching on
the gravel drive even as he positioned himself beside the doorjamb. His
knuckles whitened as his right hand curled into a fist.

The Russian was large and moved with the easy, confident power of an
elite soldier. However, he obviously believed the bungalow was
abandoned, and he walked nonchalantly through the door, whistling
tunelessly to himself.

The Executioner struck, his fist uncoiling with all the power of his
body, hitting the Russian just above his right kidney as he passed. The
man spasmed, then locked in agony, his canteen falling from his
nerveless fingers. Before he could fall Bolan snapped the knife edge of
his hand into the base of the soldier's skull.

The Russian dropped as if he'd been shot.

The Executioner grabbed the fallen man by his shoulders and dragged him
into the kitchen. Larquette stared and whispered hoarsely, "Is he dead?"

"No. But he'll probably wish he was when he wakes up."

"What do we do now?"

"Find me some rope or an electric cord, anything to tie him up with.
Find something for a gag, as well."

Larquette rummaged through the kitchen drawers. "How about these?"

She handed him an extension cord and a roll of packing tape. Bolan
nodded and swiftly bound the man's wrists and ankles. The Russian moaned
as the Executioner took the remaining length of cord and joined the
bindings tightly behind his back. His eyes opened as a piece of packing
tape sealed his mouth shut. The Russian glared in pained indignation.

Larquette crouched beside Bolan with her rifle across her knees. "What
now?"

Bolan rose and looked outside. The light was fading quickly, and he
could barely make out the second Russian still in his position. In a few
minutes it would be too dark to see much of anything. "We're going to
have to deal with his friend, and do it quickly."

The Executioner took a kitchen towel from the oven handle and wadded it
into his fist. He loosely covered his mouth, then spoke out the window
in slightly muffled Russian.

"Hey, come look! We must report this!"

The bound Russian's eyes widened, and he began to thrash savagely on the
floor. Larquette put the muzzle of the Winchester against his forehead.
The hammer's click seemed very loud as she cocked the rifle. The man
ceased his struggles and stared up at her.

The other Russian rose from his position and called back. "What is it
that you have found?"

The Executioner didn't reply, but turned on the kitchen light and began
loudly opening the kitchen drawers and making obvious noises of
rummaging. Larquette pressed the muzzle of her rifle hard into the bound
Russian's temple for silence.

The second sentry gazed down the road for a moment, then slung his rifle
and walked toward the house.

"Keep him quiet." Bolan drew the Desert Eagle and moved back into the
darkened interior of the house. The second Russian entered the house as
innocently as the first and crumpled as the slide of the heavy automatic
cracked against his temple. Bolan dragged the second Russian into the
kitchen, and Larquette watched as he bound and gagged him, too.

"Boy, we're starting quite a collection."

The Executioner peered up at the kitchen clock. "It's past eight. I
don't know what their schedule to report in is. We're going to have to
get out of here, fast."

Bolan reached into a satchel hanging from the Russian's shoulder and
brought out his night-vision gear. He handed the goggles to Larquette.
"Take these."

She slung the goggles around her neck, and Bolan grabbed her hand. "Come
on."

"Where are we going?"

"My truck."

She frowned as they went outside. "But I thought it was out of
commission."

"It is."

Bolan unlocked the Bronco's rear gate. The interior showed obvious signs
of having been searched. He holstered the big .44 pistol and There was a
muffled click. He slid his fingers under the rear doorjamb and lifted.
The floor of the truck came up, revealing a shallow storage area. He
propped open the floor and began to pull out equipment.

"Here, take these."

He handed her a two-quart canteen and a large fanny pack of supplies.
Larquette watched as he began festooning himself with weapons and gear.
He slung two canteens across his shoulders and took a scoped Weatherby
rifle from its case. Bolan flicked on the power to the day-night optical
sight and nodded as the distant rock formations zoomed into sharp
gray-green focus. He powered down the sight and slung the rifle. Finally
he took out a spare pair of night-vision goggles and seated them on his
forehead. He secured his carbine and grenade launcher in the hidden
compartment and closed up the truck. It appeared exactly as it had
before.

He looked at Larquette. "Ready to move?"

She pushed the goggles onto her forehead in imitation of Bolan. "How do
these work?"

Bolan gently pulled the goggles over her eyes and adjusted the straps.
He guided her fingers to the switch. "Here."

"Oh!"

Larquette looked all around, examining the sky and the surrounding
terrain in wonder. "I can see everything, but it's so ...  weird." She
peered up at Bolan, the goggles and mask making her look like an
inquisitive bug. "Shouldn't everything be red?"

Bolan shook his head. "No, that's infrared. Those devices sense heat.
These work by light amplification. They're taking the ambient starlight
and magnifying it fifty to a hundred times."

She looked around again. "It's a little disorienting."

"You lose some peripheral vision, and the monotone color can throw you
off a bit at first, but you get used to it." He reached over and flicked
off her goggles. "We'd better not waste the batteries until we need
them. Until we hit the Cliffs, we can navigate by starlight."

She pushed the goggles back on her head and blinked as her eyes adjusted
to the dark again. "So, it's off to the mines."

Baibakov knelt in the sand. In the glare of the flashlight, he could see
the unmistakable mark of a footprint. The print was small, and he
recognized the pattern as the woman's. He nodded to himself. The man was
very good. Nearly a ghost. He knew how to move from hard spot to hard
spot, utalizing rock and avoiding loose dirt and sand. The pattern
showed the woman trying to shadow his footsteps, walking where he
walked. But she had made mistakes, leaving small traces for him to find.
She had obviously been weary--her marks were uneven, and there were
impressions in the ground as if she was leaning on her rifle through
steep inclines. She had stepped on the dry desert grasses and broken
them along the trail.

Baibakov grinned. Exhausted as she was, she was ghosting her partner.
The giant scratched his shovel-like jaw. It was strange. They were
heading southeast, which would make for an arduous trip to Mexico. The
town was north. Out past the flats, there were few ranches, and they
were isolated. Tactically they would be death traps. As the terrain got
harder, the woman would become exhausted quickly. They would have to
rest. The woman was wounded and tired, and the man himself had been
running and fighting for some time. They wouldn't have the strength or
time to lay false trails. If he had a lair in the mountains, he doubted
the woman could make the climb. The man wouldn't be able to carry her.

They would go to ground.

But where? Baibakov considered his prey and his grin grew. The man was a
predator himself. Baibakov was hunting a hunter. The man wouldn't run
himself ragged as the pack ran him down. Nor would he crawl into a hole
and shiver there, hoping not to be found. He would shadow his hunters,
keeping them in sight, choosing his own moment to strike.

The woman was the key. She would be done in. Donovan said she was
wounded, and they had found significant amounts of blood trailing from
the back of the jail. She would have to rest. The question was where.

Baibakov shot to his feet. Mexico, town, the outlying ranches and the
desert itself weren't viable options. They would hide where no one would
look, a place that had already been searched. They would hide in plain
sight. "Lukov! Get the radio, now!"

The giant put his hands on his hips as Lukov patched in the secure
frequency.

The prey had doubled back and undoubtedly rested themselves. His men at
the bungalow would be on a low state of alertness. They would be
watching the road to see if anyone came looking for the man at the
bungalow. They could easily have been flanked. The prey was right under
their very noses. Lukov handed him the handset.

"This is Captain Baibakov. Have all search teams converge on the
bungalow. Advise observation team on-site that quarry may be inside. Do
not engage, repeat, do not engage. Observe house, fire only if quarry
attempts to break away. I will arrive and take command within ten
minutes." Baibakov handed back the transmitter, and his voice roared
through the buttes to his men.

"Return to the trucks! Now! Night-vision protocols, prepare for
assault!"

Baibakov and his men raced through the dark across the broken ground.
The giant grinned as they approached the road and the panel trucks, and
the blood sang in his veins. The noose was tightening.

The witch was terse over the secure telephone. "What is happening?"

Ramzin reclined in his chair. "Baibakov is running them down." He looked
up at the clock, then at the survey map. "The assault should begin in
minutes."

The woman was somewhat mollified. "Good. Make sure the madman does not
slaughter them both before we have a chance to interrogate them."

Ramzin's lips tightened. "That will be difficult. The man is obviously a
trained soldier, and the woman appears to know which end of a rifle is
which. Baibakov knows his duty well, and all attempts will be made to
bring them in alive. However, if it comes to a shoot-out, I consider the
quarry expendable. My men are not."

"Your men will do as they are told."

Ramzin's voice was stone. "Exactly so. They will obey my orders without
question."

The Witch was silent for a moment. The underlying threat in Ramzin's
remark was obvious. She reined in her temper. Now was not the time for a
power struggle within the organization. She needed to impress Ramzin.
She modified her tone.

"The woman is unimportant. I have already begun arrangements to explain
her demise."

Ramzin's interest was piqued against his will. "How so?"

The Witch laughed. "Did you not know? She is a wanted fugitive. Evidence
will show that she was the one who murdered her father. She took her
father's job to smuggle drugs. She herself orchestrated the attack on
the jail to steal confiscated money and drugs being stored there. Truly
she is an evil woman."

She continued. "But I want the man, Major. He is an anomaly that must be
explained. I have considered your idea that he is an American Special
Forces soldier, but if he is, why has nothing else happened? Why do not
American Army helicopters fill the skies of Crucible? Why have they not
reacted? Even if he has not been able to report, as you suspect, he is
on American soil. Surely his failure to report would spark action, but I
have heard nothing through my channels. There is only this inexplicable
man, eluding us in the desert. How can this be explained?"

Ramzin was silent. These things had weighed heavily on his mind, as
well. He, too, wished to get his hands on this man and carve his
mysteries out of him with a knife. "I do not know. I cannot explain
these things."

"I have given these matters thought. I do not believe this man is a
soldier."

Ramzin scoffed. "Ridiculous. His tactics, his weapons, he is well
schooled in escape and evasion. Clearly he is a Green Beret, or perhaps
a Navy SEAL."

"Tell me, Ramzin, are you currently serving as a Spetsnaz major in the
Russian army?"

"No! You know I-" He cut himself short as he saw the point. "You believe
this man is a mercenary?"

"Our problem, Major, has been Our perspective. We have been so afraid of
being discovered by the American government, the FBI, the CIA, that we
have not entertained other possibilities. It is my belief that one of
two things is possible. One, our friend is working for a rival concern.
Second, perhaps he does work for a branch of the U.S. government, but
one that has its own agenda and cannot legally afford to be exposed in a
real investigation if an incident occurs."

Ramzin scratched his chin in thought. "I believe the former to be the
most likely. I think perhaps I do not trust our Mexican friends."

"I never have. However, they are necessary. But I will not tolerate
being double-crossed. I need the man. I need him alive to answer
questions. I authorize you to go to any extreme. Kill the woman, and do
anything you wish to the man, as long as he is begging to tell us all he
knows when you are finished with him."

Ramzin took a deep breath. "Very well. I will use any extreme necessary
to ensure the success of the mission. I will report immediately after
the assault. Ramzin out."

He switched the code on the transmitter. "Captain Baibakov, this is
Major Ramzin. The helicopter is already on its way. Listen carefully.
This is what I want you to do."

CHAPTER 7

Baibakov's hand sliced downward.

"Fire!

Four grenade launchers boomed simultaneously. Windows on all four sides
of the adobe bungalow shattered as the projectiles arced into the
interior with deadly accuracy. A second later the bombs detonated within
the house in a series of soft, muffled pops.

Baibakov exploded into a full sprint, roaring through his mask. "Move!"

The captain and a five-man squad raced the forty yards to the bungalow.
Their masks and bulky environmental containment suits slowed them, but
not one man among them resented the encumbrance as they stormed the
bungalow.

The remains of the broken front door fell from its hinges beneath
Baibakov's massive boot. He swept the room's interior with the muzzle of
his AK-74, then flicked on the light switch. In the middle of the floor
a metal cylinder the size of a soda can spun and hissed in lazy circles.
From vents in the top of the grenade, Baibakov could just see the nearly
transparent vapors hissing out and dispersing in a shimmer throughout
the room.

The giant felt himself shudder. He considered himself a brave man. His
men considered him inhuman. Stories of his personal power and the
atrocities he had committed needed no embellishment. But Baibakov had
seen firsthand how nerve gas killed men in Afghanistan, and even he was
afraid of it. His men stormed into the house behind him, and his voice
was a muffled snarl behind the protective filters in his mask.

"Search and sweep! Quickly! Moments count!"

His men quickly swept through the bungalow room by room. Lukov shouted
from the kitchen. "Captain! Come quickly!"

Baibakov covered the distance in four strides, and what he saw made his
blood run cold.

Two of his men, Larionov and Marius, lay bound and gagged on the floor,
shuddering and twisting. Their eyes rolled in their heads, saliva
drooled from under the tape that gagged them. Clear fluids ran from
their noses and ears as their entire nervous systems went into revolt.
Baibakov grabbed the team medic by the shoulder and nearly hurled him
into the kitchen.

"Atropine, Senior Sergeant! Now!"

The medic knelt beside the convulsing men and clumsily broke open a
sterile medical pack with gloved fingers. He produced two small syringes
and quickly prepped them. He waved frantically at Baibakov and Lukov.
"Hold them fast! I do not want the needles breaking in them!"

Baibakov and Lukov each grabbed a man's leg and forced the folding,
shuddering limb straight. The medic swiftly pierced each victim's
clothing and injected the atropine directly into the femoral arteries in
their thighs. "Good. Get them out of here quickly."

The other two men of the squad ran into the kitchen. "The house is
empty, Captain! No sign of the fugitives."

The giant rose as the stricken soldiers were rushed into the open air.
Then he gazed around him.

There were crumbs on the cutting board in the kitchen. On entry he had
seen a blanket rumpled on the couch. His quarry had been here, of that
he had no doubt. They had spent hours resting themselves, hiding in
plain sight while he had fruitlessly searched the desert. The man had
defeated two of his soldiers and slipped out of his hands again.

Baibakov strode outside and felt his anger pulsing in his temples.

He had gassed his own men. It galled him, but he decided the action was
acceptable. The quarry had to be taken alive. In a firefight, they might
have been killed. If he had used tear gas, they might have been able to
fight on, or they might even have had masks. Only full
chemical-biological warfare suits could protect them against nerve gas,
and even this fox wouldn't have those in his bag of tricks. Ramzin's
tactics were brilliant, as always.

The thick plastic gloves of his suit creaked as Baibakov clenched his
fists. Still, he had failed again. The prey had remained one step ahead
of him, and now he would have to waste vital time as his men
decontaminated themselves and unsuited. He stood in the desert breeze
and trembled with rage. He yearned for the kill. If he couldn't kill the
man, he would hurt him. With his own hands he would break the man's body
and will, and after he had reduced the man to a crippled, whimpering
freak, he would kill the woman before his eyes.

Baibakov stared out into the desert night without seeing, playing the
scene over in his mind, visualizing it in greater and greater detail
until his anger passed. His vision suddenly became lucid, and he scanned
the desert terrain with renewed interest. His quarry was rested and had
a head start of at least several hours.

The question was, where would the prey go now?

Bolan took Larquette's hand and helped her up on top of the boulder.
They were in broken country, steadily rising into the mountains. The nap
had done her good, but they had been marching for hours, and she was
flagging as they climbed higher. She stood shakily on the rock and
looked upward with a sigh. Bolan followed her gaze. In the flat,
monochromatic view of the night-vision goggles the world was an unending
pile of giant gray-green rocks that climbed relentlessly into the sky.
"Beautiful country you have out here," he said.

A ghost of a smile moved across her face. "How much farther?"

Bolan looked upward again. "If we can get over that, we'll be looking
down on it. The rest of it should be downhill from there. Take your
goggles off and have some water."

The flat, monotone world suddenly became inky darkness and brilliant
stars above. Standing on the rock with the heavy goggles off their
faces, they could feel the desert breeze play over them. Larquette
sighed. "God, that feels good."

Bolan handed her the canteen. "Here."

She gulped at the water, finally lowering the canteen with a gasp. Her
hand shook as she handed it back, and her rifle clattered on top of the
rock. Bolan caught her arm as her knees buckled.

Larquette held his arm and steadied herself as he lowered her into a
sitting position. "You all right?"

She grinned up at him sheepishly. "I'm sorry. I'm not much of a trooper,
am I?"

Bolan squeezed her shoulder. "You impress the hell out of me."

She turned her head away and looked down into the dark. "That's nice of
you to say, but I know I'm holding you back." Bolan felt her shoulder
tremble. "I'm probably going to get us both killed."

He gently took her chin and looked into her eyes. "Listen, I couldn't
have made it this far without you. You know the town, you know the
people, you know the country. It's simple. I need you, you need me. We
stick together, and we'll win. Right?"

Larquette took a deep breath and nodded. "Right. Thanks."

"How do you feel?"

"Like I'm going to throw up and start crying, but I'll get over it."

"Good. You're going to make Eagle Scout yet. There's a chocolate bar and
some trail mix in your fanny pack. I want you to eat them and have some
more water. We'll rest here a little while longer, then we're going to
make a big push."

She unzipped the pack and started rummaging through it. "You should have
told me sooner that there was chocolate involved. It  ..." She trailed
off as the Executioner rose to his feet and lifted his gaze to the sky.
"What is it?"

He tilted his head slightly. "Listen."

A low, pulsing noise began to build slowly, rising into a rhythmic
thumping in the air. Bolan pulled down his night vision goggles and
examined the edge of the boulder. Beneath it, another rock formed a
ledge five feet below them. He grabbed Larquette's arm and lifted her to
her feet.

"Down there's a ledge. Get onto it and stay down." He lowered her until
her feet touched, then scooped up her rifle. The Executioner slipped
behind the boulder as the helicopter suddenly burst into sight and
roared overhead. He peered at it from his concealed position.

It was a small commercial transport, flying low and fast. Bolan
recognized it as a Bell Jet Ranger as it swept over them and rose
rapidly to cross the spine of the rocks before descending again out of
sight.

"Are they looking for us?" Larquette whispered in Bolan's ear.

He shook his head. "No, they were transporting someone, or something,
and they were in a hurry."

"But they will be, soon enough."

Baibakov stripped off the leggings of the chemical suit over his boots.
Barsukov, the medic, ran the chemical alarm over him as he kicked the
crumpled suit away in disgust. "The nerve agent is dispersed, Captain.
No sign of lingering contamination."

"Have the rest of the men unsuit. I want them ready to move in ten
minutes."

Barsukov saluted. "Yes, Sir."

It would probably be more than an hour before the house could be safely
searched for clues, but he believed what he had seen told him enough
already. The prey had entered the desert on foot. They had undoubtedly
reached the rocks already, and now tracking them would be very
difficult. His thoughts were interrupted as Lukov came running with the
radio. "Captain, it is Major Ramzin!"

Baibakov grimly took the handset. "Yes, Major."

"Captain, have you found any sign of the quarry?"

"No, sir. My men and I have just finished decontamination procedures. I
will begin circling the house to pick up the quarry's trail."

"No, return to base, immediately."

Baibakov was stunned. "But, Major, I  ..."

"Do you question my orders, Captain Baibakov?"

He instinctively snapped to attention. "No, Major."

"Good. Listen to me. I do not know where this man and woman are right
now, and I do not care. I do not want you and your men exhausting
yourselves in the rocks and desert. We will let the quarry do this. The
man is on a mission. He will come to us, and when he does, I want you to
be ready for him."

"Exactly so, Major. May I inquire about my men?"

"Certainly. Marius wishes he was dead, and will undoubtedly continue to
do so for several hours. However, he should be fit for light duty
tomorrow."

"And Larionov?"

Ramzin's voice lowered over the handset. "Evidence indicates that Marius
and Larionov were defeated in hand to hand combat. Larionov's kidney was
torn in the struggle. The nerve gas and the resulting convulsions were
extremely detrimental to his condition. I am having him flown to Mexico,
despite the Witch's objections."

"Thank you, Major."

"We take care of our own, Captain Baibakov."

"Exactly so."

"Bring your men in, Captain. They need to eat and rest. I commend your
efforts. You have prevented the man from contacting the outside, and we
have driven him into the desert. When he shows himself, you will be
there waiting for him."

Baibakov nodded. Watching the baited trap wasn't his preferred mode of
hunting, but he had done it many times. If it was required, he would do
it now, with pleasure.

"Indeed, Major, I will be waiting for him."

CHAPTER 8

"There it is. You made it."

"Thank God." Larquette sagged as Bolan pulled her up to the peak and
slumped onto a rock. She stripped off her night-vision goggles and
looked down into the valley with an exhausted frown. "It looks like
Christmas."

From their vantage up on the peak, the valley spread out beneath them in
an ocean of darkness beneath the stars. To the east they could see the
lights of Crucible as they glowed in the distance. Nestled against the
hills directly below them, the mining camp shone like a gaudy
six-pointed star. The center of the star was brightly lit with
floodlights, and they could see the activity of men and machines. A
helicopter sat on the pad in the center of the complex with its rotors
turning. Out toward the fence were dimmer, irregularly spaced orange
perimeter lights forming the points of the star, and smaller moving
lights patrolled the edges. Bolan didn't doubt that when the alarm went
off the whole complex and everything around it for several hundred yards
would light up like the sun.

"It's not Christmas. It's a firebase. With a mining camp inside it."

She looked up at him tiredly. "A what?"

"A firebase. Look at how it's set up. It's star shaped. Each arm of the
star can receive supporting fire from at least two others. Anything
inside the points of the star is in a cross fire. The whole structure is
a series of interlocking fire lanes, with concentric strong points until
you reach the center. Everything within a two-hundred-yard radius of the
fence has been cleared, and anybody caught in that perimeter would be
cut to pieces. If the DEA or the FBI hit this place they would be
slaughtered. It would take the Army, with infantry, air support and
armored vehicles to breach this setup. Even then it would take time and
a lot of lives to do it, and who knows what kind of heavy weapons they
have concealed down there."

Larquette shook her head tiredly. "But what's the point? I mean, they're
in the United States, for God's sake. They can't win. They're trapped
with no place to go. The Feds would call in the Army and they'd get
stomped. Why would someone go to all the trouble to build a base like
that just to be trapped in a prolonged siege?"

"That's a very good question." Bolan stared at the complex, his face
setting in grim lines. "There has to be something we've missed, or we
haven't figured on, or else  ..."

"Or else what?"

The Executioner folded his arms across his chest as he gazed at the
fortress below. "Or else there's something down there that they're all
willing to die for."

Igor Baibakov stooped slightly as he entered Ramzin's office then rose
to his full height. His head brushed the corrugated shack's ceiling as
he stood at attention and snapped a smart salute. Ramzin returned the
salute and waved the man to a chair. The chair creaked in protest as
Baibakov sank his huge frame into an utterly relaxed sprawl. It never
failed to astound Ramzin how a man so large could move with such catlike
ease.

"Tell me, Captain, how go the preparations?"

"Everything is in readiness, Major. I have picked my teams. The security
protocols have been altered to your specifications. The helicopter is
being refitted as we speak." He nodded, more to confirm this to himself
than to Ramzin. "This time there will be no mistakes."

Ramzin nodded. "I do not doubt this. What of our friends?"

"They say everything proceeds on schedule. If they are to be believed,
all will go ahead tonight as planned."

The major folded his arms across his chest and regarded the giant. "And
what of you, Igor, what do you think?"

Baibakov's eyes slitted. "I believe your tactics are correct, Commander.
He is out there in the dark. I can feel him. He is watching us. He will
be watching tonight."

Ramzin nodded. He trusted the huge hunter's instincts. "Then tonight he
will see something very interesting."

"Indeed," Baibakov stated, "and it will be the last thing this Yankee
and the troublesome woman shall ever see."

The Executioner awoke, rolling to one knee with the Beretta 93-R in his
hand. The safety came off instinctively as he cocked his head and
listened.

He could hear a helicopter.

Larquette knelt to one side with her hand half outstretched. She was
somewhat taken aback. She hadn't even touched him. "Ah, you told me to
wake you if anything happened."

Bolan nodded. "The helicopter is up."

"Yes, and there's a lot of lights on and a lot of people and vehicles
moving around. Something's definitely going on."

The soldier rose to his feet and holstered the Beretta as he glanced up
at the stars. He had slept for two hours. It was nearly 4:00 a.m. They
had reached the base of the peak at two, and Larquette had insisted that
he get some rest. Bolan stretched, taking a deep breath of the desert
night air. He had long ago learned to sleep anywhere and at anytime.

He watched as the Jetranger orbited the camp, then slanted off into the
darkness at high speed toward Crucible. Bolan swept his gaze back to the
camp. She was right. Something was going on. Some kind of preparations
were being made. "I'm going to have to get closer."

The woman put her hands on her hips. "We have to get closer." Bolan
looked at her and said dryly, "That might not be the smartest idea."

Larquette folded her arms across her chest. "You're forgetting who the
law is around here. I have every right to be in on any investigation."

"I didn't say you didn't have the right. I said it might not be a smart
idea."

"Listen, you're not leaving me alone out here. What if you go in there
and get yourself killed?"

Bolan shook his head. "If I get myself killed, what do you think is
going to happen to you if you're with me?"

Her shoulders squared, and she glared up at him defiantly. He could tell
she was scared to be left alone and too proud to be left behind. Bolan
idly considered tying her up, but if he was killed it would leave her to
the mercy of the desert.

Her voice dropped slightly. "You said we were a team. I need you and you
need me. If we stick together, we'll win."

Bolan nodded. "All right. Do exactly what I tell you. Move when I tell
you to move. Freeze when I tell you to freeze."

Baibakov sat in the ready room and sharpened his shovel. The entrenching
tool was approximately a half meter long with a solid ash handle and a
broad, flat, carbon-steel blade. One length of the matte-black blade had
been sharpened to a hatchet-like utility edge, while the opposing edge
had been honed to a razor sharpness. The tip of the shovel blade was a
shallow triangle, and its twin edges were beveled for penetration.
Soldiers had been using entrenching tools as weapons since World War I,
and in the intervening years since then, the Soviet soldiers of Spetsnaz
had elevated it to an art form. In a riot situation, a body blow with
the flat of the shovel blade would leave a man writhing on the ground in
agonizing pain or a limb paralyzed and useless. In life-or-death combat,
the edge would take a man's head from his shoulders like a battle-ax.
The tool was well balanced for throwing, and Baibakov could sink his
into a car door at twenty paces with ease.

It was a joke within Spetsnaz that in an emergency you could even use
one to dig a hole.

Baibakov grinned as he ran the whetstone around the gleaming edge of the
blade. The edge was already sharp enough to shave hair off of his arm.
It was a ritual that simply killed time. Now it was the waiting game.
His men were ready; he had personally chosen four six-man squads, all of
the best men available. All had double- and triple-checked their weapons
and gear. The jeeps were fueled and ready, and waited by the rolling
steel doors of the warehouse. The vehicles had been reconfigured into
weapon platforms, each with a light machine gun in front of its front
passenger seat. Post-mounted in the rear of two of the jeeps were heavy
machine guns, while the other two mounted belt-fed automatic grenade
launchers. The vehicles would work in pairs, striking in a pincer
movement to surround the quarry and overwhelm them with firepower.

Along the far wall, men sat looking at monitors while others stared into
space, listening to headphones for the slightest hint of their quarry.
Ramzin stood behind them with his arms folded, a figure carved in stone.

Baibakov stared idly at his watch. It was just past 4:00 a.m., nearly
time for this night's scheduled activity to begin.

The trap was set. Now where was his prey?

The Executioner lay prone in the darkness. "Do you see them?"

Larquette peered out at the camp. "See what?"

Bolan reached over and turned up the gain on her goggles. "My equipment
is a generation ahead of the Russian gear you're wearing." He adjusted
her goggles to full amplification. "Look now."

Larquette's jaw dropped. "My God, what are they?"

In the view of their night vision gear, dozens of glowing white lines
crisscrossed the camp's perimeter like a ghostly net of light. "They're
infrared lasers, low power and very well set up."

"Are they dangerous?"

"No, they aren't. They're just very sophisticated trip wires. But if you
break one of the beams, they know you're there."

"But we can see them. Anyone with these goggles could see them."

Bolan nodded. "That's true. But they'd detect any casual intruder, or
anyone without the proper equipment." The Executioner's face set in
tight lines. "And I suspect they're only the first line of defense. Hand
me my pack, would you?"

Larquette handed him the small black pack, and Bolan pulled out a flat
metal case. He opened the case and fitted a plug in his right ear. After
a moment of turning a dial, he nodded. "What is it?"

"Motion detectors. They're using sound."

"What do we do about that?"

Bolan pulled out a small fan-shaped antenna and spread it out into a
dish. "There are two kinds of detection gear--active and passive. The
lasers and the sound are active. They're sending out beams and signals,
looking for you. You can detect them, and take countermeasures. If you
see the lasers, you can simply step over. Some systems you can jam.
Motion detectors, like this sound system, we can fool."

He plugged the small dish into the case and made some adjustments. A
tiny generator began to send pulses of highfrequency sound into the
night. Green lights on the miniature console blinked as the pulses
altered to align with the sound generated by the motion sensors. The
earplug chirped as the sounds matched. A grin ghosted across the
Executioner's face. As usual, Gadgets Schwarz was way ahead of the
competition.

Larquette hunched forward. "What's the other kind again?"

"Passive systems."

"What does that mean, exactly?"

"Passive systems don't do anything. They just sit there and wait. Like a
land mine. You don't know it's there until you step on it."

Larquette drew back. "You're not saying there's a mine field out there,
are you?"

"No. That would be too risky. If some kids were blown up riding around
on their dirt bikes, it might be very hard for Red Star Mining to
explain. What we have to worry about is something we can trip without
ever knowing it's there."

"Like what kind of something?"

"A seismic something, most likely. Buried in the ground. Seismic devices
don't emanate anything you can detect. They're just sensors that feel
the vibrations in the ground when something passes nearby and tell the
bad guys you're there."

"So what do we do?"

Bolan slung the big Weatherby rifle behind his back and put a finger to
his lips.

"Move very quietly."

Ramsin stood and watched the consoles of the security net. The new
security suite for the base had cost a small fortune, but it was one of
the few expenditures he had demanded that the Witch hadn't complained
about.

She believed in security.

Ramzin took a deep breath. "Anything?" It was a rhetorical question. He
already knew the answer, and Lieutenant Voroshilov knew that his
commander knew, as well, but the former KGB technical specialist turned
from his monitor and reported anyway.

"Nothing to report yet, Major. The infrared detection system has
registered several scattered breaks. Combined with local seismic
readings, these breaks have been ruled as animal in nature, though of
course we are maintaining a high degree of scrutiny in these areas.
However, Major, their pattern strongly suggests rabbits or deer."

Ramzin nodded. "What of the motion detectors?"

Voroshilov shrugged. "Two breaks, Major, again determined to be animal
in nature. One anomalous reading in the southern quadrant, ruled a
malfunction."

Ramzin unfolded his arms and peered at Voroshilov narrowly. "Define for
me anomalous reading, Senior Lieutenant Voroshilov."

The officer sank several inches under Ramzin's withering gaze.
"Anomalous, Major. Unexplainable. They are usually chalked up to
malfunction or signal problems. It is a question of pattern, Commander.
A pattern of breaks or readings would indicate that something has
actually been detected. But in the anomalous reading, it is a momentary
blink, and it is unrepeated. We generally experience several anomalous
readings on several of the systems in a night of surveillance. I will be
happy to show you the logs to confirm this, Commander. It is why we use
overlapping security systems. No other systems in the southern quadrant
confirmed a detection, so I ruled it to be anomalous."

Voroshilov mopped at his brow as he finished. He was suddenly sweating.

Ramzin folded his arms again and released Voroshilov from his stare.
"Very well, Senior Lieutenant, I accept your report."

The man returned to his screens. Ramzin glanced over at Baibakov. The
giant sat peering at the gleaming edge of his entrenching tool. Ramzin
shook his head in wonder. The man could out-wait a stone. He was like a
rifle bullet, an inert object, sitting ready in the chamber.

Until one pulled the trigger.

Lukov turned from the radio station. "Commander, the operation has
begun. Estimated time of arrival is five minutes and counting."

Ramzin nodded. "Excellent. Keep me updated."

The major stared up at the perimeter map of the base and muttered under
his breath.

"Come, my friend, come and take a look. Take a very close look."

The Executioner brought his binoculars to his eyes, and the front of the
complex jumped into crystal clarity. Men stood around as the electrical
gate slowly rolled back on its track. Bolan rested prone on his elbows
and adjusted the focus slightly.

Larquette nudged his shoulder. "What's happening?"

He handed her the binoculars and unslung the Weatherby rifle. He flicked
off the scope's lens caps and swept the camp through the powerful sight.
"They're preparing for something."

She raised her hand and pointed. "Look at the big warehouse!"

Bolan tracked the scope over to the larger of the two warehouses in the
complex. Its gate was sliding open, as well, and a man with a flashlight
in each hand was motioning something inside to come out. The Executioner
squinted as lights in the warehouse burst into life, their brightness
nearly blinding in the light amplification of his scope sight. He dialed
down the gain and took another look. Headlights shone brightly as a
vehicle moved to the warehouse door.

It was a truck.

The semi inched forward, its truck compartment nearly as tall as the
gate and filling the door. The vehicle eased out of the warehouse, and
Bolan could see that it had a double trailer. By the way it rode, he
could tell that the truck was loaded.

"I wonder what's in it?"

"I don't know, something they don't want people to know about."

Another truck followed the first, slowly pulling out of the warehouse
and maneuvering toward the front gate. The nose of a third truck edged
out the door, and the man with the flashlights waved it on.

"Whatever they've got, they sure have a lot of it."

Bolan suddenly raised his sight and scanned the warehouse as a fourth
semi began pulling out. He quickly ran the sight across its dimensions.
The warehouse could barely hold four double semi rigs, much less allow
them to maneuver inside.

A fifth truck began to wind its way out the warehouse. The Executioner
twisted into a seated position and turned the scope to face the south.
His voice became stone.

"How many miles to Mexico from here?"

Larquette shrugged, still watching the complex. "Oh, I don't know. We're
pretty close. From here, I'd say six, maybe seven miles, tops."

A sixth truck entered the warehouse.

Larquette frowned behind the binoculars. "How did they fit all those
..." Her voice trailed off and her jaw dropped. "My God, they've-"

"They've dug a tunnel." Bolan lowered the rifle scope. "A smuggling
corridor. Big enough to run trucks through."

"What could they have in all those trucks?"

Bolan grimaced. It was a Russian operation, but they obviously had to be
getting help from someone in Mexico. "They could be running guns, drugs,
illegal aliens, anything that will pay. If they're a terrorist group,
God only knows what they might be bringing in."

"What do we do?"

He rose to a crouch and slung his rifle, pulling his night-vision
goggles back down over his eyes. "We have to get out of here. I have to
call in."

"But it will take us at least a day to climb back over and hike to
town!"

Bolan shook his head. "No time. We stay down and get close to the road.
The vibration and noise of the trucks should cover us if we're smart
about it."

He grabbed her hand as she pulled her goggles in place.

"Let's move."

CHAPTER 9

Voroshilov shot out of his seat. "Movement, Commander! Magnetometer
confirmed!"

Ramzin reached the security console in three strides. "Where?"

"Southeast quadrant. Near the road."

The major scanned the bewildering array of monitors. "Where? Show me!"

Voroshilov pointed to a monitor. "You see, our quarry is very clever. He
shadows the road, where the vibrations of the convoy's big trucks will
temporarily disrupt our seismic sensors. He wishes to move as fast as
possible, and he knows the noise and wind of the trucks will shield him
from the motion detectors in that area, as well. But look, Commander! He
cannot compensate for the magnetometers. I suspect he does not even know
that they are there. The magnetometers are much more sensitive and
localized. They detect metal. Like the weapons and gear our quarry must
be carrying. They are almost impossible to fool."

Ramzin scowled. "How do you know your magnetic readings are not a
reflection of the convoy?"

Voroshilov grinned from ear to ear. He loved to show off his toys. "An
excellent question, Commander. But look. If they were reflections, they
would mirror the individual trucks' speed and movement. It would be a
very easy pattern to recognize. But what we have are two irregular
readings, very close together, small amounts of metal, moving slowly in
relation to the truck convoy."

Ramzin nodded. "I see, Senior Lieutenant. What is your assessment?"

Voroshilov stabbed the monitor with his finger. "Two individuals,
Commander, in the southeast quadrant, on foot. They are shadowing the
road, moving toward town."

"We have them!" Ramzin whirled. "Baibakov! Southeast quadrant, by the
road! Move!"

Baibakov and his men piled into the gun jeeps, the warmed-up engines
revving into life as the sliding gate opened. Ramzin turned to the
communication console with a savage grin of triumph. "Get the
helicopter, now!"

The Executioner moved through the darkness.

The taillights of the truck convoy receded ahead of them in the
distance. Taking this route was an ugly gamble. He would have preferred
to retrace his steps over the mountain, but there was no time.

Larquette panted behind him but maintained the pace. She spoke between
gulps of air. "Do you think we're clear?"

Bolan pulled to a halt. "I believe we're out of range of the base's
sensors now. If we tripped anything, we'll know soon-" He raised his
eyes to the night sky.

Larquette looked about. "What is it?"

The vibrations slowly crept into the audible range as the Executioner
unslung his big Weatherby rifle. "The helicopter. You'd better run. Head
for the rocks. Go back the same way we came. Contact your friend Tom
Donovan. See if he can smuggle you out of the county."

"I'm not going anywhere. We're a team."

The Executioner's voice became stone. "The helicopter can't track two
targets. If you can reach the rocks you stand a chance."

She shook her head desperately. "But-"

Bolan took a step toward her and barked, "Move!"

Larquette flinched and with a look of betrayal broke into a sprint
toward the distant spine of rocks.

Bolan flicked the lens caps off the Weatherby's scope and pressed on the
power switch. He looked out into the darkness of the predawn desert. The
helicopter was coming in at top speed, little more than a hundred feet
above the ground. Plumes of dust whirled into the sky behind it in the
wake of the rotor's down wash. Bolan grimaced. The aircraft was flying
directly toward him.

It knew exactly where he was.

At a thousand yards its searchlight blazed into blinding life under the
chin of the cockpit and began to sweep the desert in front of it as it
roared forward. Bolan raised the .378 Weatherby rifle to his shoulder.
In the day-night scope, the searchlight was as bright as the sun. He
squinted and turned down the gain, then wound his arm into the rifle's
sling for support and assumed a solid firing stance. The soldier took a
deep breath and a careful aim. It was only a matter of seconds before it
saw him.

Bolan stood unflinching as the blinding circle of the searchlight swept
toward him. He could feel the vibration of the rotors and let out half
of his breath, his stance rock steady.

The Executioner slowly began taking up slack on the big rifle's trigger,
the marksman's mantra running through his mind--don't pull the trigger,
just squeeze ... squeeze  ... Senior Sergeant Nikolai Tsapko took the
helicopter down to seventy-five feet and shouted into his microphone.
"Approaching target area. Gunners ready. Remember, we take them alive.
Herd them to the jeeps."

Corporals Sobolev and Borchisky swung out on their chicken straps,
literally hanging out the doors over the PKM machine guns mounted into
each doorframe. Sobolev shouted over the rotor noise as he swept his
sights across the desert floor.

"Where are they?"

Tsapko grimaced. "There is no cover! We should be right on top of them!"
He turned to the copilot who manned the searchlight. "Ozhimkov!

Check the coordinates-"

Sparks exploded under the helicopter's chin as the high-powered
searchlight shattered. Metal shrieked inside the cabin as a heavy bullet
tore through the cockpit floor and burst through the roof. Cursing,
Tsapko yanked the joystick to bank the helicopter as a second bullet
shattered the front windscreen and smashed Ozhimkov back in his seat.
Tsapko's eyes caught the orange muzzle-flash against the black
background of the desert floor even as wind shrieked into the cockpit
through the shattered windscreen. He roared into his microphone.
"Sobolev! Seven O'clock! Now!"

The PKM machine gun ripped into life, sending bursts of green tracers
streaming to the ground. A third bullet smashed into the fuselage above
Sobolev's head, ripping into the rotor-engine housing. He corrected his
aim and fired repeated bursts at the muzzle-flash on the ground.

"Go lower! I cannot see him!" Tsapko's gorge rose as he dropped the
helicopter like a stone and hit the landing lights. Sobolev yanked his
night vision goggles over his eyes as the helicopter began its descent.
"I see him!

I-"

Sobolev jerked backward and sagged into his straps with a shudder.
Tsapko spun the helicopter in a dizzying 180-degree turn as another
bullet smashed into the upper fuselage. The engine shuddered and began
to make high-pitched grinding noises. Tsapko could smell metal grinding
on metal.

"Borchisky! Ignore the orders! Kill him! Kill him now!"

A fifth bullet smashed into the cockpit by Tsapko's head.

Borchisky swung the muzzle Of the machine gun. "I see him! He is
running, trying to reload. Bank left!"

The corporal brought his machine gun in line and sent a burst of green
tracers streaking at the running figure. The bullets geysered dirt in a
line parallel with his target. "Good! Hold position!"

Tsapko hauled up on the joystick and brought the helicopter to a hover,
giving Borchisky a stable firing plat form.

The man stopped and whirled, bringing the rifle to his shoulder and
slamming the bolt shut, but Borchisky knew the enemy was too late. He
had his front sight dead on the man's chest. Borchisky pushed down on
the PKM's paddle triggers.

Sparks shrieked in the helicopter cabin as bullet after bullet tore into
the rear of the fuselage and flew into the cabin. Tsapko jerked, and the
helicopter spun as an unseen fist smashed into his shoulder, numbing his
arm and leaving him only one hand to wrestle with the shuddering
helicopter. He twisted his head and saw rapid muzzle-flashes on the
ground to his left, firing up at his aircraft.

"Borchisky! Ground fire! Five o'clock!"

The corporal hung in his chicken straps, sagging out of the doorway over
his gun. Bullets began striking the helicopter as the first target
resumed fire. Above Tsapko's head, the engine screamed as something in
the drive train failed cataclysmically and the besieged aircraft began
to spin out of control. Tsapko keyed his chin mike desperately.

"Mayday! Mayday! Red Star One! Going down! I am going down! Mayday!"

Tsapko yanked back on the joystick with all the strength of his one good
arm as the ground rushed up to meet him.

The Executioner pushed fresh shells into the Weatherby's magazine. The
helicopter lay in a smoking ruin some forty yards away. Its fuselage was
nearly broken in two and scored with bullet holes. Near Bolan's feet lay
an eight-foot length of rotor blade that had come close to decapitating
him when the aircraft had crashed. He heard the crunch of boots behind
him as he pushed the last round into the rifle's chamber and closed the
bolt.

"I thought I told you to run."

Larquette smiled in the predawn glimmer as he turned to face her. She
topped off her Winchester's magazine with rounds out of her pocket.

"I did."

"Mmm." Bolan closed the Weatherby's breech and flicked on the safety as
he turned and brought the rifle to his shoulder. Through the scope he
could see jeeps tearing out of the complex, each filled with armed men
and bristling with weapons. They drove at a dangerous speed across the
rough terrain. It would be only moments before they arrived. "Feel like
running again?"

"Let me guess. The rocks."

"Yeah. But this time don't stop until you get there."

Larquette looked up at him with tired defiance. "I told you, I'm
sticking with you."

Bolan nodded. "I know. We're a team. I'll be right along. But first I
have to discourage our friends, and your rifle just doesn't have that
kind of range. So why don't you get a head start, and cover me if I have
to come running in a hurry."

"All right." She turned and jogged toward the rocks. Bolan faced the
complex, assumed a half-kneeling position, then sat back on his heel. He
pulled the big rifle firmly into his shoulder and propped his elbow onto
his knee in an easy rest. The sling creaked as he wound his free arm
into it, and his whole body became a stable firing platform. In the
telescopic sight, the lead jeep seemed almost about to run him over.
Bolan placed the scope's cross hairs on the jeep's front grille and
slowly squeezed the trigger.

The big rifle roared and kicked with brutal recoil. Bolan racked the
bolt and chambered the next round as the rifle came back into line. The
lead jeep fish-tailed as steam erupted out of the grille. Bolan
traversed the scope. The second jeep tore past the first. Above its roll
bar, a giant of a man stood behind the ugly black snout of a heavy
machine gun. The Executioner's eyes narrowed slightly as a long burst
tore a track in the sand some yards to his right, and he squeezed the
Weatherby's trigger in reply.

The jeep's tire blew out spectacularly as the .378 Magnum bullet struck,
and the vehicle rolled violently as it suddenly shoveled its nose into
the sand. The two following jeeps spewed clouds of dust as they screamed
to a halt. Hardmen jumped out and raced to the overturned vehicle while
others gave covering fire.

Bolan rose from his shooting position and ran, zigzagging as he sprinted
for the rocks. Bullets whined past, but he knew he was already out of
range. Only a lucky shot could hit him as he opened up his stride.
Larquette's head peeked up from the foot of the rock formation, and she
waved him on encouragingly.

The soldier calculated as he ran. He had bought them some time, but he
had only delayed the Russians. They knew which way he and Larquette were
headed, and they would hunt them mercilessly under the desert sun.

"Captain!"

Baibakov dimly heard someone yelling at him as he pushed himself up out
of the sand. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth, and his pulse
thundered in his head like a drum. Colors washed across his vision as he
rose to his feet, and he nearly fell. He caught himself on the wheel of
the overturned jeep and shook his head to clear it.

"Captain Baibakov!"

He rose to his full height as Lukov ran up to him. He shook his head
again and spat blood and sand out of his mouth. "Report, Corporal!"

Lukov stared up at Baibakov, aghast. His superior's face was a mask of
blood, and his features were set in a feral snarl of rage. "Yes, sir.
Red Star One has been shot down. Jeep two has been disabled and will
require extensive engine repair. Jeep one's tire has burst. We will have
it repaired within minutes. Suryev has sustained a broken arm. All other
injuries are insignificant."

"And the quarry?"

Lukov avoided his captain's eyes. "The quarry has reached the rocks."

"Have the men right the jeep and begin repair immediately. Have a second
detail go to the helicopter and check for survivors. Take all wounded
and casualties back to the base. Bring me fresh replacements. Make a
full report to Major Ramzin. I expect you to have returned within
fifteen minutes."

Lukov snapped to attention and saluted. "Yes, sir."

Baibakov raised a bloody hand as Lukov turned to leave. "Lukov."

"Yes, sir?"

"Tell Ramzin this quarry cannot be taken alive. Tell him I am going to
hunt him down in the mountains. I will need RPG-7s and explosives."

Baibakov's bloody face split slowly into a horrible smile. "And I will
need sniper rifles."

10

Ramzin ground his teeth but kept his voice even as he spoke into the
phone. "Convoy has reached United States soil without incident."

The Witch's voice mocked him. "Without incident? That is not what I have
been told."

Ramzin's fist clenched. Zampolits--even here he couldn't escape them. In
the former Soviet Union he had had to contend with Zampolits, the Soviet
military's hated political officers, Party spies who watched soldiers
like hawks and reported any unauthorized activity to the Party. Now he
had an informer in his command, secretly reporting to the Witch. Ramzin
smiled unpleasantly. Sometimes, during the war in Afghanistan,
unfortunate "accidents" had happened to the political informers in the
field. This person in his midst wouldn't be part of his old command from
the war. It would have to be one of the newer men brought in from
Moscow. He would find this man, and perhaps an unfortunate accident
would befall him, as well.

The major took a deep breath. "Convoy has departed without incident and
is on schedule. If you refer to this mystery American, yes, he grows
increasingly as a problem."

"And what are you going to do about this, Major?"

"I have told Baibakov to bring me his head."

The Witch flared. "I have given you your orders! I want him alive!"

Ramzin's anger broke free. "He is too dangerous. He is a trained sniper,
and has shot down my helicopter and disabled two of my vehicles. My
casualties are mounting." He lowered his voice. "Listen to me, and
listen well. He has seen the convoy. He knows of the corridor. Our first
priority must be to ensure he never lives to tell of it. He and the
woman are to be killed on sight, and I have instructed Baibakov to bring
me proof of it when it is done. You are the politician, I am a soldier.
This matter is now a military emergency. I will not have my orders
questioned. Do you understand?"

The Witch hated Ramzin--him and his pet killing machine, Baibakov. She
hated the way he flaunted his military expertise and the way he
increasingly flouted her authority. Even worse, she hated him because he
could make her lose her composure.

Worst of all, she hated him because he was right.

The Witch steeled herself to remain calm. If it was a military
situation, then so be it. Let Ramzin and his tin soldiers take care of
it. It was what they were there for. She calmed herself with a pleasing
thought. When it was over, and the corridor was running smoothly and the
operation secure, she would have Ramzin and his pet freak killed. Then
she would bring in a more tractable replacement from Moscow.

She savored the idea and spoke calmly. "Very well, Major Ramzin, I
accept your assessment. This is now a military situation. I give you
full autonomy to deal with it as you see fit. You will assume full
responsibility in this matter. I will require you to keep me updated as
to developments at all times."

Ramzin paused warily. He didn't like her tone. He would have preferred
her to be spitting with rage and screaming about her authority. The
words "full responsibility" hadn't escaped him, either. He knew the
penalty for failure and who he would have to answer to if he did. But
she had handed him a two-edged sword. With full authority his success
could bring great rewards. However, if he failed  ... If he failed, the
Witch would drink vodka and dance on his grave.

The major took a deep breath. "I will keep you continuously updated as
to all developments in this situation."

"See that you do."

He hung up the phone and stared at the survey map over his desk. It was
up to him and his men now. He peered critically at the spine of
mountains on the southwest side of the camp. It was time for Baibakov to
earn his pay.

Igor Baibakov examined the terrain. Tendrils of smoke still curled up
out of the crumpled remains of the helicopter some forty yards behind
him. Remarkably Tsapko had survived the crash. Borchisky, Ozhimkov and
Sobolev hadn't been so lucky. The casualties were mounting.

He examined the tracks in the sand before him. He knew both footprints
intimately now. The man and the woman had made no attempt to hide their
trail as they had run for the high ground. Baibakov raised his eyes to
the wall of rock ahead. His prey was in the rocks now, with a half hour
head start. He knelt and picked up one of the spent shell casings that
lay scattered about and glittered in the red dust.

The brass shell was nearly three inches long. Baibakov turned the case
upside down and examined the abbreviated markings stamped on its base.
They read 378 WBY MAGNUM in a circle around the fired primer. His eyes
narrowed as he calculated from memory. A .378 Weatherby Magnum would
throw a 300-grain bullet at nearly three thousand feet per second.
Delivering almost three tons of muzzle energy, it was a rifle that would
stop an elephant, and in calm wind conditions it would be accurate to
well over a thousand yards. In the desert terrain, it would be a
devastating weapon. He shook his head. How this Yankee had managed to
exchange his assault carbine for such a powerful rifle only the Devil
knew.

He looked back at his men as they checked weapons and unloaded gear from
the replacement jeeps. Twelve of the men carried .30-caliber
semiautomatic Dragunov sniper rifles. They were tough, accurate weapons,
well proved in battle, but the American's rifle would have twice their
power, with longer range and better accuracy. Baibakov nodded grimly to
himself. He would lose men. Of that there was no question. Still, he
held all the cards.

The giant looked up as the desert sun rose slowly into the sky. It would
be very hot this day, and hotter tomorrow. The Americans would already
be worn and tired. They would have little or no water with them. By
tomorrow the man would practically have to carry the woman, if not
sooner.

Baibakov examined his force. He had twelve snipers, four men with RPG-7
rocket-propelled grenade launchers, two light-machine-gun teams and over
a dozen well trained men with assault weapons. He also had a demolition
man, and Major Ramzin had thoughtfully provided a flamethrower without
being asked.

The plan was simple. He would divide his force into sniper teams and
support-weapon sections. Then he would hound the quarry as the teams
leapfrogged one another from cover to cover. He would give the quarry no
rest and force them to show their faces. When they did, he would drive
them back with his overwhelming firepower, flank them with his superior
numbers, pin them down, then slaughter them like sheep.

Then he would march into Ramzin's office and present the commander with
their bloody heads.

Baibakov rose and signaled his men forward. The matter was a foregone
conclusion. He had run missions like this a hundred times in
Afghanistan. No quarry had ever escaped him.

None would do so now.

The Executioner scanned the rugged, broken terrain of the hills, and he
didn't like what he saw. The Russians were coming.

Through the lenses of his laser-range-finding binoculars, the Russians
went from distant ants crawling on rocks to real, life-size opponents.
They had divided into three-man sniper teams--one man with a Dragunov
rifle, one man with an assault rifle with an underslung grenade launcher
and a third man with powerful binoculars and a rifle as a spotter. Bolan
had counted at least a half dozen of these teams slowly working their
way up through the rocks, covering one another as they went. In the
distance, the Executioner had caught glimpses of men moving with heavy
weapons. For a moment, at the distant end of the binocular's range, he
had seen the giant.

The man was relentless. He had shadowed Bolan since the break from the
jail. Skill and luck had kept the Executioner one step ahead of his
adversary, but now the odds seemed to be shifting. The giant seemed to
have a full platoon of highly trained and well-equipped soldiers, and
his tactics were excellent. They would try to flank him and Larquette,
then pin them down. After that it would be only a matter of waiting, or
a single charge to overwhelm them.

The Executioner's eyes narrowed as he watched the Russians advance. He
had one advantage, and that was his rifle. The big Weatherby had the
power and the range over his opponents. When darkness fell, its
day-night optical sight would allow him to see his opponents before they
could see him. He had a few other tricks in his pack, and in the desert
night he would become the hunter.

Bolan peered up into the sky. Judging by the sun it was just around 9:00
a.m., and it was already well past eighty degrees. He and Larquette
would have to survive for nearly nine hours before the advantage would
be theirs.

He had to slow the Russians.

He turned to Larquette, who sat conserving her strength in the shade of
an overhanging slab. "Here, come and take these."

She dropped low and hunched beside Bolan. She took the binoculars and
adjusted them to fit her eyes while he unslung his rifle. "What do you
want me to do?"

"Range me."

She took a deep breath and settled on her elbows. "Tell me what to do."

Bolan pointed across the hills. "Do you see that man out there with the
binoculars?"

Larquette frowned as she scanned the area. "I see a couple of groups of
men."

He took her chin and guided her to the spot. "That one. On the ledge.
The one who's starting to look our way."

She nodded slightly, not taking her eyes off him. "Yes."

Bolan settled into a prone firing position. "Now press the button right
above your right finger. There should be a red-colored read-out in the
bottom left-hand corner of your view. What does it say?"

"Eight hundred and seventy-three M."

Bolan spoke quietly as he adjusted his aim. "Eight hundred and
seventy-three meters."

"Now what?"

"There's a little ravine behind us that leads back about thirty or forty
yards. When I tell you, get into it fast."

The Executioner pushed off the safety and began to slowly take up the
trigger's slack. In his scope, he saw the Russian's jaw drop as he came
face-to-face with Bolan's rifle through his binoculars.

Larquette flinched as the huge rifle boomed beside her. As she blinked,
the man she was watching seemed to be struck by a huge invisible fist
and was smashed out of her field of view. Off to her right, a single
shell casing tinkled to the ground, and she heard Bolan rack his rifle's
bolt. She whipped her binoculars around. All through the rocks, the
Russians were dropping down and taking cover. Suddenly they all seemed
to be pointing guns straight at her.

Larquette was startled as a man suddenly stood and shouted. His rifle
had a large tube underneath it and he seemed to look right at her as he
sighted the rifle. Then he whipped it up and pointed into the sky over
their position. Larquette pointed desperately. "There! Down there!"

Bolan tracked with his rifle. His voice was steely calm. "Where?"

She desperately searched for words. "Down there! Below!" Then, with
sudden inspiration, she shouted, "Seven o'clock!" She pushed the button
on the binoculars. "Five hundred meters!"

The big rifle next to her roared.

The man suddenly staggered back, and the black tube under his rifle
boomed and spit fire as he swayed. A moment later there was a loud boom
wide to Larquette's right as the grenade detonated some fifty yards
away.

Bolan spoke suddenly in her ear. "Excellent. Now move. Stay low."

She didn't have to be told twice. As she scurried away, the hills
erupted into a firestorm. It seemed as if every rock in the hillsides
had a black snout that spit fire. Most of the rounds fell short, but
some of the longer ranged weapons managed to strike sparks off the rocks
above their heads. Larquette stopped as she reached cover behind a large
boulder, and Bolan suddenly rose up behind her. She stared up at him.
"So what's the plan now?"

"We git, reposition and hit them again. Force them to keep taking
cover."

"What are they going to do?"

"Flank us, if they can," he replied.

"Which way?"

"Up and to the right. The terrain is rougher. We'll hit them again while
they're climbing, then move to the next ridge."

"Lead the way."

11

Hal Brognola slapped down the book he was reading and rose from his
chair. It was useless to pretend. He had read the same paragraph three
times in a row. It was time to stop waiting. It had been two days and
Bolan hadn't reported in. He knew well the nature of infiltration and
deep cover. It was possible that everything was going along as planned.

But every hard-earned instinct Brognola had told him something was
happening.

He came to a decision and picked up the secure phone. It was answered in
two rings.

"Hi, Hal. What's up?"

Brognola was silent for a moment. He had given Striker his word that he
wouldn't involve anyone at the Farm. Now he was about to break that
promise.

Price's voice became serious. "Hal, what's going on?"

"Something, maybe. Probably nothing." He searched for words, and he knew
he wasn't fooling anybody. "I need you to do me a favor."

"Name it."

He took a deep breath. "I want you to round up Phoenix Force and
assemble them at the Farm."

There was a pause as Price took this in. "Hal, most of them are standing
down, taking a little R and R. Hal, what's going on?"

"Barbara, please, just trust me, and do it."

Price's voice was utterly neutral. "All right, Hal, I'll bring them in
immediately, but what exactly do you want me to tell them?"

"Just tell them to come in, and be ready."

"Very well, I'll have them come in and stand on full alert." He noted
the total detachment in her voice. She knew he was hiding something, and
that he was hiding something about Bolan. "And how do you want them
equipped?"

Brognola sighed. The damage was already done. "Have them ready for a
full assault."

The Executioner peered through his scope. Even at full 8.5 magnification
his target looked too small. The target was almost on another ridge
entirely. Only a small gap between rock formations allowed him to see it
at all. But the target had a field radio on his back, and just for a
moment the giant had stood next to him before disappearing behind a
ridge of rock. Bolan came to a decision. "Range me."

Larquette locked her binoculars on the target and pressed the laser
range finder.

"Twelve hundred and forty-seven meters."

Bolan's face tightened as he raised his sights. He was an outstanding
marksman, but the shot was at the extreme edge of his ability and pushed
the performance envelope even of his specially setup rifle. He and
Larquette had momentarily eluded their opponents. To fire now would be
to expose their general location. Sniper survival instincts spoke in his
mind. The shot was long and risky, but it was a target of opportunity.
The sniper's mantra of priorities also spoke to him--shoot anyone with a
radio.

Bolan raised his aim. In the noon-day heat, the desert was shimmering
and still. Crosswinds weren't a factor. However, at this range his
bullet would drop significantly before reaching the target, and he had
to compensate for that. He brought the cross-hairs up until they seemed
to float about a foot above his target's head. It still wouldn't be
enough. "Tell me if he moves," he said.

Larquette nodded, not taking the binoculars off her target.

Bolan's eyes slitted as he raised his sights. He kept raising them until
he could see only the very top of the radioman's helmet as a blur in the
bottom of his scope, then the man was no longer visible in his scope. On
paper it wouldn't matter. The centerline of his cross hairs stood
perpendicular to the target, drawing an invisible line down to where his
target's body would be. Bolan slowly let out half a breath and began to
squeeze the trigger.

The big Weatherby roared as Larquette hissed in his ear. "He's moving!"

At over twelve hundred meters, it took the heavy .378 bullet nearly two
seconds to reach the target. Bolan racked the big rifle's bolt to
chamber a new round. He dropped his sights and saw the target turn and
motion to someone out of view. As Bolan tried to calculate a second
shot, the radioman suddenly staggered forward and sparks shot from the
radio pack on his back. The Executioner eased off the trigger as the man
fell facedown into the dust. At that angle, a follow-up shot would only
drop into the rocks below the fallen man.

Larquette lowered her binoculars and stared at Bolan incredulously. "My
God."

A hail of gunfire erupted from all around the hills as the Russians
sought out Bolan by the booming blast of his rifle. He could hear dim
shouting, and more and more fire shrieked and ricocheted off the rocks
as tracers walked above their position.

Bolan flipped the rifle across his forearms and hunched backward into
cover on his knees and elbows.

"Let's move."

Baibakov glared at the smashed radio set where it lay in the dirt.
Lieutenant Rybenok and Sergeant Torosyan squatted over the stricken
instrument and shook their heads like horse traders examining a mare
with a broken leg. Torosyan turned to Baibakov and raised his hands
helplessly.

The captain turned away and stared up at the distant rock formation with
folded arms. He mentally calculated the distance. It had to be at least
twelve hundred meters, and he had been standing in plain sight next to
Lukov only moments before the shot was fired. It was incredible.
Baibakov ground his teeth with rage even as he admired the American's
skill.

Baibakov turned and glanced at Lukov. The corporal sat shaken and dazed
in the shade of a rock overhang. He was sweaty and pale, and he wheezed
as he tried to get air into his lungs. Medical Sergeant Barsukov gave
him some water, then rose and approached Baibakov. He halted and saluted
smartly. The giant nodded grimly. "Report."

"Yes, sir. Fortunately the bullet struck Corporal Lukov through the
thicker elements of his radio pack and then lodged in his body armor. I
believe the bullet had spent a great deal of its energy at this
distance, and thus it failed to penetrate farther. The corporal is
shaken and badly bruised, but no bones are broken, and I do not believe
he has any internal injuries. When he catches his breath I believe he
will be fit for duty."

Baibakov dismissed the medic with a nod. "I accept your report. Send me
Lieutenant Rybenok." Barsukov saluted and went to fetch Rybenok.

"Report," Baibakov demanded after the lieutenant saluted him.

"The radio is beyond field repairs, Captain."

Baibakov rolled his eyes. He had already known this, but had hoped
vainly to have his suspicions proved false. Rybenok suddenly grinned and
began to pull a map from his field case.

"But I think I have found something useful."

The captain looked down at the lieutenant with folded arms. "Oh?"

Rybenok was undeterred. "Yes, sir, look here." Rybenok unfolded the map
and spread it on the ground. "You see, we drive this Yankee before us,
but he continually retreats from high ground to high ground. He picks
his shots, then retreats to his next firing position while we climb
after him. By the time we reach his last position, he is hidden again
and waiting to shoot."

Baibakov nodded impatiently. He was all too aware of the situation.
"This is true, Lieutenant, but it cannot go on much longer. He has no
water. We will drive him until he drops. Then he is ours."

Rybenok nodded. "A sound plan, Captain, but costly."

Baibakov's eyes slitted. Rybenok was treading dangerously close to
questioning his orders. "Am I to understand, Lieutenant Rybenok, that
you have something you wish to suggest?"

Rybenok stood to ramrod-straight attention and gave Baibakov a
parade-ground salute. "With your permission, Comrade Captain Baibakov!"

Baibakov sighed. Spetsnaz had always been a much more informal
organization than the regular Soviet army. Using the formal Communist
honorific "Comrade Captain" was shameless brown-nosing, and they both
knew it. Rybenok was irrepressible, and he obviously had something to
say.

The captain put his hands on his hips. "Very well, Lieutenant, report."

"As the captain is aware, I was in charge of security when we first ran
geological surveys of the surrounding area for the tunneling project,
and I am familiar with this territory."

"So?"

"So, our quarry does not wish to be driven down and overwhelmed.
Presumably they have some hopes of surviving."

"Presumably."

"I suggest we give them a hope, and then dash it. Look at the map, sir.
He must either try to get to Mexico, to the town of Crucible or to
outlying ranches if he hopes to survive. We have cut him off, so now he
shoots and runs, trying to stay a step ahead of us, looking for an
avenue of escape."

Baibakov regarded Rybenok dryly. "Oh? And which way shall we let our
quarry escape, Lieutenant?"

Rybenok stabbed the map with his finger. "South! Look, the southeast
corner of these hills fall away. They are literally vertical drops. I
have seen them myself, during our surveys. It would take rappeling gear
to get down them, and glimpses we have had of the quarry do not indicate
he is laden with such equipment. We will have him pinned between our
forces and hundreds of feet of sheer rock. He will be ours for the
taking!"

"And what will prevent our quarry from skirting the drop and heading
south?"

Rybenok grinned and folded his arms. "We will have another force there
waiting for him."

"Major Ramzin will not like assigning more men to this mission. We are
already stretched too thin, and have taken too many casualties."

Rybenok nodded sagely. "Yes, sir, this is true, but the major will do it
if you say it is necessary."

Baibakov regarded Rybenok for a long moment. "Very well, Lieutenant, I
accept your assessment. Take one of the jeeps and go back to base.
Inform Major Ramzin of the situation. Requisition two squads. Use some
of the engineers if you have to. They are combat trained and will have
to hold the southernmost position only while my men make the final
assault. You, Lieutenant Rybenok, will take command of the second force.
I will require them ready in place within two hours, maximum."

Rybenok shot to his feet and saluted smartly. It would be his first
command in the new country.

Baibakov returned the salute, then held up one huge finger. "One other
thing, Lieutenant."

Rybenok looked at him questioningly. "Sir?"

The captain drew himself to his full height and Rybenok suddenly found
himself standing in shade. "If I am forced to explain this operation to
Major Ramzin as a failure, I will twist your head from your shoulders."

Rybenok paled, but gave the giant a weak smile. "Yes, sir."

12

The Executioner hunched down as a bullet shrieked off the rock overhang
above them.

"Ready to move?"

Larquette stared at him blankly. "What?"

Bolan looked at her closely. He had been too busy running, climbing and
shooting, and Larquette had stayed with him without complaining. Now
that he looked at her closely, he didn't like what he saw. Her face was
pale, and her breathing was shallow and rapid. He put the back of his
hand against her forehead. The desert temperature was very likely a
hundred degrees, if not more, and Larquette's skin was cool and clammy
to the touch. Her eyes looked glassy and distant as she stared vacantly
at him.

She was suffering from heat exhaustion. Unless he cooled her down, she
would quickly go into heat stroke, and out here in the middle of the
desert, she would almost certainly die.

Bolan pulled her deeper into the shade and took her canteen from around
her shoulder. He shook it, noting it was barely a quarter full. "Drink."

She numbly accepted the canteen and took a few swallows. "We have to
save-"

"Drink it. All of it."

Larquette obeyed, tilting the canteen back, then lowering it with a
gasp. "It's gone."

Bolan took one of the two canteens strapped to the small of his back. It
was nearly empty, as well. "Finish it."

She stared up at him guiltily and took the canteen. She gulped at the
water as her thirst overrode her conscience. She dropped the empty
canteen and took a deep breath. With the water and the shade, her color
was already better and her breathing was normal. Her brow furrowed as he
took the last canteen and cracked it. "We have to save some for later."

Bolan shook his head. "There's not going to be any later. We either make
it to nightfall, or we don't make it at all. I have to have you
walking." He held out the canteen. "Drink."

Larquette stared at the canteen, then at him. "You first."

Bolan smiled wanly. She wasn't going to have to twist his arm. He
steeled himself not to gulp it all as he felt the water on his cracked
lips. He took five long, slow swallows, then handed her the canteen.
"Leave about a third of it. We'll need something to walk out of here on
tonight."

She drank and handed him the canteen. "Now what?"

"Now you get a little rest."

"They're right behind us."

"It'll take them a little while to climb up to this position."

Bolan rummaged through his pack and pulled out a small brown package
about the size and shape of a cube of butter. "I'm going to rig a small
surprise for them."

Baibakov waited as his men poured in fire. Something had happened, and
the Yankee had gone to ground. Suppressive fire from the light machine
guns and the sniper was all but keeping the American's sniping to an
occasional pot shot as his men crept from cover to cover. Some hundred
meters upslope, Sergeant Torosyan sent Baibakov hand signals from cover.

Torosyan's hands moved in a series of rapid gestures. Enemy sighted.
Covering fire in position. Assault team in position. Torosyan spread his
hands. Attack?

Baibakov sliced his hand down swiftly. Attack!

Shrill attack whistles shrieked through the peaks. Every man with a
rifle poured in fire at the enemy position. Torosyan rose and waved his
men forward. The assault team burst from cover and scrambled up the
rocky hillside as a firestorm of green tracers streaked over their
heads. As the assault closed, the suppressive fire tapered off, and they
fired their own weapons from the hip assault-fire position as they bore
down on the enemy.

He had them.

Baibakov heard a dull roar as Torosyan and his lead men disappeared in
an eruption of smoke and orange fire. The rear element of the assault
team staggered and fell back from the blast. Others lay dead or
unconscious as boiling clouds of dust rolled down from the hilltop and
obscured them in a dense red fog. All fire ceased as the echo of the
explosion rumbled and rolled through the hills with horrible finality.

Sergeant Gorchenko stood next to his captain and swallowed hard. He had
come to America to find riches, and he had. Intimidating American
townsfolk and riding herd on the Mexicans had been easy. Hunting an
American and a woman had started off almost as a game. Gorchenko was a
tough man who had risen through the ranks of Spetsnaz, but a chill went
down his back in the desert heat. This was no longer a game.

It was war.

Gorchenko knew his duty and grimly turned to Baibakov. "Captain! Shall I
organize a second assault team?"

Baibakov turned to his sergeant, and Gorchenko's guts turned to ice as
he saw the giant's face.

"No."

Gorchenko blinked. "Captain?"

"Check the area for survivors, then group the men into formations and
take them around the north side of the hill."

"But, Captain, that will take at least another half hour. If we assault
again now, we-"

Baibakov cut him off with a look. "If we assault again now, we will
simply run into more traps."

Gorchenko looked up at Baibakov. The fact that the man was so calm made
him nervous. "So, we  ..."

Baibakov regarded Gorchenko expressionlessly. "So, Sergeant, we will
collect our wounded as our quarry expects us to do. Then we will
carefully go north around the hill and avoid further traps, as our
quarry wants us to do, and we will give him his head start, just as he
wants us to. Then our quarry will head south ... exactly as I want him
to."

Bolan took Larquette's hand as the path up the gorge steepened. He gave
the sun a critical glance. It was close to four o'clock. It would be
four more hours until true dark began to fall. Then he would go among
the Russians to do damage and get water. But until that time, they had
to keep moving. He calculated they were little more than a half hour
ahead of their pursuers.

He looked back at Larquette. She had beaten the heat exhaustion and
bounced back remarkably well. But now it was a question of total
exhaustion. She was done in. Her rifle had become a walking stick, and
her gaze never rose above the toes of her boots as she haltingly put one
foot in front of the other. She needed food and water, and most of all,
a good night's rest. She looked up and with obvious effort gave Bolan a
haggard smile. He smiled back and squeezed her hand, but the truth was
there in her stumbling gait and shuddering breath.

She wasn't going to make it for another four hours. Before nightfall he
would be carrying her.

"Come on, let's see what's at the top of this hill."

Larquette didn't answer. She just took another gasping breath and
grabbed his hand tighter as he pulled her up the steep, broken terrain.
From the summit he could judge the lay of the land and plan their next
move.

Bolan put an arm around her shoulders as they approached the top. "Just
a little farther, then you can rest. I bet there's a breeze at the top."

She staggered and sagged as the ground suddenly leveled out. "I have to
stop. I'm sorry, I just can't  ..."

Bolan gently lowered her to the ground. He took in the vista before him,
and the ramifications hit him like a hammer blow. Ten feet from where he
was standing the rock fell away, plunging over a hundred feet to the
desert floor. It was as if someone had taken a knife and cleanly sliced
away the edges of the mountains in a continuous ridge line. Mexico lay
not more than a few miles across the sandy desert below, but it might as
well have been a thousand miles away.

There was no way they could climb down.

Bolan glanced around. The Russians were right behind them, and they
couldn't turn back. They would have to descend and try to go southeast,
and they would have to move fast. Larquette sat numbly staring out
across the vista. Bolan reached down for her hand. "Come on." She stared
without answering.

"Come on."

Her voice came out in a weak rasp. "Maybe you should go on without me."

Bolan grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet.

"Move."

She took several steps and her rubbery legs collapsed beneath her. Bolan
pulled her arm, but she didn't respond.

"Patti, get up."

She spoke in shuddering gasps. "I can't."

"If they find you here they'll kill you. Get up."

She turned her head away weakly. "I don't care. Leave me alone."

The Executioner's voice became stone. "Get up."

He tightened his hold on her arm and yanked her to her feet. "I said
move."

Tears rolled down her face and she weakly clawed at his hand and wrist.
Bolan ignored her efforts and dragged her behind him down the hillside.
She stumbled and fell, and he relentlessly pulled her up again. Her
voice broke into a shuddering snarl, and she began cursing him
breathlessly in a long string of obscenities. Anger was strength. If it
was enough to get her down the hill and back into the gorge, it might be
enough to keep them both alive.

She shot him a look of utter hatred and began stumbling down the hill.
Bolan calculated as they descended. They had lost time climbing. Now
they would have to make it up. The floor of the gorge twisted southeast,
and that was the only choice they had now. He hoped the Russians would
waste similar time following their trail to the summit, but he couldn't
count on it.

The terrain leveled out, and Larquette furiously tried to yank her arm
away, but his grip was a vise and he pulled her along, forcing her to
keep pace. They passed the entrance to an old mine shaft. The
overhanging beams of the old entrance were bleached bone white in the
sun and sagged out from the rock. He had seen a half dozen of them in
the past two days. Some were little more than holes in the hillside,
carved out by old prospectors. Others were more extensive and showed the
use of machines. But all of them had been small private attempts. The
main mine complexes were located by the big base camp. Larquette looked
longingly at the shaded entryway. He pulled her on. "Move. It's a death
trap."

Her anger and her pace were flagging, but she managed to snarl a weak
"son of a bitch" at him as she stumbled on.

A stream of bullets ricocheted off the rocks above them. Bolan shoved
Larquette behind him and raised her rifle. He worked the lever and fired
three quick shots toward the enemy rifleman's muzzle blast. He dropped
behind a corner of rock as other weapons joined in.

"Go back!"

They retraced their steps as signal whistles began shrieking behind
them. They would have to double back and race toward the pursuit party,
and try to beat them to a path east. Bolan pulled up short as answering
whistles shrieked ahead of them.

The trap had swung shut.

He handed Larquette her rifle and unslung the big Weatherby. He saw a
figure a hundred yards ahead and snapped off a quick shot to keep him
down. The whistles shrieked in short coded bursts, the two forces
communicating their whereabouts to each other.

Bolan glanced about furiously. They couldn't go forward and they
couldn't go back, and they would be killed before they could ever climb
up out of the gorge again. There was literally nowhere to go. The
Executioner came to a grim decision and pointed to the entrance to the
old mine. "Run."

"But you said-"

"Run!"

They broke into a halting sprint. Bolan could hear men shouting above
the scream of the whistles from both ends of the gorge. A weapon broke
into full-automatic fire to their left. The lines of tracer smoke flared
green as they followed overhead into the cool darkness of the mine.
Bolan shoved Larquette down and took a prone firing position facing the
entrance. The firing outside had stopped.

Larquette lay gasping on the ground. "I thought you said it's a death
trap."

Bolan nodded grimly as he pulled a grenade out of his pack.

"It is."

13

Lieutenant Rybenok was beaming as Baibakov approached. "We have done it,
Captain! The quarry is trapped."

Baibakov looked down at the mine entrance. An occasional stream of
tracers streaked through the opening to keep the Americans down and to
prevent return fire. He glanced back at Rybenok. "There is no other way
out?"

"None, sir. All known mine shafts were surveyed prior to our tunneling.
This shaft is long and has several branches, but only one entrance, and
one vertical shaft that is already partially blocked. It is unscalable,
but I have men watching it."

Baibakov glanced over the gorge. Soldiers stood at the top directly over
the mine. "Any casualties?"

"None, sir. As you said, I had to requisition some of our engineers to
form the team, but they fought well, using cover, and drove the quarry
before them to where you and your team were waiting." Rybenok grinned.
"We have them!"

Baibakov folded his massive arms across his chest and stared down at the
black eye of the mine entrance. "Not quite yet, Lieutenant." A hard
smile formed on the giant's face. "But I commend your tactics, Rybenok,
and the performance of the men under your command. I will note these
things in my report to Major Ramzin."

Rybenok snapped off a crisp salute. "Your orders, Captain. Will we mount
an assault?"

Baibakov calculated. He dearly wished to kill the Americans himself and
present their bloody heads to Ramzin, but he had taken many casualties
already. Both the man and the woman were well armed, and the entrance to
the mine would be a killing zone for his men. Firepower and numbers
would prevail, but the cost in men would be tremendous, and Ramzin
wouldn't be pleased. In the twisting rat hole of a mine shaft, nerve gas
would be uncertain. It would take time to get the gas and chemical suits
from the base, and Baibakov didn't want to wait for nightfall. "Who
among your men is the senior engineer?"

Rybenok considered. "Lieutenant Galanskov, Captain."

"Bring him."

"Yes, sir. Your orders?"

Baibakov stared down at the mine entrance. "We will bury them."

The Executioner looked up the mine shaft. The outside was a circle of
light that was slowly growing dimmer. He checked the luminous dial of
his watch. It was close to seven o'clock, two hours until nightfall.

Larquette leaned against Bolan as tracers streamed into the mine. The
supersonic crack of their passage was deafening in the cramped space,
and they hurled out green incendiary sparks as they whined off the
outcroppings around them. Bolan had made a shallow redoubt out of piled
loose rock. They were safe as they lay behind it and could fire from
cover when the Russians stormed the entrance. Still, they were pinned
down, and they weren't going anywhere. Larquette whispered hoarsely in
his ear. "Do me a favor."

"What's that?"

"Tell me you have a plan."

"We wait until it gets dark. That is, if the Russians are willing to
wait that long."

"Then what?"

"I have a flash-stun grenade left. When it gets dark I'm going to toss
it outside. If they're watching the mine entrance with night-vision
gear, it will blind them for a few seconds."

Larquette paused. "And then what?"

"Then we shoot our way out."

Baibakov stared at Galanskov. The combat engineer was a stocky, powerful
man with iron gray hair cut close to his bullet-shaped skull. He
reminded Baibakov of a badger.

"Can you do it?"

Galanskov shrugged. "Certainly, Captain. The combined explosive charges
brought by both teams should be more than sufficient to do the task. The
question is getting the charge deep enough into the mine. It will have
to be very heavy and have to go in deep. And as I recall, sir, the last
man who tried hurling a satchel charge at this American was blown to
bits. I do not think you will have many volunteers."

Baibakov scowled, and the impudent dwarf stared back up at him
impassively. The captain knew Galanskov only by reputation, but that was
formidable. In Afghanistan he had been what the Americans called a
"tunnel rat." He and hand-picked teams had gone down into the dank
tunnels and cave complexes the rebels had hidden in and rooted them out
with pistols, knives and explosives.

He shook his head. "I will not be asking for volunteers."

Galanskov scowled. "It will be suicide! One man, alone, could not
deliver a sufficient charge. It would be too heavy, even if he could get
close enough without being killed. And breaking the explosives into two
separate charges would not be a good plan, Captain. Correct,
simultaneous delivery could not be assured."

"We will not break up the charge. We will do this as you have outlined."

Galanskov put his hands on his hips. "One man, alone, cannot deliver the
charge deep enough."

Baibakov loomed over the engineer. "I can, Lieutenant."

Galanskov's eyes widened as he stared up at the man. He didn't like
Baibakov, nor did he care for his reputation. But as he stared up into
the giant's stone-colored eyes, he realized that there was very little
that Baibakov wasn't capable of.

He saluted shakily. "Yes, sir. I will prepare the charge and see to
covering teams immediately."

Baibakov nodded. It was good to see this badger have some respect shaken
into him. "See that it is so."

A hail of gunfire streamed into the mine. The Executioner flicked the
Beretta's fire selector to full-auto.

"Get ready."

Larquette pulled back the hammer of her Winchester rifle and sighted
down the barrel toward the mine opening. A hand grenade bounced in from
an angle and rolled along the mine floor. Bolan grabbed Larquette and
pushed her down flat behind their shallow barricade. The grenade
detonated with a deafening crack, and shrapnel sparked and ricocheted
off the walls around them. Bolan popped back up and raised the Beretta.

A column of fire roared into the mine and everything became white-hot
flame. Bolan covered his eyes and fired a burst as he shoved Larquette
back.

"Go back, deep as you can!"

The jet of flame roared deeper into the mine, licking the walls and the
ceiling as it sought them. Bolan felt the heat wash over him as the fire
reached out. For a second the flame winked out, and a small dark object
hurtled into the mine. Bolan threw himself to the ground as the stun
grenade detonated. The blast rolled him over as the concussion channeled
down the shaft. He shook his head to clear the thundering in his ears
and the flashing lights before his eyes. As he lurched to his knees, the
flame roared into life and reached for him.

Behind Bolan, Larquette's rifle cracked in rapid succession. The flame
suddenly cut off, and a man with tanks strapped to his back staggered
and fell forward in the mine's entrance. Dimly the Executioner heard
Larquette's rifle clack empty. He waved her back in the glow of the
dripping fire. "Back!

Move Back!"

As Bolan turned, the tunnel entrance darkened. A giant figure filled it,
and in its hands was a bag the size of a potato sack. the Executioner
raised the Beretta, and the giant spun like a discus thrower, hurling
the pack into the mine. The pack was hissing.

He fired a burst up the tunnel, but the giant was already gone. Bolan
turned and charged down the tunnel. Larquette stared at him
questioningly from around a bend farther along. "Move!"

As Bolan rounded the bend, the world dissolved into overwhelming sound
and light.

Baibakov sat in the sand and shook his head. Even outside the mine, the
back blast from the charge had thrown him ten feet. Small fires burned
all around him in puddles of jellied fuel. He doubted there was much
left of Karkov, the flamethrower man. He looked over at the mine
entrance.

It wasn't there anymore. There was nothing but a pile of huge smoldering
boulders and a blank rock face covered with burning streamers of fire.
Thick, oily black smoke rose in choking clouds into the sky. A huge
smile began crawling across the giant's face. He had seen his opponent.
He had looked into the Yankee's shaken eyes, and then he had blown him
to hell.

Baibakov threw back his head, and his laughter thundered through the
gorge.

Rybenok and Galanskov approached him warily. Rybenok cleared his throat.
"Captain, are you injured?"

Baibakov leaped to his feet with a savage grin. "I am well, Lieutenant."

He turned his gaze on Galanskov, who took an involuntary step back from
the gleam in the giant's eyes. "You were correct, Galanskov. I believe
the charge was sufficient."

Baibakov roared at his own joke as Galanskov swallowed. "Your orders,
sir?"

The captain leisurely stretched his arms and shook his head. "Round up
the men. Collect all equipment. Ignore the fire, but I want a cursory
cleanup of any evidence. You have an hour and a half until dark."

Galanskov and Rybenok saluted. Baibakov turned back to the smoldering
remnant of the mine shaft and grinned. He had enjoyed that.

14

"Report."

Ramzin smiled smugly. "Success, Comrade."

"How was it done?"

"Baibakov blew them to bits and then dropped a mountain on top of them."

The Witch paused. "You are joking."

"I assure you, I do not jest," he replied.

"Is there any evidence?"

"No, it was done on land owned by Red Star, and it is in remote, hard
country near the border. I believe there is little to be discovered."

"Very good, Major Ramzin, I commend you and your men on the performance
of their duties."

Ramzin wondered how much pain it had caused her to acknowledge his
victory. He would bet much that she secretly wished he had failed.

"Thank you, Comrade, you are too kind. I am sure Captain Baibakov will
be very pleased."

The Witch's voice was an icicle of politeness. "I am sure he will. Now,
on to business. We have another shipment to be delivered within the next
day and a half. You will have everything ready?"

"Everything will be ready. You will have the new helicopter here before
that time?"

"Of course, Major. However, see that you are more careful with this
one."

Ramzin ignored the barb. This battle had already been won. "Everything
is on schedule?"

The Witch's voice grew contemplative. "There is some trouble with our
Mexican friends. I believe they want more money."

Ramzin drummed his fingers on his desk. "Perhaps I should send Baibakov
to speak with them."

"Hmm ... that is not a bad suggestion, but I believe it would be better
to keep things friendly. My husband will be coming within two days to
negotiate with them. However, the next shipment will come across as
planned."

Ramzin scowled. He had no love for the Witch, but he despised her
husband. The man was a worm. "Is that wise?"

"He knows the Mexicans. He will make things clear to them without
starting a war."

Ramzin snorted. "If you say so. What of replacements for our
Casualties?"

"Indeed, our contacts are recruiting in Moscow as we speak."

"That is good. The base is stretched thin. I have had to use engineers
for soldiers."

"Ramzin, I do not like you endangering the engineers. They are extremely
important, particularly now."

"I did not like using them, either. But they are combat trained, and it
was necessary. They performed well and took no casualties."

"That is good."

The major leaned back in his chair. "Do not worry, Comrade, the second
tunnel will be completed on time."

The Executioner's eyes cracked open through caked blood and dirt. There
was no difference with his eyes open. Other than a slight shift in the
pounding lights dancing before his eyes, everything was pitch-black. He
wiggled his fingers and toes and found they were all still where they
were supposed to be. He slowly flexed each muscle in his body and found
that nearly all of them ached and throbbed. Every piece of equipment
still strapped to him jabbed into his body. The Executioner became
grimly aware of the fact that he was very cold and that he was going to
live. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious.

He lay still and shivered. In a moment he would try to summon the will
to sit up and look at his watch. As he lay and listened to the ringing
in his ears, he dimly heard someone sobbing a few feet away. He cleared
his parched throat with effort, and his voice came out as a croak.

"Patti?"

The Executioner grunted as a human weight landed on his chest and hands
found his face. Arms wound around his neck and clutched him desperately.
He could feel the hot wetness of tears against his cheek. Hands stroked
unbelievingly at his brow and face.

"You're alive!"

Bolan took a painful breath. "It's good to see you, too."

She kept touching his face, as if to reassure herself that he was real
and wouldn't suddenly disappear. More tears dripped onto Bolan's face,
and her voice trembled.

"I thought you were dead. After the explosion, I couldn't find you. The
goggles didn't work, and I called and called and you didn't answer. And
I crawled up and down for hours trying to find you, and when I did  ..."
Her voice broke and her hands shook him reprovingly. "You were so cold,
and you were covered with blood, and dirt, and you didn't move, and I
thought you had died, and I was all alone down here in the dark, and you
... Days of pain, exhaustion and fear finally welled up out of her and
she sobbed uncontrollably against Bolan for several moments. Then she
pulled herself together and started to brush dirt off him. "Are you all
right?"

The Executioner sat up painfully. "I'll live." He reached into a vest
pocket of his blacksuit and pulled out a small plastic pack. The top
came off with a pop, and he cracked an all-weather match into life off
his thumbnail. In the guttering light, he could see Larquette. Her lip
was split, and her face was caked with dirt and dust. Her eyes were
puffy from crying, and tears had drawn long, dark streaks down her
cheeks. The majority of her hair had escaped her ponytail and hung all
about in wild disarray. Bolan smiled at her in the flickering glow.

"You look awful."

Her lips twisted in amused annoyance. "Screw you, buddy."

Bolan waved the match out as it reached his thumb, and they were in
darkness again. He took her hand and stood. Do you still have the fanny
pack I gave you?"

Larquette nodded and twisted it around her waist. Bolan unzipped it and
pulled out a thin, rubber-armored flashlight. She stared at him
sheepishly in the sudden illumination.

"You mean I had a flashlight all this time?"

Bolan shrugged and trained the light up the tunnel, and his face
tightened. He didn't like what he saw. The collapse of the entrance was
total. He estimated the length where the blockage started, and he knew
at least twenty to thirty feet of dirt and rock lay between them and the
outside. There was no way they could dig through it. He turned and
played the light along the walls. Larquette looked around unhappily.
"What do we do?"

"Keep looking."

The mine forked, and Bolan chose the right-hand path, which ran a
hundred feet and dead-ended. They retraced their steps and took the left
bend. As they went farther into the mine, Bolan felt a draft and his
feet kicked a pile of rubble on the floor. He scanned the light over
their heads. A circular opening yawned above them. Bolan nodded.

"There."

THE AIR SMASHED from the Executioner's lungs as he fell heavily to the
floor of the mine. His flashlight rose from the ground where it had
fallen, and Larquette rushed to him.

"Are you all right?"

He had new bruises to add to the old ones, and his hands were cut from
trying to slow his descent. "Nothing's broken. Save the batteries."

Bolan grimaced as the light clicked off. It was the third time he had
fallen, and this time he had been unable to catch himself. The shaft
above was choked and crumbling with old rock and dirt. Still more of the
blockage was dangerously new, and had been generated by the explosion of
the Russian charge. When he shone the light up the shaft, it was blocked
thirty feet up by tenuously jammed rock and debris. However, that wasn't
the worst of his problems. Fifteen feet below the jam, the walls of the
shaft crumbled into dirt under his hands and boots. There was no
purchase to be had. It was unscalable. Even if he was fresh and had
proper gear, a vertical ascent of the shaft would be nearly impossible.

He raised himself into a sitting position, running the calculations
through his mind for the hundredth time, only to have the answers stay
the same. He couldn't climb the shaft. Thirty feet of rock blocked the
entrance to the mine, and even with the single stick of C4 plastic
explosive he had left, there was no way they could dig their way out
before thirst and exhaustion finished them. Bolan searched his mind in
the blackness, looking for anything he could use. He turned tools and
gear he had in his pack over and over, and all of them remained grossly
insufficient. His adversary was the very earth itself. It was silent and
implacable. He couldn't outthink it or outshoot it. Skills that had won
a hundred battles paled before the thousand tons of rock encasing them.
The truth was as inescapable as the mine itself.

They were trapped.

Larquette took his hands in hers and wiped the dirt out of his cuts with
her bandanna. Her hands shook as she spoke. "We can't climb out, can
we?"

Bolan took a deep breath. They had been through too much together for
him to lie to her. "No."

Her voice was very small in the blackness. "Then we're going to die down
here."

15

Ramzin watched the helicopter as it came in. The American Jetranger was
a capable craft, but he idly wished he had a real Russian gunship. The
Yankee commando wouldn't have shot down a Hind with his big rifle. The
Hind was armored like a tank and armed like one, as well. The American's
rifle would have been as useful to him as a pop gun, and the major's
operation wouldn't now be stretched so thin with casualties. Ramzin
shook his head. It would be weeks before the replacements could be
smuggled in from Moscow, and they wouldn't be his own handpicked
veterans. Ramzin squinted into the rotorwash as the helicopter landed.
The Yankee and his woman had cost him much. He hoped they were enjoying
themselves in hell.

The major scowled as the helicopter doors slid open and the Witch's
husband clambered out. The Scarecrow bent over double and held his
ridiculous cowboy hat in place as he jogged out under the wind of the
rotor blades. The broom-stick strode up to Ramzin in his pin-stripe suit
and high-heeled boots and stuck out his hand.

Ramzin took the hand and pumped it twice with mild repugnance. It was as
if the man had handed him a fish.

"Howdy!"

Ramzin stood at attention. "Greetings, Comrade. I trust you had a most
pleasant journey."

The major had to smother a grin as the man looked at him askance. He
knew the word comrade--anything reminding this mole of his native
land--made him nervous. The man hid his annoyance, as if Ramzin had
called him pardner.

"The flight was fine, but damn if it isn't a hot one. How are things
going on your end?"

Ramzin had to give the Scarecrow credit. He was indistinguishable from
an American in both manner and speech.

"It goes well. Schedule proceeds apace. Tonight's shipment will go
through as planned. I am to understand you are going south to perform
negotiations."

The Scarecrow frowned at him. "Really, Ramzin, you've got to work on
your English."

Ramzin stared at him expressionlessly. "Yes, Comrade, exactly so."

The two men stared at each other for a moment. "Do you have someplace
where I can freshen up?"

"Surely. We will be taking in the shipment soon, and afterward I will
give you a tour of the facilities. In the morning I will have you flown
across the border." Ramzin snapped his fingers. "Lukov, take our guest
inside and see to his needs."

Lukov came forward and took the Scarecrow's bags, and Ramzin watched as
they went into the compound.

He looked forward to the day that Baibakov and the Scarecrow would have
a long conversation. He thought that day might come sooner than he had
originally planned.

The Executioner awoke. The ground was trembling. He felt Larquette's
hand press on his chest as she felt it, too.

"What is it?"

The shaking grew, and Bolan felt dust rain on him from the ceiling of
the mine. He turned on the flashlight, then put his hand on the wall
behind them and felt the vibrations. The minilight seemed as bright as
the sun after hours of total darkness. Dust drifted down in its glare as
the rumbling increased. Bolan put his ear to the wall and detected a
metallic rattling beneath the dull roar building in the mine.

Larquette glanced about nervously. "Is it an earthquake?"

"I don't think so."

"Then what?"

Bolan took her hand and put it against the wall. "What do you feel?"

"It's shaking."

"It's vibrating. Listen, what do you hear?"

Larquette bent and put her ear to the wall. "It's rumbling ... and
there's another sound, like an echo." She suddenly shot to her feet.
"We're over the tunnel!"

Bolan ran his hand along the wall as he walked deeper into the mine.
"We're close." The Executioner brought up the map of Crucible in his
mind. This corner of hills was south of the mining complex, almost
directly between it and Mexico. He put his ear to the wall again and
inched along its surface. The metallic sound got louder the deeper he
went. He stopped. "Patti, stay here and listen." She put her ear to the
wall. "It's louder."

Bolan went down the tunnel ten feet farther and the sound started to
lessen. The shaking was dying down. "Follow me slowly, and tell me where
it sounds loudest to you."

"It's starting to lessen already."

The convoy was passing them by. "Walk toward me."

They inched toward each other. Larquette stopped five feet away from
him. "It got louder here for a second, but now it's fading."

Bolan stood behind her and stared at the section of wall in the small
circle of light. Larquette rose from her crouch. "It's gone."

He nodded. "Stay at this spot for a moment." The soldier walked back up
the tunnel to his pack and rummaged through its many small compartments.
He withdrew the stick of C-4 and the remote detonator. One stick.
Approximately a pound of high explosive. The question was, would it be
enough? The deep end of the mine seemed to be more earth than rock, but
it was aggregate, and he had no idea what lay beneath it.

It was their only chance. It would have to be enough.

Bolan took out his fighting knife and returned to Larquette. He began
corkscrewing the chisel point of the Cold Steel Tanto blade into the
wall. It gouged out the packed earth and rock with some difficulty.
Larquette watched as he strained against the wall, slowly producing a
hole.

"Is there anything I can do?"

Bolan grunted with effort. "Cross your fingers." He cursed as the point
of the knife suddenly scraped solid rock.

He was approximately nine inches in. He took the C-4 and shaped it into
a cone with his hands. "Scoop up some of that dirt."

Larquette picked up handfuls of dirt as he placed the charge and
inserted the fuse capsule. "Help me pack it in.

Together they packed the charge into the wall and tamped it down. They
stood, and Bolan unslung the canteen. It was less than a third full.
"Here, finish it."

"Why don't we split it?"

Bolan sighed. "All right."

They finished the water all too quickly. Bolan took the detonator and
pulled out its antenna. "Get to the far end of the tunnel and cover your
ears."

The Executioner ran his hand over the covered charge. He had shaped it
to blow inward as much as possible. As a field expedient, it wasn't too
bad. He walked back down the tunnel and crouched by Larquette. "Turn
away from the blast."

Bolan clicked off the flashlight. In the blackness a dim red light
blinked as he armed the charge. A hand slid into his and squeezed it.

He squeezed back. "You ready?"

She whispered in his ear. "Can I push the button?"

The Executioner smiled in the dark. "Give me your other hand." He took
her hand and placed her finger over the firing switch. "Just flick it
forward."

The hand in his squeezed tighter. "Now?"

"Now."

"Very impressive, Ramzin."

The major accepted the compliment as they watched from the tower while
the trucks emerged from the warehouse. It was impressive. Who could
dream that they had dug a tunnel between Mexico and the United States?
Much less a tunnel that one could run trucks through. It had been quite
a feat, and his combat engineers had been consistently ahead of
schedule. Ramzin had to admit there was much about America that he
liked. If one had the money, any equipment and materials were yours
immediately for the asking.

Even with military priority, a project like this in the old Soviet Union
would have taken twice as long.

The labor had been easy, as well. Americans would have asked questions,
but there was no shortage of unquestioning labor on the other side of
the border. They lined up and fought to get in the trucks and come to
the border to work. Even with the heavy earth-moving machines, there had
been an enormous amount of backbreaking hand labor, and the Mexicans
killed themselves to do it, grateful for the three meals a day and
looking forward to being taken across the border with their families
with money in their pockets.

That stuck in Ramzin's craw. He had done many things in his time and
killed many innocents in Afghanistan, but that had been war. The order
to kill the laborers when the second tunnel was completed shook even him
in its cold brutality. Ramzin understood it all too well. They couldn't
have hundreds of illegal aliens who knew of the tunnel running around
and getting arrested in the United States, but he was glad that a man
like Baibakov was here to carry out such orders.

He had enough demons of his own without adding more.

The Scarecrow turned to him. "You say the second tunnel will be ready
for business on time?"

"It will be finished ahead of schedule. Two weeks ahead by current
projections."

The Scarecrow whistled. "Damn fine work, Ramzin. Damn fine work."

Ramzin despised the man but accepted the compliment with pride. Worm or
not, the man was right. "Tomorrow you will be flown to Mexico. Do you
wish bodyguards?"

The Scarecrow chuckled. "Oh, I don't think that'll be necessary, but if
it makes you feel any better, you can assign me two good men."

Ramzin watched as the last truck maneuvered out of the warehouse. So far
they had smuggled small things such as guns, cigarettes, items easily
distributed and hard to trace. Soon the Witch and her bean-pole husband
would establish proper channels, and then they would begin funneling the
drugs. After that, if the pipeline proved safe, and certain groups could
produce the right amount of money, other, more lethal commodities would
be smuggled in. In the Moscow black market, if one had the money, one
could obtain the materials to make nuclear weapons. Chemical and
biological weapons of devastating power could be had, as well.

Ramzin shook his head. Now, with his help, the enemies of the United
States could deliver such death right into the Yankees' backyards.

16

The Executioner yawned to clear the ringing from his ears and flicked on
the flashlight. "Are you all right?"

Larquette rose and dusted herself off. "I thought it would be bigger."

"It was a shaped charge. Its purpose was to bore a hole." Bolan shook
the flashlight in his hand as it dimmed for a moment. "Let's go see how
we did."

He played the light along the wall as they came to the hole. Dirt and
rock littered the floor of the mine below the ragged crater. Bolan
estimated the hole was about three feet in diameter and four feet deep.
As he shone the light inside, they were greeted by the dull reflection
of scratched and dented galvanized metal. Larquette reached in and
touched the metal experimentally. "It's warm. What is it?"

Bolan ran his hand along the pitted surface. "A ventilator shaft. Their
tunnel is at least five or six miles long. They have to have ventilation
or the truck drivers would asphyxiate from their own exhaust fumes
before they ever reached the other side. There should be several dozen
of them along the corridor."

Larquette poked it with her finger. "Can we get in?"

Bolan drew his fighting knife. "Step back." He took a hammer grip on the
knife and drove it forward. Sparks shrieked off of the metal as the
point punched through. He nodded with satisfaction. "I think so. Help me
dig away more dirt."

Together they pried away the earth and rock around the metal, creating a
hole they could both crawl through. Bolan drew the Beretta 93-R and
flicked the selector to single shot. He raised an arm in front of his
face and leaned into the hole. "Cover your eyes."

The roar of 9 mm fire was deafening in the close confines of the mine.
Bolan methodically emptied the clip, creating a long arcing line of
ragged holes from top to bottom. He reloaded and repeated the procedure,
until more than three dozen holes formed a loose four-foot circle in the
abused metal. He handed Larquette the Beretta and drew his knife again.

"Here goes nothing."

Bolan pushed the knife into the top hole and ripped downward with a
squealing of protesting steel. The spine of his knife was stronger than
the sheet steel of the shaft, and he cut in sharp yanks, connecting each
hole with the last. When he got to the bottom, he restarted at the top
of the exposed metal and ripped down to draw the other half of the
circle. With a last yank the jagged oblong of metal fell free. Bolan
took a deep breath and wiped his brow.

"Shine the light down it."

Larquette shone the dimming light into the shaft. It was roughly five
feet wide, and beyond the range of the minilight it plunged into
blackness. A cold breeze that smelled of diesel fumes blew up from below
and ruffled their hair. She looked back at him and shrugged. "Shall we?"

Bolan nodded. "Let's get our stuff."

They went back to their pile of gear, and Bolan bent down and examined
it. The big Weatherby's optical sight had been fractured by the Russian
charge, and the heavy rifle would make climbing awkward. He detached the
sling and regretfully abandoned the weapon. Much of his equipment had
been damaged in the blast and rock-falls. His night-vision goggles had
been lost in the explosion, and the lenses of Larquette's were cracked
and nonfunctioning. There was really precious little left except for his
Desert Eagle. He secured his one remaining stun grenade and his
binoculars and stood. Larquette looked up at him as she turned her fanny
pack inside out. There were a few spare shells for her revolver and a
battered-looking high-energy food bar.

"So we're traveling light."

"Looks that way."

Bolan looped the sling around Larquette's rifle and slung it around his
back along with the empty canteen. "All right. I'll go first. Always
keep two arms or two legs supporting your weight. Try not to fall on
me."

She gave him a withering look and followed him to the hole. Bolan stuck
the minilight between his teeth, eased past the ragged metal edges of
the hole and put his boots against the shaft walls. The interior metal
was unfinished and the walls were a comfortable distance apart. He
supported himself with his palms and eased downward. Four feet in, his
feet met a thin metal lip where sections of the shaft joined, and he
smiled in the dark. The ventilator shaft almost had its own ladder.

"All right. Follow me. Use my shoulders for support until you get set."

Bolan tensed against the cold metal walls as a pair of boots settled on
his shoulders. "I'm going to ease down. Put your boots out and you'll
feel an edge."

Her feet found the narrow lip, and she supported her own weight. Section
by section they worked their way down in the dim glow of the fading
flashlight. Bolan was more exhausted than he wanted to admit, and his
shoulders ached as he took her weight between sections. The rough metal
of the shaft ground against his lacerated hands as he pushed against
them. As they descended, the low thrumming of the ventilation fan grew
louder. Slowly the big fan blades came into view.

Bolan guided her feet to the next lip. "Stay here a minute." He quickly
descended to the fan. Each blade was about three feet long and slowly
turned before the entrance of the shaft. He unslung the Winchester and
bent closer. The fan was moving slowly and probably ran on a continuous
maintenance cycle rather than being turned off. Metal struts came up
from the fan and bolted into the shaft. Bolan stuck the Winchester's
barrel between the blades. The rifle rotated around in his hand, then
stuck fast against one of the struts. The fan motor groaned as its
blades froze and began to emit an unhappy whine. Bolan quickly unwound
the rifle sling and knotted one end around one of the support struts.
Beneath him the tunnel was dimly lit, and the floor was some twenty feet
below. Bolan squeezed between the frozen blades, supporting himself with
his hands. He grasped a strut, then put his weight on the sling.

The web held, and Bolan hung suspended in the tunnel. The webbing cut
into his torn hands as he eased himself down the dangling six foot
strap. He let go and dropped the remaining distance, then rose and
looked about. The tunnel was wide enough to allow a truck to drive
through it with a few feet of clearance on the top and the sides. Dim
orange lights tracked off in both directions along the ceiling. Bolan
looked up.

"Squeeze past the fan and grab the sling, then ease down it. Drop when
you get to the end."

In a few moments Larquette's leg appeared and dangled between the fan
blades. She hung from a strut and grabbed the sling.

"All right, just ease onto it and-"

Larquette suddenly slid down the sling out of control. She let out a
yelp and caught herself near the end, then the strap slid from her hand.
Bolan grunted as her weight hit him. He collapsed and went into a roll
as he fell back. For a moment they lay together in a heap.

"Are you all right?"

Larquette rubbed her friction-burned hands. "Your hands bled all over
the strap. It was too slippery for me to hold on to." She looked around
and suddenly grinned. "We're out!"

Bolan nodded as he rose and helped her to her feet. "We made it."

She looked up and down the tunnel. "Which way do we go?"

He drew the Beretta and flicked the fire selector to 3-round burst mode.
"I remember promising I'd take you to Mexico."

Ramzin shook hands with the Scarecrow distastefully as the helicopter's
rotors slowly began to revolve in the morning calm. "A pleasant journey.
I wish you success in your negotiations."

The Scarecrow pumped Ramzin's hand. "Thanks for the hospitality. This is
really quite a setup you're running. It's every bit as impressive as I'd
been told. I think this little venture is going to succeed."

"Thank you. I have taken the liberty of assigning you two handpicked men
of my command as bodyguards."

The Scarecrow smiled with a condescending shrug. "If you say so. Can't
hurt to show a little muscle to the Mexicans. They always appreciate
these things."

Ramzin nodded sagely. "Baibakov! Gorchenko!

Baibakov ducked his head as he came out of the shack and strode to the
pad. Gorchenko followed quickly behind him. Gorchenko was the second
largest man on the base and as strong as an ox, but Baibakov dwarfed
him. Ramzin grinned. The giant's huge frame strained against the khaki
pants and oversize Hawaiian shirt he wore. A battered red-denim baseball
cap covered his blond crew cut at a jaunty angle, and he wore size
seventeen civilian deck shoes. Ramzin well remembered the giant's
delight at discovering the American Big & Tall clothes catalog. Baibakov
walked up and saluted, then turned and gave the Scarecrow a huge smile.

"Greetings, Comrade!"

The Scarecrow flinched involuntarily as Baibakov loomed over him. At six
and a half feet tall, the mole wasn't used to having someone look down
on him, much less someone with three to four times his body mass.
Gorchenko presented himself in similar clothes and snapped the Scarecrow
a smart salute. Except for their huge size, they looked like Americans
on holiday, yet beneath their casual clothes each man was armed to the
teeth. The Scarecrow shot Ramzin a leery look. Like most humans Ramzin
knew, Baibakov terrified him.

"Really, Ramzin, do you think all this security is necessary?"

The major kept a straight face with effort. "Certainly. Your safety is
paramount to the continuing success of this operation, and, as you have
said, Comrade, it cannot hurt to show a little muscle. Besides, the
Mexicans appreciate these things."

Baibakov and Gorchenko smiled at the Scarecrow ingratiatingly. Ramzin
clapped him on the shoulder. "They will appreciate Baibakov and
Gorchenko, I am sure of it."

The Scarecrow frowned. "They hardly speak much English, Ramzin, much
less the local lingo."

Ramzin nodded. "True, but I believe their presence alone may be helpful
to you in your negotiations."

The Scarecrow looked at Ramzin long and hard, then stared at Baibakov
and Gorchenko. He flicked his smile on as if he were turning on a light.
"Well, they certainly can't hurt, and they'll sure give the Mexicans
something to think about. I appreciate your concern for my safety,
Ramzin. I've made a note of it."

"That is good. Have a pleasant journey, Comrade. I wish you luck."

The Scarecrow tipped his cowboy hat. "Take care."

Ramzin folded his arms and watched as the three men embarked onto the
helicopter. He smiled as the helicopter slowly lifted off the pad, then
leaned south as it banked toward Mexico. The Scarecrow was correct.
Neither Baibakov nor Gorchenko were very proficient at speaking English.
However, after the war in Afghanistan, both of them had done a training
tour in Cuba under Ramzin's command as tactical advisers to Fidel
Castro's Trupas Especial commandos.

Both men spoke excellent Spanish, and there was nothing that would
transpire at the negotiations that wouldn't be reported back to him.

Ramzin nodded with grim satisfaction as the helicopter disappeared into
the morning sky. Two could play at this game of spies.

17

The Executioner slid into the shadows and scanned the area. A padlocked
gate made of storm fencing covered the tunnel entrance, and a steep
concrete ramp extended upward to a large sliding corrugated steel door.
Larquette crouched by his side.

"How do we get in?"

A large combination lock kept the fence shut. Bolan pulled the Beretta's
sound suppressor out of a pouch in his web gear and threaded it onto the
barrel. He ejected the magazine in the pistol and replaced it with the
clip loaded with subsonic bullets.

"Look away."

The Beretta gave a single low hiss from the muzzle and a metallic click
as its slide cycled. The lock jerked on its chain as the bullet struck
it, then clattered back against the fence. It hung twisted and sprung on
one end of its locking loop. Bolan unhooked it and opened the fence a
crack. He and Larquette slid through, and he replaced the lock on its
chain. The lock would no longer close, and a ragged hole gaped in its
brass body. It would fail anything more than a casual glance, but the
Executioner was betting no one would be down in the actual tunnel
entrance until the next convoy came through. They walked up the ramp to
the door, which had a small switch panel set in the door. Bolan put his
ear to the door and was greeted by silence.

"What's on the other side?" Larquette whispered.

Bolan stood. "I'd suspect another warehouse, big enough to drive trucks
into like the one on the other side of the border."

"How do we get in?"

"We push the button." Bolan pushed the green button in the panel and the
door jerked and started to slide open. The Executioner spoke quietly.
"Don't shoot unless you absolutely have to. My pistol is silenced, but
that magnum of yours will tell everyone there's a firefight going on."

Larquette nodded and took a two-handed shooting stance as the door slid
open. As the door opened up wide enough, Bolan dived through and rolled
up into a firing crouch. The Beretta's silenced muzzle scanned the
interior.

There was nothing.

The interior of the warehouse was a darkened cavern. The lights were off
and the only light was the diffuse, early-morning sun glowing dimly
through opaque, plastic wire-mesh windows set high into the walls near
the ceiling. In one corner of the warehouse a set of wooden stairs led
to an elevated office that overlooked the floor.

Larquette trained her pistol around the cavernous interior with a frown.
"I can't believe they just left the place open and empty."

Bolan shook his head. "They didn't. They just don't expect anyone to
come in from this direction. I don't think they want anyone in the
warehouse unless there's an operation going on, and I'd bet there are
guards outside to keep it that way."

"So how do we get out without getting shot?"

Bolan glanced up at the office. "We walk out."

"Oh, and how do we manage that?"

He looked her up and down critically. "First, you need a bath."

Enrique Ochoa watched the helicopter land in the red morning light. As
the rotors slowed, the lanky gringo clambered out and waved at him with
his cowboy hat. Ochoa smiled and waved back.

The bean pole had never ridden a horse in his life.

A large man got out after him and looked about warily. Ochoa frowned.
The gringo had never brought bodyguards with him before. A third man got
out, and the Mexican's eyes bulged in disbelief.

He was the largest human being Ochoa had ever seen in his life. The man
was a monster. He unfolded himself from the helicopter and when he
passed the turning rotor blades and straightened, Ochoa realized the man
had to be at least seven feet tall, and for all his massive size he
moved with the graceful ease of a jaguar. His presence dominated
everything. Ochoa's bodyguards shifted nervously as the trio walked
forward. The giant had the machismo of a mountain.

As they approached, the gringo replaced his wide-brimmed hat and stuck
out his hand. "A pleasure, Senor Ochoa, as always."

The Mexican took his hand. "Yes, Lyle, it is good of you to come on such
short notice."

"I understand you have some financial questions you wish to discuss."

Ochoa glanced warily at the giant. He had heard the stories that had
circulated among the tunnel workers of an immense Russian. The giant
smiled down at him, and Ochoa had to suppress the urge to take a step
back.

He spread his hands. "Yes, but let us discuss business later. Come, let
us go to the hacienda. I suspect you and your friends are hungry and
would like to refresh yourselves."

The Scarecrow tipped his hat. "Awfully kind of you."

Ochoa waved them to the vehicles parked by the helicopter pad. As they
drove through the rolling ranch land to the hacienda, the American made
small talk. Ochoa nodded his head as they spoke of the weather and his
eyes drifted to the car ahead of them, where the man's companions rode.
He understood what was happening all too well. He had demanded more
money, and now the gringo came with giants at his side. He suspected he
was in for some very hard bargaining.

Larquette stared at herself in the small cubicle mirror. "I look
ridiculous."

The office bathroom was little more than a chemical toilet and a tiny
sink, but after three days in the desert, running water was a godsend.
Between that and eating the last of their food, they looked and felt
almost human again. Larquette pushed at her damp hair and observed the
modifications the Executioner had made to her clothes with a frown.

He had turned her khaki uniform pants into extremely short cutoffs with
his fighting knife. Her uniform shirt was casually tied around her waist
and the T-shirt she had worn beneath was knotted up around her ribs to
show off her tanned midriff. He had cut the neck of the T-shirt into a
plunging scoop, and there was very little of her figure left to the
imagination.

"My butt is hanging out." Her eyes narrowed. "Everything is hanging
out."

Bolan looked at her critically. "Lose the bra."

Larquette folded her arms and glared.

"Just do it."

She scowled at him. "Turn around."

He turned and looked at himself in the mirror. The blacksuit he wore
wasn't exactly Russian issue, but there wasn't much he could do about
that. He would have to rely on the Mexicans not knowing the difference.
He had managed minor repairs with the needle and thread from his pack,
but he was far from looking parade ground ready. The weapons he had
strapped all over him would have to do most of his talking for him.

A bra sailed past Bolan's shoulder and landed in the corner. He turned,
looked at Larquette and grinned at her. She looked like something out of
a sleazy calendar.

She put her hands on her hips. "So just what am I supposed to be,
anyway?"

Bolan spread his hands. "My squeeze."

She looked down at herself sourly. "I look like a whore."

"Exactly."

Larquette spread her arms. "So how am I supposed to hide a .357 Magnum
in this desert-bunny outfit?"

"You can't. Take this." Bolan took his snub-nosed Smith & Wesson
Centennial revolver from his ankle holster. He lifted up her uniform
shirt and tucked the pistol in her waistband. "Wear it in the small of
your back, like this. Keep the shirt over it."

She adjusted the little revolver into a more comfortable position, then
draped the shirt back over it. She frowned at the corner where her .357
Magnum and pistol belt lay with her badge, bra and nameplate. "So we
just walk out of here like this?"

"Bold as brass. You ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be."

Bolan nodded. "Good."

They left the office and descended to the warehouse floor. Bolan went to
the front door and listened. He leaned over and whispered in Larquette's
ear. "I hear at least two people outside speaking Spanish. Whatever I
do, just play along, and act stupid."

He took Larquette's hand before she could say anything and flung the
door open.

"imadre de Dios!" The two guards jumped as Bolan strode out the door.
Both men were armed with M-16 rifles. They fumbled with their weapons
and looked back and forth at each other in confusion. They gawked at
Bolan in his blacksuit, and at his weapons, and they stared agog at
Larquette. One of them stammered. "Senor, que  ..."

Bolan walked up to the man and loomed over him. "Gdeh vahsh athawjihyess
messta?"

The man stared up at him uncomprehendingly. "Que?"

Bolan scowled and scratched his chin in thought. "Mm ... hacienda?"

The man brightened. "Ah! Si!" He pointed down the road from the
warehouse.

While the Russians had hidden their side of the tunnel in a mining
operation, the southern end came out in the midst of a large cattle
ranch. Barbed wire fencing stretched out across the horizon, and cows
dotted the scrubby hillsides. Outlying buildings were scattered on the
landscape, and Bolan could smell the charnel odors of a slaughterhouse
on the wind. Approximately a mile and a half away a large hacienda
complex sat on a low rise.

Bolan nodded at the man and smiled. "Spaseeba, Comrade!" He clapped him
on the shoulder in friendly fashion. "Dasveedanya ... eh  ..."

Bolan frowned in immense concentration, then suddenly grinned at the
guard. "Gracias! Muchas gracias!"

The guard smiled and nodded happily. "De nada."

Bolan swatted Larquette on the behind, and she squealed admirably and
ran ahead down the road. The guards laughed as Bolan grinned and gave
them a wave. Larquette muttered under her breath as they walked down the
dusty road. "Okay, I got the part about the hacienda, but what did you
say to them?"

"I asked them where the bathroom was in Russian."

She snorted. "Do you think we fooled them?"

"They probably don't know what to think. Right now they think I just got
some in the warehouse. A lot depends on whether they actually know about
the tunnel or just think they're guarding a building. The fact that
we're walking will seem strange either way if they stop and think about
it, but with any luck they'll spend more time thinking about you."

She rolled her eyes. "With any luck. What do we do when we get to the
hacienda?"

"We grab a vehicle, get out of here and contact Hal Brognola."

"That easy?"

"With any luck."

Baibakov grinned as he reclined in a chair made of cattle hide and
interwoven horns. It creaked ominously under his weight but he liked it.
He liked everything about the room. The Mexican had several fine hunting
rifles mounted on the wall and a number of impressive trophies. A
snarling jaguar mounted in mid-leap dominated the left side of the room.
Baibakov stared at it in admiration. The spotted beast was much smaller
than a red grizzly or a Russian boar, but the predator's symmetry was
magnificent. He sighed wistfully. For years he had yearned to hunt a big
cat. If it wasn't for the fact that it would compromise his mission, he
would very much have liked to spend hours discussing hunting in South
America with this Enrique Ochoa.

The captain shrugged. It was a pity he would have to kill him before
they ever got the chance.

Ochoa and the Scarecrow chatted away blithely, ignoring Baibakov and
Gorchenko's existence. Gorchenko sat flopped on the overstuffed sofa by
the window with his head tilted back and watched the ceiling fan slowly
turn. He was the epitome of a soldier on a boring assignment. Baibakov
examined the jaguar again as he listened. The Spanish they spoke was
different than the Cuban he had learned. The Mexicans spoke more softly
and with more musical inflection compared to the harsh speech of the
soldiers he had trained with in Havana, but Baibakov understood it well
enough.

The Scarecrow had already referred to him as a psychotic ape three
times.

Ochoa steepled his hands and peered at Baibakov as he spoke with the
Scarecrow. "Your giant seems to like my jaguar."

The Scarecrow sneered. "He fancies himself a hunter."

The Mexican raised an intrigued eyebrow. "Oh?"

"If you call slaughtering women and children hunting."

"Oh, that is too bad. There is some excellent antelope hunting on my
ranch land. I had thought he might also enjoy hunting javelina with
handguns."

Baibakov cringed inwardly and examined the wall clock.

The Scarecrow changed the subject. "So you feel your expenses have
mounted?"

Ochoa stared at the ceiling meditatively. "Let me put it this way, my
friend. In the United States you were worried about discovery if you
used locals to dig the tunnel. So you had Ramzin and his combat
engineers and soldiers come. A small mining concern, with foreign
backing, in mines that were already considered mined out. It drew little
attention. Here in my country, it is more of a question of paying people
to make sure that nothing comes to anyone's attention. No one in the
local government knows we have dug a tunnel between Mexico and the
United States, but most of them are aware that I am doing something that
is illegal. It is a question of paying them enough so that they do not
particularly care what that thing might be. You understand?"

"They want more money?"

Ochoa spread his hands helplessly. "My friend, everyone wants more
money."

The Scarecrow stared at him expressionlessly. "I see."

The Mexican examined his nails. "There is a problem?"

"No, I believe you may see a substantial increase in profit."

Ochoa peered at him in mild interest. "Really?"

"Yes, we will soon be expecting much more profitable cargoes, and as our
partner, you of course will see your share of this."

"That is good to know, but what of my immediate expenses?"

"The situation is turbulent at the moment."

"I had heard you encountered some local difficulty, but had been led to
assume that it had been resolved."

"It has, and that is part of it. We sustained casualties. We must
replace men and material. But the real problem is Ramzin."

Ochoa leaned back in his chair. "Really? How so?"

The Scarecrow became agitated. "He runs his end like a military camp. He
disobeys orders and dictates his own agenda. He makes veiled threats. I
believe in time he intends to wrest control of the operation from us."

The Mexican put his hands to his chest. "Us?"

The Scarecrow glared. "I mean the American side of the tunnel."

Ochoa nodded. "Yes, he does seem very capable."

"He is due to be replaced with someone more tractable."

"So fine, have him killed. What is the problem?"

"The problem is that killing Ramzin is easier said than done. His men
are utterly loyal to him, and they fear and respect the giant."

Ochoa sneered. "I can have the giant killed right now, and a hundred
armed men down the tunnel in an hour."

The Scarecrow smiled at Ochoa sadly. "Perhaps your men could kill the
giant, if they were very lucky, but God only knows how many of them he
would take to hell with him in the attempt. As for your gunmen, I am
sure they are adequate for pushing about peasants, but Ramzin and his
soldiers would slaughter them like sheep. Then they would come across
the border and lay waste to half of Sonora in vengeance. Do not ever
underestimate Ramzin or his men. They are utterly dangerous."

Baibakov yawned and looked at his watch. It was the most intelligent
thing he had ever heard the Scarecrow say.

Ochoa nodded. "So what do you propose?"

"We finish the second tunnel. We keep to the shipment schedules as
planned. When the time is right, I will have both men killed and
suitable replacements ready to step in. As for now, would, say, ten
million dollars keep everyone happy?"

Ochoa smiled delightedly. "Certainly. You are most generous." He looked
at Baibakov and Gorchenko. "Well, since I am not going to kill these men
today, perhaps they would like some breakfast?"

The Scarecrow turned and smiled in Baibakov's face as he spoke sunnily
in Spanish. "You, circus freak, are you ready for your raw meat now?"

Ochoa stared at the Scarecrow aghast.

Baibakov tilted his head and peered at the Scarecrow like a dog who has
heard a sound it didn't recognize. "Da?"

The Scarecrow switched to Russian. "Our host wishes to know if you and
Gorchenko would like breakfast."

"Yes, thank you, Comrade."

Baibakov and Gorchenko rose and flanked the Scarecrow. The giant could
hardly contain himself as Ochoa led them out onto the veranda. He stared
at the back of the Scarecrow's scrawny neck in speculation, wondering
what kind of struggle the broomstick would put up when he killed him.

18

Bolan yanked Larquette into the bushes as the giant came out onto the
patio. Approaching the hacienda had been uneventful. Bolan had
maintained a military bearing and Larquette had smiled and giggled. It
was remarkably easy. Bolan's eyes narrowed as the giant stood on the
veranda, stretched his huge arms and took in the morning air. The free
ride was over. Larquette whispered in his ear. "What is it?"

Bolan pointed through the hedge. Larquette muttered under her breath.
"Just what we need, Son of Kong."

A second man came out, and by his demeanor the Executioner could tell he
was a soldier. Two Mexicans with M-16 rifles followed. A tall, thin man
in a Western-cut suit and an extremely well dressed man followed. They
Seated themselves around a table, and servants began to bring food as
the men with rifles stood and watched. Larquette's hand clenched on
Bolan's arm.

"What?"

Larquette gaped through the bushes. "I know him ... I know both of
them!"

"Who are they?"

She pointed at the Mexican. "That's Enrique Ochoa, the local crime lord.
He was coming across the border and getting into trouble when I was in
high school."

Bolan nodded. He knew the Russians had to have a Mexican connection. He
jerked his head. "Who's the urban cowboy?"

Larquette stared at him like he was stupid. "Well that's Lyle Tyler. He
must own at least a tenth of everything in Arizona. Real estate, car
dealerships, shopping malls, you name it. He's a big wheel in southern
Arizona. My father never could stand the man."

"You've met him?"

"Once, when I met his wife at a law conference in Phoenix."

"Who's that?"

"I mentioned her before, Anne Tyler."

Bolan's eyes flared.

Larquette nodded. "Kinda looks like a pattern, doesn't it?"

"The question is, what's he doing with a bunch of Russian Special Forces
types."

She shrugged. "Ask him."

Bolan's lips tightened. "I think I'll have to."

"You know, every second we stand here staring we're asking for trouble."

"I know, but we can't grab a vehicle without being seen until they clear
off the patio."

"So what do we do?"

Bolan watched Tyler and Ochoa as they spoke. After a few moments Tyler
looked at his watch and gestured toward the house. The Mexican nodded
and waved him in. The giant and the other soldier started to rise, and
Tyler motioned them to stay seated. Bolan took Larquette's hand.

"What's happening?"

"Tyler is going inside to make a phone call."

"So?"

"So let's go inside."

Bolan moved around the hedge toward the side of the house. He smelled
food, and the side door entered into a kitchen where several women were
busy cooking. The Executioner smiled and said several words in Russian
while the women stared at him and frowned at Larquette's outfit. Bolan
held up his hands. "Eh ... Senor Ochoa?"

The women pointed as one to the other side of the house toward the
veranda. Bolan nodded and smiled as he and Larquette entered the
hacienda. He closed the kitchen door behind them and looked around.
Ochoa had a magnificent home. The living room was massively arched, and
a huge window formed the entire back wall. Outside were fountains and
sculpted Southwestern-style gardens. A little way off, a small hill had
been leveled into a helicopter pad and a Bell Jetranger sat parked on
it. Beyond it lay rolling ranch land, and in the distance Bolan could
see the warehouse that formed the southern entrance of the tunnel. He
took Larquette's hand as they moved across the room and entered a
hallway. He jerked back quickly as a man singing a country song to
himself suddenly came around the corner. He glanced back around as he
heard a door open and saw a cowboy hat disappear into a room.

"Stay here and keep a lookout."

"What are you going to do?"

Bolan drew the Beretta. "I'm going to have a talk with Mr. Tyler."

Lyle Tyler sat in Ochoa's study and pulled his secure phone out of his
aluminum attache case. He attached several wires, then connected it to
his burst transmitter. He ran the test pattern and when it gave a
satisfactory tone, he began punching in numbers. His wife answered on
the first ring. "What is happening?"

"Ochoa wants more money."

"What did you promise him?"

"Ten million dollars."

There was a moment of silence. "Is that necessary?"

"He claims the people he is paying off want more money, and I believe he
is only half lying in that regard. Security is always a good investment,
and it is only a drop in the bucket. Also, you will be pleased to know,
that when the time is right, Enrique seems perfectly willing to help us
eliminate Ramzin and Baibakov."

"Very well, I agree, but money will be tight until the second tunnel is
completed and the real shipments begin."

"Yes, but I believe our Mr. Ochoa is a keeper, and it will pay to keep
him happy."

"How is the second tunnel proceeding?"

"Well, Ramzin is nothing if not efficient. He is two weeks ahead of
schedule. We should be ready for the real cargoes in a few weeks."

His wife's voice became stern. "The last time I spoke with him, he
seemed to balk at the idea of killing the workers when the tunnel is
completed."

"He isn't happy about it. Ramzin considers himself a man of honor.
Baibakov, on the other hand, is less squeamish, and he had an excellent
suggestion during our ride over."

There was a pause. "Really?"

"Oh, yes. He thinks that instead of shooting all the workers we should
just seal both ends of the tunnel once they are on their way to America
and then gas them. He says it will be simpler and less messy."

"And what do we do with all the bodies?"

"He thought of that, too. We have all that earth-moving equipment at Red
Star. He says we just dig a mass grave and then bury them. He says the
entire project will take about a morning to complete."

His wife snorted. "Baibakov would have made an excellent Nazi."

"I gather, then, that you agree to his plan."

"Military minds do have their uses. Yes, of course I agree."

"Good. I'll have the money ready in three days."

"Say hello to Enrique for me."

"I will."

BOLAN SPOKE IN Russian. "Your pancakes are getting cold, Comrade."

Tyler snapped around and snarled back in the same language, "Idiot! I
told you I did not wish to be disturbed until  ..."

He trailed off as he stared down the muzzle of the big Beretta's
silencer. Bolan regarded him coldly. "So, you're going to kill the
workers."

Tyler gaped at him.

"What did you promise them? Money and easy passage into the United
States for them and their families when the work was done?"

"Listen-"

"How many of them are there? Four hundred? Five hundred?"

"Who are you?"

"Tell me, what are the real cargoes?"

Tyler's eyes narrowed. "You're Ramzin's little problem. The American."

"You speak excellent Russian, Lyle. like a native."

The Executioner examined him clinically. "You're a sleeper. One of the
deep-cover moles from the cold war. When were you inserted into the
United States? The fifties? Early sixties?"

Tyler's knuckles whitened.

"The KGB successors would never allow a project like this. If it was
discovered, it could start a war. This is a private venture, Russian
Mafia, isn't it? You're going to give me names, and timetables. You're
going to give me connections. Now."

Tyler sneered. "Or you'll do what? Shoot me? You'll never get out of
here alive."

Bolan pushed off the silenced Beretta's safety. "I'll shoot you to
pieces, Lyle, and I'll walk out of here. No one will hear a thing. An
hour from now, your friend Ochoa will come into his study and find you
all over the walls."

Tyler paled. "Listen, we can work something out."

"Start talking, or I start with your ankles and work my way up."

Larquette nearly jumped out of her boots.

"Good day, senorita, and who are you?"

She spun around and found Enrique Ochoa looking down her T-shirt
appreciatively, with two of his bodyguards. He turned to one of his men
and spoke in Spanish. "She is pretty, Rujellio. Is she one of yours?"

Rujellio frowned. "No, Mr. Ochoa. I have not seen her before."

Ochoa grinned. "That is too bad for you, my friend." He switched back to
English. "And what is your name?"

With an immense effort of will Larquette smiled idiotically. "I'm
Patti!"

Ochoa nodded and smiled. "Ah, of course, and what are you doing hiding
in the hallway, Patti?"

Larquette's mind raced furiously. She stuck out her lip and pouted. "I
was promised breakfast."

A deep line of concentration drew up between Rujellio's eyebrows as he
folded his arms and looked at her narrowly. Ochoa leered at her thighs.

"Oh, you are hungry." Ochoa leaned forward conspiratorially. "Did you
have a long night?"

Larquette blushed and giggled as one of the cooks came into the living
room and said in Spanish, "Mr. Ochoa, will you and your guests be taking
coffee?"

He glanced at her distractedly. "Ah, yes, Rosa, on the veranda, thank
you." Ochoa lifted a finger in sudden inspiration and turned to his
other man. "Wait. Carlos, go see if the Russians want tea."

Carlos nodded and turned to leave.

Rujellio slowly shook his head as he continued to stare Larquette up and
down. "Mr. Ochoa, I have never seen this woman before, and I have no
idea how she got into the compound."

The cook wiped her hands on her apron and smiled. "Oh, she came with the
Russian."

Ochoa frowned. "Which Russian?"

Rosa shrugged. "Why, the dark one, with all the guns."

He stared at her blankly. "The dark one with all the guns?"

Rosa nodded. "Yes."

Rujellio grabbed Larquette's wrist in a vise-like fist. "Mr. Ochoa,
something is wrong."

Larquette twisted and drove her boot up between Rujellio's legs with
every ounce of strength in her body. He howled in agony and sagged as
she yanked her wrist out of his hands. Ochoa's eyes flew wide as
Rujellio crumpled to the floor moaning. "Madre de Dios! Carlos! Martin!
Andale!"

Larquette reached behind her as she heard feet pounding down the hall.
She pulled the snub-nosed Centennial revolver from the small of her
back, and as Carlos rounded the corner, she leveled the front sight at
his chest and fired.

"Who is involved in Moscow?"

Tyler squirmed in his chair. "They'll kill me."

The Executioner's voice was as cold as the grave. "I'll kill YOU."

The sleeper jumped at the gunshot. Bolan's head whipped toward the door.
The firing signature was the distinctive crack of a snub-nosed revolver.
He had heard it many times. It was his gun.

The weapon fired twice more in rapid succession.

Tyler's chair creaked. Bolan pivoted from the waist and whipped the
Beretta into line. The man had risen from his chair, and his left hand
pulled a small automatic pistol from under his jacket. Bolan drilled a
3-round burst into his chest.

Tyler sagged backward, his little pistol spitting fire and sending a
bullet high and wide into the wall. Sure that the Russian was dead, the
Executioner turned and slipped out the door. Feet were pounding
throughout the house. Just down the hall the ripping snarl of a
submachine gun rang out. Bolan heard his pistol return fire. He whipped
around the corner and saw two men lying on the ground. One lay dead and
another was moaning. Larquette stood over them with her pistol pointing
around the doorjamb into the living room. From the kitchen he could hear
Enrique Ochoa screaming in Spanish and the servants screaming in
general.

"The bitch shot me! Kill her! Kill her!"

Automatic fire chattered from the staircase in the living room.
Larquette shrank back around the doorjamb as wood and plaster were
gouged from the wall. She whipped around the jamb and fired as the burst
ended, and her revolver clicked empty. She swore at the little pistol
and ducked back into cover.

"Patti."

Larquette whirled and leveled the empty pistol, wild-eyed. Bolan held up
his hand. "Patti, see if either of those two men are armed."

She stared at him for a moment, then blinked. "Right." She reached into
the dead man's jacket and pulled out a large revolver. She fumbled in
his pockets and produced a handful of loose rounds. She checked the
pistol's load and nodded. Bolan holstered the Beretta and pulled his one
remaining stun grenade from his web gear.

"Close your eyes and cover your ears."

He pulled the pin and tossed the grenade into the living room. The walls
shuddered as the bomb detonated, and the big bay window shattered
outward from the concussion. The Executioner pivoted around the corner.
A man staggered on the landing at the top of the stairs, holding his
head with one hand and waving an Uzi submachine gun blindly with the
other. A burst from the Beretta punched him down the steps. Another man
rushed from the kitchen, firing a revolver in each hand as fast as he
could pull the triggers. He sagged backward as Bolan and Larquette shot
him simultaneously.

"Nobody move!"

Ochoa slowly came out of the kitchen with Rosa in front of him. He held
the muzzle of a shiny stainless-steel pistol up to her head as she wept
and prayed.

"Drop your guns or she is dead!"

Larquette shot Bolan a glance as she covered Ochoa.

Bolan shrugged. "Drop your gun."

Larquette grimaced as she watched Bolan drop the 93-R to the floor. He
looked at her. "Do it!"

Ochoa's eyes flicked to Larquette as she dropped the pistol, and in a
single fluid motion the Executioner drew the Desert Eagle and shot Ochoa
between the eyes. Rosa screamed hysterically and fainted as his body
fell away from her. Bolan picked up his Beretta with his free hand and
jerked his head toward Larquette. "Get your gun."

Larquette scooped up her pistol and pushed fresh rounds into it. She
looked around as people yelled and screamed from inside the house and
out. "Which way?"

Bolan glanced through the shattered window to the helicopter up on the
little hill. "North."

Baibakov and Gorchenko shot to their feet at the sound of gunfire. Both
men pulled open their oversize shirts and drew 9 mm Stechkin machine
pistols from their shoulder holsters. More shots rang out, and an
automatic weapon ripped into life somewhere inside the house. The
servants screamed and covered their ears.

Two of Ochoa's bodyguards stood uncertainly, fumbling with their rifles.
Baibakov roared at them in Spanish.

"Come on!"

One of the men leveled his rifle at Baibakov. "Stay where you are,
gringo!"

The man stumbled backward as Gorchenko shot him. The second guard stared
aghast and brought up his rifle. Baibakov gunned him down before he
could flick off his weapon's safety. The man jerked his head toward the
house. "The Scarecrow! His safety is our priority!"

Gorchenko nodded grimly and fell into a covering position behind
Baibakov. As the giant opened the patio door, a dull roar shook the
entire house and windows shattered.

Someone had started World War III.

The Russians entered the house. They passed Ochoa's study and Baibakov
ground to a halt. The door was open, and the Scarecrow lay flopped back
in a chair behind Ochoa's desk. His little Makarov automatic was still
clutched in one hand, and the front of his shirt was riddled with bloody
holes.

Gorchenko stared up at Baibakov. "Captain?"

Baibakov's eyes became unreadable. The Scarecrow had been a traitor and
a worm, and he knew he was going to kill him sooner or later. But his
mission had been to defend the man while in Mexico. Now he was dead.

"We go back to base and report to Ramzin."

"What about the Mexicans."

"Kill any you see."

The Russians moved swiftly through the house. As they rounded the
corner, they saw two men lying in the hallway. One was dead, the other
coughing and slowly rising to his knees.

The giant shot him down.

More men lay dead in the living room, and Baibakov paused over Ochoa's
body. The drug lord's eyes were crossed and staring up at the bullet
hole between them. The giant looked outside the shattered bay window and
his jaw dropped. Their helicopter's rotors were turning.

Baibakov roared. "The helicopter!"

The Russians leaped out the window and broke into a sprint across the
gardens. The aircraft rose slowly off the ground as it gained lift. It
turned on its axis to head north, and Baibakov could see through the
windscreen as the cockpit rotated into view.

It was the American commando and the woman.

Baibakov roared with rage and emptied his machine pistol into the
helicopter. The windscreen spider-webbed with cracks, and sparks shot
about in the cockpit. The helicopter spun, and its turbine roared as it
began to bank toward the north. Gorchenko opened fire as Baibakov
slammed a fresh magazine into his Stechkin. The helicopter began to pick
up speed, and the captain raised his aim to lead his shots. He pulled
the trigger and emptied the pistol in a sustained burst, the tracers
streaking into the helicopter's engine cowling.

Baibakov ejected the spent magazine as the helicopter roared out of
range across the desert toward the United States. The pistol's grips
creaked in his hand as his fist clenched. The American was alive. He had
killed the Scarecrow and Ochoa. He had shot down Baibakov's first
helicopter, and now he had stolen his second.

The captain pushed a fresh magazine into his machine pistol. Only one
thing mattered now, and that was hunting down and killing the American
and his woman. He would follow them down to hell itself.

19

The Executioner fought the dying helicopter's controls. Something in the
engine was damaged, and he was rapidly losing power. The radio and
overhead controls had taken the first burst of fire, and what wasn't
hanging down like wounded spaghetti lay in shattered pieces on the
cockpit floor. The engine ground and whined in protest as Bolan forced
the joystick up to clear the rock formations that marked the border.
Larquette looked at him pensively. "We're smoking like a chimney."

He glanced back and saw thick black smoke billowing behind them in the
rotorwash. The temperature warning light was blinking red. Smoke was
starting to seep into the cabin and beneath it was the unmistakable
smell of overheating metal. He shot Larquette a quick look. She tried to
smile at him but her face was pale, and Bolan could see her knuckles
were white on the metal rim of her seat.

"We're not going to make it to Phoenix, are we?"

Bolan gritted his teeth as he hauled back on the stick. The cabin
shuddered as the helicopter slid over the jagged hills. Larquette made a
very unhappy noise as something struck one of the skids and the
helicopter lurched. Bolan shoved the throttle full forward into
emergency power.

The overheating turbine yowled in protest as the entire airframe shook.
Slowly the helicopter limped higher into the sky. The grinding howl of
the engine was now constant, and the smell of burning metal in the cabin
was overpowering. The rocks hurtled by only a few feet beneath them.
Larquette pointed with a shout. "There!"

Off on Bolan's three o'clock, the buttes sheered away to the desert
floor. He banked the helicopter to the southeast.

Larquette shouted, as if she were willing the flagging helicopter to
reach the edge. "We're going to make it! We're going to make it!"

The rocks beneath reached up to embrace them as they raced for the edge.

Suddenly the rocky plateau fell away and they had altitude between them
and the earth. Larquette shouted in triumph. "Yes!"

Bolan smiled grimly as he eased back on the throttle. It had been close,
and they were still far from safe. Even though he eased back on the
power, the turbine temperature remained in the red-line. Using the
emergency power had been necessary, but it had mortally strained the
already damaged engine.

"I'm going to get us as close to Crucible as I can and set it down."

The desert flew past beneath them. Bolan's face tightened as he looked
north. Larquette watched his face nervously. "What is it?"

Bolan jerked his head, keeping his eyes on the needles as they vibrated
on red in his control dials. Larquette looked past him out the window.
There against the hills was the Red Star camp.

"Do you think they saw us?"

"It's likely. We're making a lot of noise and putting out a lot of
smoke."

"What will they do?"

"They'll come after us. Even if big boy hasn't reported in yet, they'll
probably figure it's their helicopter and send people out. We don't want
to be around when they do."

Larquette bit her lip and stared out the window. Ranches went by beneath
them and miles ahead the town of Crucible was coming into view. "We
should contact my friend Tom Donovan. Maybe he can sneak us out of
here."

Bolan nodded. "It's our best-"

The engine suddenly shrieked in agony, and there was a tremendous
clattering above their heads as something broke free and bounced around
the engine compartment. The helicopter began to shake violently as the
turbine continued to scream and rev out of control. Bolan released the
throttle and cut the power to the engine. The engine noise slowly came
to a grinding halt, and the cabin became eerily silent except for the
rush of the wind through the bullet holes in the windscreen and the
rhythmic threshing of the rotor blades over their heads.

Larquette looked around in panic. "What's happening?"

Bolan kept his eyes on the ground as the helicopter steadily lost
altitude.

"The engine is off. The fact that we're falling is keeping the rotors
turning."

"Can we land like this?"

"It'll be rough."

Larquette's face went white as the helicopter began to slowly spin on
its axis. "I don't like this!"

"Hold on!"

The ground suddenly seemed to shoot up at them, and the helicopter
crunched into the sand abruptly.

Larquette looked around disbelievingly in the sudden silence. "We made
it."

Bolan unhooked his safety harness and drew his Beretta 93-R. "Come on.
The engine is still overheated, and we might have lost the fuel lines."

She released her harness, and they piled out of the cabin. Bolan looked
east. "Town is that way, I'd say five or six miles."

Larquette stared shakily at the stricken helicopter. "I don't mind
walking."

Ramzin shot to his feet and shouted into the phone. "You told me the
Yankees were dead, Captain! Now they have our helicopter!"

There was a long moment of silence. "I am sorry, Major. I do not know
how to explain this. We blew up the mine shaft. The blast should have
killed them. Galanskov assured me that there was no way to dig their way
out even if they survived, and that the vertical shaft was blocked and
impassable."

Ramzin shook with fury as he spoke into the phone. "Well, it appears
that Lieutenant Galanskov was wrong!"

"There is more, Major."

Ramzin steeled himself. "Report."

"Ochoa is dead. So is the Scarecrow."

The major's jaw dropped. It was inconceivable. The whole operation was
falling down like a house of cards. His voice went utterly cold. "How
has this happened? Protecting the Scarecrow was your responsibility."

"Somehow the Yankee and the woman were in the house. The Scarecrow went
inside to call his wife about the negotiations. We were ordered to stay
outside. I saw no reasonable excuse to disobey. The Yankee killed him
inside the house, then he killed Ochoa."

Ramzin stared at the map on the wall without seeing it as his mind
whirled.

"Major, I was present during the negotiations, as ordered."

"Little good that will do us now, Comrade."

"Yes, Major. It is of no account now. However, you should know that the
Scarecrow and Ochoa planned to kill us both when the second tunnel was
completed."

Ramzin nodded slowly. "Well, now they will never have the chance."

There was another long pause. "Your orders, Major?"

They would have to evacuate. He estimated it would take some time before
authorities could be contacted and convinced, much less mount an assault
on the base. Ramzin considered his options as someone frantically banged
on his door. He rolled his eyes toward heaven. How much more bad news
could there be?

"Enter!"

Lukov burst into the room breathlessly. "Major! Our helicopter has been
sighted. It was damaged, smoking badly. I believe it has made a forced
landing some kilometers outside of Crucible!"

Ramzin calculated. They couldn't have been in the air very long. "Lukov,
could they have gotten a communication out?"

Lukov frowned. "We have been monitoring radio traffic in and out of
Crucible for five days. There has been nothing. Unless he had a special
transmitter with him in the helicopter with its own special frequency, I
do not see how, Major."

Ramzin pounded his fist on the table. There was still a chance that the
situation could be salvaged. "Lukov, tell Rybenok to gather a strike
team. The Yankees will surely make for Crucible and try to contact the
outside. Call our old friend--it is time to make use of him again--and
perhaps if we are lucky, they will go to the jail." Suddenly Ramzin
grinned. "Or perhaps they will go to see our new friend, Mr. Donovan.
Contact him, as well."

"Yes, Major!"

Lukov ran to carry out his orders as Ramzin returned to the phone.
"Captain, return to base immediately. The situation may prove
Salvageable, but if not, I will need you here to help with a full
evacuation of all personnel into Mexico."

The giant responded dejectedly. "Yes, Major."

Ramzin hung up the receiver and stared at the telephone with dread. Now
he would have to tell the Witch that her husband was dead.

Tom Donovan smiled at Bolan and Larquette as they stood on his porch. "I
thought you two were dead!"

Larquette smiled tiredly. "Can we have some water, Tom? It's been a
long, dry morning."

Donovan bit his lip. "God, I'm sorry. Come on in."

They entered his ranch-style house, and he waved them to the couch.
"What do you guys want? Beer? Soda?"

Bolan and Larquette spoke in unison. "Water."

Donovan went into his kitchen and ran the tap. He stared at the phone
for a moment, then his hand reached out and picked up the receiver. His
thumb hovered over a single button that corresponded to a preset
telephone number that he had programmed into the automatic dialer
several days earlier. He slowly pressed down, and he could just hear the
muted tone of the numbers dialing. There was a click, and Donovan
replaced the receiver on the hook.

He turned to the sink and filled two glasses with water and resisted the
urge to throw up. He nearly dropped both glasses as a voice spoke softly
behind him.

"They got to you."

It was a statement, not a question. Donovan turned and paled as he saw
Bolan and Larquette in the kitchen doorway. He stood with the water
glasses in his hands and stared at his feet. "I-"

"What did they do?" Bolan asked.

Donovan found the courage to look him in the face. "There was this guy,
I swear, he must have been seven feet tall. He spent about an hour
pulling my arm out of its socket. Then he and his buddies told me they
would kill my mother and my sister. I didn't know what to do. I was just
so helpless. I didn't know what to do. I just couldn't take it. I tried.
God, I tried. But I just couldn't."

Bolan nodded. "It's all right, Tom. You had to protect your family."

He glanced up at the clock. "How long do we have?"

"I don't know. Not long, I assume. They contacted me a few minutes
before you arrived and told me to watch for you. I think they were
sending men out."

"I need to use your phone."

Donovan grimaced. "They have control of the phone lines. The phones have
been out for the last three days."

"Then we need a radio."

Larquette frowned. "The only shortwave set I know of around here is at
the jail, and they jammed it."

"I know. I'll need a radio on a frequency they won't be jamming."

Donovan looked at him in bewilderment. "Where are you going to get one
like that?"

Bolan pulled out the Beretta and checked it. He was down to his last
magazine. He holstered the 93-R and drew the Desert Eagle. He looked at
Tom Donovan.

"You just ordered one for me."

20

Ramzin gritted his teeth and squirmed at the silence on the other end of
the phone. He had written all too many letters from Afghanistan to the
families of men who would be returning to them in zinc lined coffins,
but he had never before told a woman her husband was dead over the
phone. He knew the Witch and her husband had been planning to eliminate
him sooner or later, but there was no victory for him in the stunned
silence over the receiver.

The Witch's voice quavered. "How ... how has this happened?"

It was the first time Ramzin had ever heard anything that resembled a
genuine human emotion in her voice. He had considered the Witch and her
husband incapable of such feelings, but he also knew they had been
married for more than thirty years. Who could know what sort of relation
ship two such creatures could have, or what the end of that bond would
do. The woman was a live grenade in his lap. Ramzin struggled to
maintain a professional, military tone.

"He was murdered in Mexico, by the American commando." The Witch was
stupefied. "But you said that Baibakov had blown him to bits and buried
him."

"That was my understanding, as well. But Captain Baibakov reports he
sighted the man and exchanged fire with him in Mr. Ochoa's hacienda."

"I wish to speak to Mr. Ochoa immediately. Secure a line."

Ramzin cleared his throat. "I regret to inform you that the Americans
have killed him, as well."

The silence dragged on, then the Witch's voice suddenly regained its
former steel. "Very well, Major. Tell me, where are the Americans now?"

Ramzin swallowed. The woman could turn her emotions on and off like a
light. "They escaped from Ochoa's hacienda in the helicopter, but
Baibakov and Gorchenko managed to damage the aircraft significantly with
small arms fire as it took off. The aircraft was spotted crash-landing
some kilometers outside of Crucible. One of our contacts, Mr. Donovan of
the citizens' committee, signaled us that they have made contact with
him at his house outside of town. A strike team is converging on the
house as we speak."

There was another pause and Ramzin could almost hear the wheels in her
mind turning. "Very well. I believe the situation may still be
salvageable. Ochoa was a drug dealer and a pimp, and he should not be
difficult to replace. I, of course, will be inheriting my husband's
business connections. If we can keep the woman and this commando from
contacting the outside, this will only be a minor setback."

Ramzin shook his head. Her husband's death would be only a minor setback
for her. Truly the woman was a witch.

"What do you suggest?"

"This is what we will do. I have already used my powers as state
attorney general to put out a warrant for the arrest of the Larquette
woman. Have my husband's body taken back across the border and bring it
to the jail. I will make some kind of an excuse for his having been
there. A business deal or some such thing. When you kill the woman,
bring her body and the commando's gun to the scene. My husband was an
important man and his death will be investigated. I can control that
investigation, but I must at least have the vestiges of a cover story to
work with."

She paused a moment. "You are sure that the Americans have not yet
communicated to the outside?"

"I do not see how it is possible, and if they had, I am sure you would
know of it before I do."

"Undoubtedly. I will fly down within two hours. Ostensibly to have met
my husband to spend a weekend in the beautiful desert. If your men
succeed, I will be ready to play the grieving widow. If they fail, and
the Yankees reach the outside, we must prepare to evacuate, and that
will take time. We must be prepared for that. This is what I want you to
do."

Ramzin's eyes widened as she elaborated her contingency plan. He had
seen the atrocities of war, and seen firsthand the ugly corruption of
the KGB, but as he listened, he realized that the Witch was quite
possibly the most evil human being he had ever met in a lifetime of war.

When she had finished, he responded with a tone as cold as the grave.
"It will be done as you have instructed." A cold chill went down his
spine as he hung up and buzzed for Lukov. There was no time to consider
right and wrong. He was the commander, and he must insure his men's
survival. His duty was clear. Lukov entered and saluted.

"Your orders, Major?"

Ramzin looked grimly at the area map of the base and the twin tunnel
system. "Galanskov is our most senior demolition man, is he not?"

"Why, yes, Major. You put him in command of the engineers yourself."

Ramzin nodded without taking his eyes off of the map. "Exactly so. Bring
him to me immediately."

"Do you have any guns, Tom?"

Donovan looked at the Executioner nervously. "I've got an old .30-30
lever-action Winchester, and a shotgun with some old shells."

Bolan nodded. "Get them."

He turned to Larquette, who was leaning on the back of the sofa and
peering out the window with a pair of binoculars. "Anything yet?"

She answered without taking her eyes off the road. "Nope. Nothing yet."

Donovan returned with a worn Winchester rifle and a long double-barreled
shotgun. He had a battered cardboard box of shells for each gun. He
looked at the guns in his hands and shrugged. "They haven't been fired
in a long time."

Bolan took the rifle and shells over to Larquette. "Take this. As I
recall, you're familiar with one of these."

She took the weapon and frowned at it as she checked the action and
began pushing shells into the loading gate. "Geez, Tom. You really ought
to take better care of your guns."

Donovan shrugged helplessly. "They were my dad's. I mean, I really don't
shoot that much, and  ..." He trailed off and watched Bolan as he broke
open the shotgun and peered down the twin bores critically. The man
spread his hands. "So, what do you want me to do?"

The Executioner slid two 10-gauge shells into the shotgun and snapped
the action shut. He put the remaining four rounds into a pouch in his
web gear. "Stay out of sight. Stay alive."

"You don't want me to help? Or is it that you just don't trust me?"

Bolan looked at him frankly. "Listen, Tom, what's done is done. I can't
say whether Patti, myself or anyone else would have done anything
different in the same situation. You were tortured, and it was your life
and your family on the line. But you said it yourself--you don't shoot,
You'll be a liability to me in a firefight. But listen. The fact that
they're still after us tells me they think they can still salvage the
situation. You did the job for them, and you're their contact on the
citizens' committee. It's unlikely that they will want to kill you. So
you stay alive, Tom. And if we don't make it through this, then you're
going to have to do something."

"You mean call the authorities after you're dead."

Bolan reached down to the coffee table and wrote a number on an open
section of newspaper. "Call this number. Use the name Striker. Tell the
man who answers what has happened. He'll take care of the rest."

Bolan refolded the newspaper and slid it into the pile next to the
couch. "Classifieds, Tom, section S."

Donovan stood and stared at Bolan bleakly. "So what do I do now?"

"Is there anyplace around here you can hide."

"The cellar."

"Go there. If they find you, tell them we threw you in there at
gunpoint, or tell them you hid there and locked the door when you heard
them coming. Either way, they'll probably believe you."

Donovan clenched his fists in frustration. The Executioner nodded his
understanding. "I know it's gnawing at you. Hiding in the cellar doesn't
seem very heroic. But it's the only chance if Patti and I don't make it.
You're our insurance."

The man turned slowly without a word and went down the hall.

"Something's coming!" Larquette whispered.

Bolan went over and looked over her shoulder out the window. Two
vehicles were churning up dust as they barreled down the road. He took
the binoculars from her and adjusted the view. Two jeeps suddenly
resolved themselves in crystal clarity.

Gun jeeps.

In each jeep a man stood behind a post-mounted 12.7 mm DSH K-38 heavy
machine gun, and the windshield was lowered so that the man in the
passenger seat could traverse a PKM light machine gun across the hood.
Bolan lowered the binoculars.

"They'll probably split up to cover the front and the back, then tear
the house apart with a cross fire from their heavy weapons. I'm going to
go out the back and surprise one of them when he comes around the
corner. I need you to yell to me which side of the house he chooses.
Stay low, and when the shooting starts, follow me out back as fast as
you can."

Her face was pale but her expression set defiantly. "Got it."

"Good." Bolan strode to the back door. He examined the terrain in the
bright sunlight. The land around the house was flat scrub with little or
no cover. If he was going to win, he would have to take on the Russians
at point-blank range. He cocked his head as the engine noise of the
approaching jeeps grew louder. The Russians would expect them to stay
inside and to put up barricades. The plan was most likely to overwhelm
them with superior firepower. Bolan had no illusions; their enemies'
machine guns would cut through the old wooden house like tissue paper.
If he and Larquette stayed inside, they would be slaughtered.

Hopefully the Russians would expect them to come out and fight.

He glanced at the long, heavy, double-barreled shotgun in his hands. A
10-gauge Magnum buckshot round threw eighteen buckshot at over thirteen
hundred feet per second. At twenty yards the entire load would hit the
target in a pattern the size of a dinner plate. The Executioner hoped
Tom's old ammo was still good. It was going to be mighty costly if it
wasn't. The engine noise became extremely loud. Suddenly Bolan heard
Larquette yelling at the top of her lungs from inside the house.

"He's coming around the left side of the house! Circling wide!"

Bolan flattened against the wall and rapidly slid to the left corner of
the house. He dropped into a shooter's crouch with the shotgun held in
front of him. The Russian gun jeep burst into view some thirty yards
from the house, and the man behind the heavy machine gun stared at Bolan
in surprise and desperately tried to traverse the big DSH K machine gun.

The Executioner brought the shotgun to his shoulder and fired.

The 10-gauge recoiled brutally, and the man operating the machine gun
hurtled backward out of the jeep. The driver yanked the steering wheel
into an evasive turn, but the jeep was much too close and the huge
shotgun was an area weapon. Bolan tracked the man's head and shoulders,
and the second blast slammed the driver sideways in his seat. The jeep
swerved out of control.

Bolan broke open the shotgun and stuffed in two fresh shells as the two
remaining Russians dived from the runaway vehicle. The jeep plunged on
and slammed violently into a tree stump and stalled.

One man hit the ground and rolled expertly. He came up on his feet and
tried to bring his assault rifle into target acquisition, but the big
shotgun roared and sent him sprawling to the ground before he could pull
the trigger. The other man stood groggily and fired his rifle on
full-auto. His shots went high and wide into the house and Bolan put the
full buckshot pattern into his chest. The man tumbled back and tried to
return fire.

Bolan frowned. The Russians were wearing body armor. He dropped the
shotgun and drew the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle. The Russian was still
reefing from the massive punch of the shotgun. As he tried to bring his
rifle to bear, Bolan put two rounds into his chest. The titanium armor
had never been designed to withstand a .44 Magnum slug, and the man fell
heavily to the ground.

Around the house, Bolan could hear the roar of the other jeep's engine
as it snarled through its gears. He broke into a sprint toward the
stalled jeep as its partner came racing to its rescue. The second
vehicle tore around the corner of the house, and its gunner opened fire
as Bolan dived behind the stalled vehicle. The Russian heavy and light
machine guns tore through the car body as the soldier threw himself
prone under the wheels. The jeep shuddered and rocked on its axis under
the deadly barrage. Over the roar of the weapons he could hear the
vehicle grind to a halt, and he knew that the Russians were dismounting
to encircle him while their machine guns kept him pinned down.

The Executioner drew the Beretta 93-R. A bullet threw up sand to his
right, and he snapped off a 3-round burst from the Beretta. One of the
Russians was using the corner of the house for cover. Bolan flattened
himself on the ground as the machine guns drilled bursts of fire into
the beleaguered jeep over his head. He scanned between the wheels and
was unable to see the other dismounted Russian. He was being flanked.

Weapons opened up on all sides, and Bolan knew they were going to rush
him. He tried to rise up and fire, but the machine guns tore into the
body of the jeep above him. Oil and gasoline from the mauled vehicle
dripped down on him as he pushed himself deeper into the wheel ruts
beneath the jeep and fired several blind bursts to his right. He glanced
up to see the Russian by the house charging toward him, firing from the
hip. Bolan raised the Beretta and put a 3-round burst into him. The man
staggered but didn't fall. The Russian's armor had held, and the Beretta
93-R cracked open on empty in the Executioner's hand. He struggled to
roll over under the jeep and bring the Desert Eagle to bear as the man
suddenly jerked and stumbled forward. His body jerked twice more, and he
fell face-first into the sand. More rifle shots rang out from the house.
Larquette was in the fight.

The jeep above him stopped rocking for a moment as the enemy machine
guns tracked toward the house and began to tear apart the back wall.
Bolan rolled out from under the jeep and rose. One of the enemy machine
guns tracked back toward him and opened fire. He returned fire with the
big Desert Eagle as rapidly as he could pull the trigger as he leaped
into the back of the jeep that had sheltered him. The Russian light
machine gunner jerked as one of Bolan's shots struck him in the
shoulder, but he kept a hand on his weapon and struggled to stay on
target. Bolan dropped the Desert Eagle and grabbed the twin grips of the
DSH K heavy machine gun. He swung the weapon on its pivot, and he and
the Russian exchanged fire from jeep to jeep.

The Russian was unable to control his weapon one handed, so his burst
went low and shook the battered vehicle beneath Bolan's feet. The
Executioner leveled the heavy weapon with cold certainty and began
cutting the other jeep apart with short bursts. His opponent shuddered
as the heavy bullets tore into him, and he sagged forward over his gun.
The enemy gunner desperately tried to swing his weapon back around, but
Bolan cut him down before he could bring his weapon to bear. Rifle fire
resumed from the house, and the jeep's driver sagged from his seat as he
fumbled with his rifle. Another Russian leaped to cover behind the body
of his vehicle.

The DSH K's handles shuddered to a halt in Bolan's hands as he stopped
firing.

Larquette shouted in the sudden silence. "Did we get them?"

Bolan kept the Russian heavy machine gun trained on the enemy jeep. "One
of them took cover behind his vehicle."

"So what are you going to do?"

The Executioner put a burst into the enemy vehicle to keep the Russian
honest and glanced around his commandeered vehicle. A battered-looking
RPG-7 rocket-propelled grenade launcher sat in a rack behind the
driver's seat. Its launch tube was dented, and it had a number of bullet
holes in it from the earlier barrage. The weapon's optical sight had
been smashed, but the warhead seemed miraculously undamaged. At thirty
yards he doubted the Russian would be able to notice the difference.

"Patti! Put a few shots into his position, but aim high."

Larquette's rifle rang out three times in rapid succession and sparks
flew off of the jeep's hood. Bolan took the RPG-7 from its rack and
positioned it over his shoulder. He peered through the crushed optics
and spoke loudly in Russian.

"Hey, you!"

The Russian didn't respond.

"I have an RPG-7 here. Throw down your rifle and I won't use it."

The Russian's head peeked around the rear bumper of the enemy vehicle
and yanked back quickly as he saw the RPG's 85 mm warhead pointed
straight at him. Larquette's rifle roared from the kitchen and shot out
one of the jeep's headlights. For a moment the only noise was the desert
breeze. Larquette peered out of the kitchen at Bolan and shrugged. After
a moment the Russian shouted from behind cover.

"What assurance do I have you will not kill me anyway?"

"Be assured I will blow you to hell if you don't."

There was a reflective pause, then an AK-74 rifle clattered across the
hood of the jeep and fell to the ground.

"Very well. I am coming out. Do not shoot."

Bolan let the mangled antitank weapon slide off his shoulder, and he
took the grips of the heavy machine gun in his hands. "Slowly."

The Russian moved out from behind his vehicle. His left arm was bloody
and sagged at a dislocated angle from his shoulder. He stared at the
heavy machine gun Bolan pointed at him and raised his good arm over his
head.

"I surrender."

"Cover him, Patti. Shoot him if he moves." He released the machine gun
and scooped up the Desert Eagle from the jeep. Bolan jumped to the
ground and slid a fresh magazine into the pistol. It cracked into
battery, and the Executioner approached the Russian. The man had short
blond hair and the powerful build of a Special Forces soldier. "Name and
rank," Bolan demanded.

The man sighed heavily. "Rybenok, Constantine, Senior Lieutenant."

Larquette came out of the house with her rifle leveled at the man's
midriff. She looked the Russian up and down with a hostile expression.
"I thought these Spetsnaz superman types never surrendered."

The man's head jerked around and he glared at Larquette angrily. Bolan
grimaced. Apparently the man knew some English.

The Russian stared at her for a moment, then returned his gaze to Bolan.

"The woman is correct. Spetsnaz never surrender. I was Spetsnaz, but no
longer. My regiment was deactivated. This is not Russia. You
understand?"

Bolan nodded. "You're a mercenary now. It's business. Not a war for the
motherland."

Rybenok regarded Bolan and he nodded slowly. "Da, you understand."

"Then understand me, Rybenok. This is my homeland. You've invaded it."

The Executioner raised the gaping muzzle of the Desert Eagle and aimed
it between Rybenok's eyes. "Cooperate, or I'll kill you."

The Russian swallowed hard as he stared at the big weapon, but his face
set defiantly. "I want your assurance that my comrades will be given the
opportunity to surrender, and that they will not be killed if they do
so."

Bolan's gaze narrowed. Rybenok was a brave man. He nodded and lowered
the pistol slightly. "I'll give them one chance. After that, the base
will be taken unconditionally, by force."

Rybenok took a deep breath. "Very well. I will cooperate."

21

The Witch stared expressionlessly at the body of her husband. He had
taken seven rounds through the chest, and the result hadn't been pretty.
He lay partially wrapped in a plastic sheet on the table with his
Western clothes hanging about his shrunken limbs in bloody folds. In the
rigor of death, he truly looked like a scarecrow. The Witch jerked her
head at Ramzin. "Take it to the jail."

Ramzin nodded to Baibakov and Mosiev and the two men wrapped the plastic
sheet around the body and carried it out. The Witch turned to Ramzin.

"Where is his gun?"

He frowned and pointed. "It is there, on the desk."

The Witch strode over to the desk and picked up the little Makarov. She
checked the pistol, one eyebrow rising when she noticed two rounds had
been fired from the magazine. She slammed the magazine back into the gun
and handed the pistol to Ramzin butt first.

"Have it reloaded and bring me a spare magazine. Bring me some rubber
bands, as well."

Ramzin blinked. "Why, yes." He jerked his head. "Lukov."

He handed the pistol to Lukov, who took it out of the room. The Witch
examined the area map on the wall. "Send in Galanskov."

The major buzzed his intercom. "Get Galanskov." He clicked off the
intercom and folded his arms. "Your plan troubles me."

The Witch turned from the map and regarded him. "I am sure it does. Do
you have a better one?"

"No, but it is the Devil's own work that we are doing."

The Witch shook her head disgustedly. "Perhaps you would rather have
your men die in vain fighting the entire Arizona National Guard, or
languish in an American prison for twenty years. They are much nicer
than the gulags of home, Ramzin. They have television and
weight-training facilities. You and Baibakov would feel right at home.
It would be just like boot camp."

Ramzin's lips curled back in a snarl as he loomed over her. "Do not mock
me, old hag. You are not in a suitable position."

The Witch's lips skinned back from her teeth, but she didn't retreat.
For a moment she seemed about to say something, and then she bit it
back. Her gaze narrowed. "Listen to me, Ramzin. You and I, we need each
other. You have some money here at the base, I know, but you realize I
still control several million dollars in offshore bank accounts. You
have no connections in Mexico. I do. Without my husband, I am somewhat
vulnerable. Together, you and I can set up business in any country in
South America. There are many groups south of here who will pay
handsomely to use my connections in Moscow, and make use of you and your
men's expertise."

Ramzin said nothing.

The Witch looked him up and down and nodded. "Oh, you are a capable man,
Ramzin, and your men are well trained. Perhaps you really could shoot
your way out of here, but then where will you go? Cuba? You need my
connections, and I need you and your men. You must do your duty, Major.
However painful it is to you. You must swallow your honor, think of your
men and do what must be done to insure our survival. Agreed?"

Ramzin took a deep breath. "Very well."

There was a knock on the door and Galanskov entered the room, followed
by Lukov. Galanskov stood at attention while Lukov turned to the Witch.
"I am to give these to you."

He handed the Witch her husband's Makarov and a loaded spare magazine.
She slipped the magazine in her pocket and checked the pistol's load.
"The rubber bands?"

Lukov straightened. "Ah." He reached into his pocket and produced
several thick rubber bands. The Witch took them and wound them around
the pistol's grips, then tucked the pistol into the small of her back
under her coat. Ramzin and Galanskov looked at each other as she shifted
back and forth for a moment to make sure the pistol rode securely.

She nodded in satisfaction and turned to Galanskov. "I trust it is
done?"

Galanskov grimaced distastefully. "Yes, I have done as I have been
ordered. The charges have been set as directed, and the workers are
being moved under guard from the barracks both here and in Mexico."
Galanskov looked as if he wanted to spit. He gave Ramzin an accusing
look. "Everything will be ready as specified within the hour."

The Witch nodded. "Good. What of your strike team, Major?"

Ramzin looked at Lukov and the man's face tightened. "They have not
reported. They cannot be reached on radio. I fear the worst, Major."

"Have communications picked up any signals coming out of Crucible?"

"No, Major. We have been scanning continuously and detected nothing."

Ramzin calculated. "Very well. Perhaps there is still a chance. Have the
men watching the jail be ready. Contact that idiot Severn again, and
make sure he and the men I gave him are ready, as well."

Lukov saluted. "Yes, sir."

The major turned to Galanskov. The two men stared at each other for a
long moment, and Ramzin could tell that Galanskov didn't see him in the
same way anymore. He knew that the demolition man had killed many men in
his time, but now he was being ordered to commit an atrocity. Ramzin
knew one other thing, as well, that the Witch was right. There was no
time for morality now. Now it was a question of survival. He was still
the commanding officer, and he stared Galanskov down until the engineer
blinked.

"Do you question my orders, Lieutenant?"

Galanskov gritted his teeth and stared straight ahead. "No, Major."

"Good. Then make sure everything is ready, and then you and Captain
Baibakov will prepare the men for possible evacuation on my order."
Ramzin took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Then bring me the
detonators."

Galanskov saluted woodenly and left the room.

"How many men does Ramzin have?"

Rybenok looked out the window as they drove Tom Donovan's minivan toward
town. His left arm had been bound in a sling across his chest and his
right hand was tied to it. Larquette drove with Donovan beside her in
the passenger seat while the Executioner sat in the back with the
Russian. Rybenok looked out into the desert and sighed.

"You and the woman have thinned our ranks a good deal. I suspect Ramzin
can probably muster at least one full-strength platoon, and perhaps a
thin second. There is also several score of combat engineers. They will
fight if necessary, as well as some other technical-support personnel."

"Will Ramzin surrender?"

Rybenok frowned. "It is not in his nature, but he will not allow his men
to die senselessly. He saw too much of that in Afghanistan. If he sees
no way out, I suspect he would surrender. But Ramzin is a fox. You would
do well not to underestimate him."

"His men will surrender?"

Rybenok shrugged. "If Ramzin orders it."

"What about the giant?"

The Russian's eyebrows rose. "Ah, yes, Captain Baibakov."

"What about him?"

Rybenok smiled at the Executioner bleakly. "Pray that you see him before
he sees you."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"See that you do. You have made yourself a capable enemy."

Donovan spoke from the front. "So why are we going into town? Isn't this
a bit dangerous?"

Bolan looked at his watch. "I have to communicate with the outside and
get help. Unfortunately the Russian radio was torn up in the firefight
and we lost the power supply. I think I can hook it up through the radio
at the jail and transmit on a frequency they won't be jamming. It's our
best shot."

Donovan glanced at the Russian nervously. "So why are we keeping him
around? Is he a hostage or what?"

Rybenok snorted. "I believe my comrades might very well shoot me if it
was required to get at You. Keeping you from communicating is a matter
of survival. In this situation, I have no illusions about my
expendability."

The Executioner looked out the windshield as the town of Crucible became
visible. "I gave him my word. As long as he doesn't try anything, I'll
do what I can to keep him alive. As for keeping him with us, it's safer
than letting him wander around by himself."

Donovan nodded, but he still looked unhappy about the situation.

In the afternoon heat, there Were few people on the streets of Crucible.
As they entered town, the few that were about looked at Donovan's
minivan and then gawked openly when they saw who was driving it.
Larquette shook her head. "I think there's going to be trouble."

Bolan leaned over her shoulder. "What do you see?"

She pointed down the street toward the jail. "See the cruiser parked
outside? That's Ken Severn's." Larquette smiled dryly. "My loyal
deputy."

The Executioner pointed at the vehicle next to it. "What about the van?"

Larquette shook her head. "I've never seen it before in my life."

Donovan looked at Larquette in embarrassment. "Patti, Ken's kind of the
new chief."

The minivan shrieked to a halt. Larquette turned on TOM and gave him a
withering look. "Don't tell me you and the citizens' committee appointed
him, Tom. You didn't. Tell me you didn't."

"No, we didn't appoint him or anything, it's just that ... Well, he was
the only law around after you disappeared, and he just sort of assumed
the job and no one opposed him."

"So, what? You all just assumed I was dead?"

Donovan squirmed. "No, Ken addressed the citizens' committee. He showed
us a federal warrant for your arrest."

"For what?"

"Drug trafficking, conspiracy and suspicion of murder."

"And just who am I supposed to have murdered?"

Donovan avoided her gaze and studiously looked out the window. "Your
father."

Her knuckles went white on the steering wheel. She turned and stared
bloody murder at Rybenok. "My father was assassinated by a goddamned
Russian mercenary."

The Russian stared at her coolly. "No, that is not correct."

"So just who the hell did kill my father?"

Rybenok shrugged. "Why, his deputy, Severn, of course. Ramzin has the
pistol with his fingerprints on it. The act committed him to our cause,
and the evidence helps insure his loyalty."

Larquette looked down at the steering wheel for a long moment, then
peered out the window at the jail. When she spoke her voice was icy
calm. "Has he sworn in any deputies of his own?"

"Well, no. None that I know of."

The Executioner glanced critically at the unmarked van parked next to
Severn's cruiser. "You said he had a federal warrant. Where did he get
it?"

Donovan shrugged. "There have been some federal agents hanging around
the jail, and backing him up when he's interviewed people."

"How do you know they're federal agents?"

"Well, Ken said they were."

Larquette stared out at the jail. "Tell me, Tom. How much English do
these federal agents speak?"

"I only saw them once. They don't say much. They just stand around in
suits behind Severn. They-"

Bolan cut him off. "How many?"

"Four, I think. Maybe five."

"They're going to be waiting for us, probably on a high state of alert
since Rybenok never called in," Bolan stated.

Larquette continued to stare expressionlessly at the jail. "So how do we
do this?"

"We have to draw them out of the jail. Patti, I want you to park in the
front and hold Rybenok here as hostage."

The Russian sighed. "I am afraid I will not make a very good shield."

Bolan nodded. "No, but if it's just Patti and Tom they may try to talk
them out of it and keep you alive."

Donovan looked up with a start. "What?"

The Executioner handed him one of the AK-74 assault rifles he had taken
from the Russian jeeps. "Tom, you have to back up Patti, understand?" He
pointed at the rifle's action. "It's loaded, and the safety is off, so
keep your finger off the trigger unless you have to fire. If something
happens, put the front sight on a bad guy and pull the trigger. Keep
pulling the trigger until they fall down. Got it?"

Donovan nodded.

Larquette looked at Bolan. "What about you?"

The Executioner slung an AK-74 rifle across his back and pulled a PKM
light machine gun from behind the seat. He wrapped the end of the
50-round ammo belt across his forearm and checked the action. Larquette
snorted. "Well, I knew you took that thing off the Russian jeep for some
reason."

As she checked the load in the revolver she had taken from Carlos and
shoved Rybenok's confiscated bayonet into her belt, the Executioner
pointed at the bank outside. "Let me off here, and give me thirty
seconds. When you get to the jail, park across the street and get out.
Keep Rybenok in front of you. When they come out, I'll flank them." He
slid the door open and stared at the Russian. "If you do anything to
warn your friends, you're the first person I'll kill."

Rybenok stared at him blandly. "I do not doubt it."

The midday heat hit Bolan like a wall as he left the interior of the
air-conditioned minivan. He held the PKM machine gun in the assault
position on his hip as he rounded the corner of the bank and jogged down
the alley to the back street. He turned around the corner, and two
teenagers gaped at him as they sat on a stoop drinking soda in the
shade. They paled as Bolan smiled at them and ran on. He passed one
cross street, then a second, and he knew the jail would be on the next
block.

Bolan paused at the corner of the jail. A new security door replaced the
one that the Russians had blown off its hinges. As he paused, he heard
car doors open across the street. A voice rang out from the front of the
jail.

Stop right there, Patti! "That's far enough!"

Bolan slid to the corner and glanced around the edge of the jail
building.

Larquette and Donovan were across the street. Rybenok stood bound and
stone-faced a few paces in front of them while they pointed their guns
at his back. On the steps of the jail stood a tall, lanky man in a khaki
police uniform and a Stetson hat. He was flanked by two pairs of armed
men in dark suits and sunglasses. They had dressed the part, but Bolan
knew most federal agents didn't have military crew cuts, and no United
States government agency issued Russian-made 9 mm Stechkin machine
pistols. Severn stood on the steps with his service revolver drawn.

"I have a federal warrant for your arrest. Drop your guns and surrender
peacefully."

"Why don't you throw down your weapon and surrender, Kenny?"

Severn sneered. "Oh? What's the charge?"

Her gaze narrowed. "How about impersonating a police officer?"

Severn's face turned mean and his voice lowered. "We can do this easy,
or we can do it hard, Patti. Surrender and we can maybe work out a deal.
If you don't, my friends here will cut you to pieces. You don't stand a
chance."

Larquette looked at him icily. "Well, Ken, that's more of a chance then
you gave my dad."

Severn flinched. They stared at each other for a moment then Severn
spoke quietly to the men around him. "Kill them."

Bolan rounded the corner and leveled the Russian machine gun.

"Freeze."

For a moment everything was utterly still. The Russians stood
motionlessly, staring down the barrel of one of their own PKM light
machine guns. Severn gaped. Bolan's voice was cold as he spoke in
Russian.

"Drop your weapons. Do it now. Or I'll kill you."

The closest Russian stared at the PKM's muzzle through slitted eyes and
slowly let his machine pistol fall from his hands. Bolan shifted his aim
to the man next to him. "Now you."

The first Russian blurred into motion. His hand slapped the small of his
back and Bolan heard the click of the safety coming off as the man
brought the pistol to bear. The PKM thundered in the Executioner's hands
as he put a 6-round burst into the man. The Russian staggered back from
the trip-hammer blows of the machine gun, and Bolan drilled a second
burst into him to put him down. The rest of the Russians brought their
pistols to bear as Larquette shoved Rybenok to the ground and brought
her rifle to her shoulder. Severn threw himself down as weapons began
firing in all directions.

The second Russian's machine pistol chattered at Bolan. He felt a punch
in his shoulder, but the small subsonic bullets were no match for the
Executioner's armor. A stream of green tracers drew smoking lines into
the Russian's chest as Bolan hammered him down with the PKM. Larquette's
rifle roared from across the street, and the third Russian staggered.
Bolan finished him with a burst as bullets tore into the concrete around
him in a hail from above.

There was a man on the roof.

The Executioner swung the PKM to his shoulder and aimed the light
machine gun like a rifle. The smoking trail of a tracer seemed to draw a
line straight at him, and he felt the wind of the bullet's passage by
his head. He put the PKM's large battle sight on the man's chest and
squeezed the trigger.

The Russian jerked as the bullet hit him. On full auto the PKM was
almost uncontrollable when fired from the shoulder, but Bolan had put
the first round dead on before the machine gun's recoil made his sights
climb off the target.

The PKM spit out its last round and ran dry. He threw down the spent
machine gun and swung the AK-74 rifle into action. The remaining Russian
on the steps had cut down Tom Donovan with a burst through the legs and
was whirling on the Executioner with grim determination. The burst went
high as Bolan dropped into a crouch and fired the assault rifle from the
hip. The AK-74 snarled on full-auto as Bolan put a 5-round burst into
his opponent. He rose out of his crouch as the Russian fell in a heap.

For a moment all was silent.

"All right, drop it!"

Bolan turned his head. Across the street, Rybenok lay quietly on the
ground, and beside him, Tom Donovan lay clutching his wounded legs.
Larquette lay unmoving on the ground with her rifle and pistol kicked
away from her. Severn stood over her with his revolver drawn.

"My next shot goes right between her eyes."

"Do it and I'll cut you in two."

The click of Severn's revolver was very loud as he cocked the hammer and
smiled. "She'll never know the difference."

In his peripheral vision, Bolan saw motion on the ground. He kept his
gaze locked on Severn's. "Give it up. You'll never get out of here. Even
if you do, you have no place to go."

Severn sneered. "Mexico is nice. I have some friends who are moving
there real soon."

Bolan shook his head. "The Russians will kill you, Severn. You're a
liability to them. The only way you get out of this alive is to drop
your weapon, now."

"The only way she gets out of this alive is if you drop yours."

Bolan shrugged. "All right." Severn's eyes widened as the Executioner
opened his hands and let the AK-74 clatter to the ground.

Severn's sneer turned triumphant. "Well, now-"

Bolan lunged to his right and slapped leather for the big Desert Eagle
on his hip. Severn snarled and swung up the cocked revolver as the
pistol cleared its holster. The deputy screamed suddenly as Larquette
plunged Rybenok's bayonet into his calf up to the hilt. His shot flew
wild as he staggered, and the .44 Magnum roared in Bolan's hands. As
Severn crumpled back against the minivan and collapsed to the pavement,
Larquette dropped the bayonet and fell backward. Bolan raced to her
side.

She had been shot low through the left shoulder, and this time it wasn't
a grazing wound. She lay pale and sweating on the ground with a pool of
bright red blood spreading beneath her. Her breathing was shallow and
rapid. Bolan tore a field dressing from his web gear and pulled Rybenok
into a sitting position. He slashed the Russian's wrist free from his
sling with his fighting knife and pressed the field dressing into his
hand. "She's going into shock. Apply pressure to the wound. I have to
see about Donovan."

Rybenok nodded and pushed the dressing against Larquette's shoulder with
his good hand.

Bolan turned to Donovan. He had taken a bullet in each thigh, and he was
bleeding profusely. He gritted his teeth as he looked up at Bolan. "How
bad is it?"

The soldier pulled another dressing from his gear. "You'll have some
interesting scars, Tom, but your friend missed the femoral arteries.
You'll live."

The Executioner whirled as he heard movement behind him.

An older, dark-haired woman with a large medical bag stared aghast at
the Desert Eagle. A young man and woman who were her spitting image
stood behind her. The muzzle didn't move as Bolan spoke.

"Who are you?"

She kept her eye on the pistol. "I'm Sheree Redbird. I run the clinic
down the street. This is my daughter Peggy and my son Matt." They stared
at Bolan nervously.

Donovan spoke tiredly. "I can vouch for her. She's on the citizens'
committee. Her daughter is studying to be a nurse. Matt is an intern."

Bolan nodded. "Take care of them." He pulled Rybenok to his feet, and
Sheree Redbird frowned.

"That man needs medical attention."

"I need him."

She stared him down unflinchingly. "He's a mess. He needs medical
attention, now."

Bolan softened his tone. "I need him for five minutes, or you're likely
going to have more dead and wounded people here than you've ever seen.
Please see to Tom and Patti first."

She bit her lip, then bent over Tom. "Matt, go back to the clinic and
get a gurney. No, get two."

Bolan jerked his head at Rybenok. "Come on."

As they walked to the jail, one of the Russians sprawled on the steps
moaned. Bolan turned. "There's a wounded man over here."

Redbird nodded without looking up.

The Executioner and Rybenok entered the jail. Rough repairs had been
done since the Russian assault, but holes still riddled the walls and
furniture. A large Russian field radio and a cellular phone unit sat on
a desk next to the police dispatch console. Bolan pulled up a chair for
Rybenok and handed him the field radio's handset. "Get me Major Ramzin."

22

Lukov burst into the shack.

"Major! A radio communication from Lieutenant Rybenok!"

Ramzin shot to his feet. "Patch me through to him, now!"

He picked up his receiver as Lukov ran back out. There was a moment of
static and the line cleared. "Rybenok! This is Ramzin. What is your
status?"

Rybenok's voice was weak but clear. "There is a man here who wishes to
speak to you, Major."

"Put him on."

A deep voice came through his receiver. "Major Ramzin."

"This is Ramzin. To whom am I speaking." The voice answered him in
Russian. "Your opponent." Ramzin's blood turned cold but his voice
remained even. "What is it you want?"

"Surrender. Now. It is over, and you have lost. Have your remaining men
stockpile their weapons and stand down in their barracks. Then wait for
the federal authorities. I promise your men will be treated fairly and
no reprisals will be taken."

"What is the status of my men holding the jail?"

"One of them is badly wounded but still alive. He is receiving medical
attention. The rest are dead."

"Ah. And the strike team I sent against you at Mr. Donovan's home?"

"Dead. Rybenok was still alive, but wounded, and I allowed him to
surrender. He will receive medical attention, as well."

Ramzin paused. "That is kind of you."

"Surrender, Major. It is over."

"Not quite."

Bolan's voice became cold and grim. "I can have air strikes flown in
against your base within thirty minutes, Ramzin."

Ramzin drummed his fingers against the desktop.

"I think not. It is my belief that you are a single agent, and that you
are working alone. Your story will have to be processed through channels
and verified. To stop me you must be able to plug my escape route to
Mexico, and to do that you must have the cooperation of the Mexican
government. That will also take time. Even if you bomb the base without
permission, your superiors will fret over the decision to start an
international incident to capture some smugglers. I believe that I have
some time. However, I will concede that you are a remarkable man, and
perhaps you truly can carry out your threats. Still, I strongly
recommend that you do not. For that matter, I recommend that you do not
contact anyone for at least forty-eight hours."

"Oh?"

Now it was Ramzin's voice that became cold and grim. "As you have
probably already ascertained, we have been using extensive Mexican labor
in digging our tunnels. I have moved the laborers from their barracks
into the second tunnel, which is not yet complete. In the second tunnel,
my engineers have set a nuclear demolition charge. If I am hindered in
any way, if I meet resistance on either side of the border, I will
remotely detonate the charge and five hundred Mexican nationals will be
vaporized. The mountain itself will be their headstone. Do you
understand?"

There was a long silence. "I understand."

Ramzin clicked off the receiver and punched his intercom. "Lukov! Jam
all our frequencies now!"

Lukov's voice came back confused. "Our frequencies, Major?"

"He has one of our field radios! Jam our frequencies! Now!"

"Yes, sir!" Lukov clicked off, and Ramzin punched the button for the
barracks. He needed to speak with Baibakov.

Lieutenant Gerald Loftin of the United States Army Signal Corps sat in
the listening room of Fort Huachuca and stared at his console in
surprise.

"Er, Captain, I have an anomalous transmission here."

Captain Barbara Ann Blesskany looked over the lieutenant's shoulder.
"What is it?"

Loftin stared at the console with raised eyebrows. "It's a weird one. A
voice transmission, in English but on a Russian military frequency from
a Russian field radio. I've never seen anything like it here."

The captain read the screen and suddenly frowned. "The Justice
Department? Let me check the books." Blesskany pulled one of a dozen
binders as thick as a New York telephone book from a shelf and flipped
through it rapidly. She found a page and ran her finger down a long
column of codes. Her finger stopped near the bottom and tapped
meditatively on the clearance.

"I'll be damned."

Loftin peered quizzically at his commanding officer. "What should I do?"

Blesskany shrugged. "Get me a priority line to the Justice Department in
Washington."

Hal Brognola jumped as the secure phone rang. He grabbed the receiver.
"What have you got, Barbara?"

"I thought you might like to know that Fort Huachuca just got a coded
priority message for the Justice Department over a Russian military
frequency."

He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Fort Huachuca? I don't understand."

"Fort Huachuca, Hal. In Arizona. It's the center of the United States
Army Signal Corps."

"What was the message?"

"Well, following the current Justice Department Emergency Code Prefix,
with your security numbers attached, the message was, "Flash
Priority--Crisis Crucible--Send Able--Send Phoenix--Gadgets
UXB--HALO--Striker." Brognola shot to his feet. "Barbara, I need a plane
fueled and on its way to Phoenix International Airport five minutes
ago."

"Not a problem."

Ramzin stood behind the communications console with Baibakov. "Lukov,
you have jammed the frequencies?"

"Yes, Major. Nothing can get through."

"Could our friend have sent out a message?"

Lukov frowned. "He would have had a ten-second window to do so. However,
that assumes he was totally familiar with our equipment and had someone
near enough to transmit to with a field radio. We were not monitoring
all of our own frequencies, but we did not pick up a transmission. His
message would have had to be very brief. If it got through at all."

Ramzin bit his lip. "It does not matter. He knows what I will do if I am
interfered with. However, keep monitoring all frequencies." He turned to
Baibakov. "Have our observers keep watch and get the rest of the
Mexicans into the second tunnel. Have everyone else prepare to
evacuate."

The Witch spoke from behind Ramzin as Baibakov left. "Everything is
according to plan?"

"The strike team failed, as did our pawn Severn and the men I gave him.
However, I believe your plan will work. I do not believe we will be
seeing the Arizona National Guard or hundreds of federal agents. Even if
our friend contacts his superiors, I think the idea of five hundred
hostages and nuclear devices will keep them from taking any action until
it is much too late. My only fear is having to fight our way across
Mexico."

"That is already being taken care of. Money is moving out of Moscow to
smooth our passage." Ramzin let out a deep breath. "That is good."

The Witch looked at Ramzin critically. "The plan still bothers you?"

"The plan bothers me, and this American bothers me. He gave in too
quickly."

The Witch shrugged. "What can he do?"

"The man is a supremely capable warrior. I do not trust him to lie down
quietly and let us escape."

Bolan strode into the infirmary with Rybenok in tow.

Sheree Redbird sat on Larquette's bed and looked up as he entered. The
chief smiled and Bolan noticed she was pale but looked stronger.

"How is she?"

Redbird tapped her pen on a chart absently. "Well, she lost a lot of
blood. She was already suffering from exposure and exhaustion, and it
was enough to drop her into shock. It seems she had already been shot
once a few days ago, and I had to stitch that one up correctly." Her
black eyes peered at Bolan speculatively. "Though, I have to admit, I
liked the field dressing. It was expertly done."

Bolan smiled. "I'm American Red Cross certified."

The doctor snorted. "Well, her other shoulder will probably require some
rehabilitation, but it was a clean wound and didn't break any bones. She
was lucky."

Bolan jerked a thumb at Rybenok. "He's all yours."

Larquette spoke as Redbird went over to Rybenok and led him to a table
where she began carefully unwrapping his sling. "So what's up?"

"Trouble."

Larquette sagged back into her pillows tiredly. "I take it our friend
Ramzin isn't going to come out quietly."

"No, he's not."

Her face set angrily. "Well, I say it's time we set the United States
Marines on the son of a bitch."

A small grin ghosted across the Executioner's face. "Normally I'd agree
with you, but he has five hundred hostages and a nuclear demolition
charge."

Larquette's jaw dropped. "Where'd he get an atom bomb?"

"Not an atom bomb. A nuclear demolition charge."

She stared at Bolan incredulously. "Well, what do you do with a nuclear
demolition charge?"

The Executioner shrugged. "Dig great big holes. Destroy bunkers." Her
eyes suddenly narrowed. "Or collapse tunnels."

"That too."

"So what do we do?"

"Ramzin has put all the non-Russian laborers into his second tunnel. He
says that if he's interfered with, he's going to drop the mountain on
top of them."

"And you think he'd do it?"

Bolan's face set. "I know he's going to."

"You mean he's going to do it anyway?"

"Left to his own devices, I don't believe Ramzin would kill all the
workers. But he's going to blow up the base and the tunnels behind him
when he bugs out. The workers have to be in the tunnels to keep his
threat viable, and they're not going to waste time evacuating potential
witnesses when they leave. I believe your friend Anne Tyler and whoever
is backing her have no qualms about blowing up civilians."

"But we can't just let them all be killed!"

Bolan nodded. "We're not."

"But how? You said if Ramzin sees anyone coming he'll blow the whole
place!"

"He will."

Larquette looked at him quizzically. "Then how?"

Bolan squeezed her hand. "I called some friends, and with a little luck,
Ramzin will never see us coming."

23

Jack Grimaldi spoke into the C-13OH's intercom. "Two minutes,
gentlemen!"

In the belly of the big transport, the Stony Man warriors came to alert
as the warning light flashed briefly. Elements of Able Team and Phoenix
Force had been rounded up as quickly as possible, and Gary Manning was
nominally in command until they contacted Bolan. He surveyed his team.

Carl "Ironman" Lyons ran a rag over his Atchisson Assault 12
magazine-fed automatic shotgun a final time. He rose and attached the
weapon to his jump rig and stood impatiently. Striker needed them and he
was ready to go.

Rafael Encizo turned to David Mccarter. "Are you ready to catch some
air, my friend?"

Mccarter put down his copy of Autosport magazine and peered up at the
jump light. "Too right."

The two men rose and checked each other's straps a final time. Gadgets
Schwarz and Rosario "Politician" Blancanales stood and inspected each
other. Blancanales carried an M-16 rifle with an attached M-203 grenade
launcher, and various grenades hung about him on bandoliers like strings
of lethal Christmas ornaments. Manning looked at Schwarz. Gadgets
preferred the quiet kill, or better yet, to let his technical genius do
the work from a distance. But for this mission a Heckler & Koch MP-5K
submachine gun accompanied his usual bag of tricks and silenced Beretta
pistol. The five men finished inspections and turned to Manning. The big
Canadian looked at the grim-faced men before him in silent appraisal.
They were festooned with weapons and in their blacksuits and body armor
they looked ready to storm hell itself. They pulled on their jump
helmets and oxygen masks and coolly observed the jump light as they
adjusted the air flow from the bailout bottles.

Manning nodded toward the cargo door as warning lights flared to life,
and the airframe shuddered as the hydraulics opened the fuselage to the
frigid wind outside. The Stony Man team filed to the open cargo-bay
door. The Sonoran Desert was a swirling patchwork of red and brown
thirty-six thousand feet below them. On the ground it was nearly a
hundred degrees, but up in the C-130's gaping belly it was well below
freezing. Manning watched the distant earth below. They were jumping in
blind, with no knowledge of the drop zone, the situation or the expected
resistance. All they knew was that Mack Bolan needed them, and that was
enough.

The thirty-second light came on, and Manning braced himself. As jump
master he would go last. They lined up in three rows of two, and the
plane shuddered as Jack Grimaldi held the big transport as close to
stalling speed as he dared.

Grimaldi's voice came across Manning's headset as the green jump light
came on.

"Go! Go! Go!"

Manning shouted at the top of his lungs. "All right! Let's go!" He gave
his companions a final thumbs-up.

"And remember! Officially we're still on vacation."

Even Lyons grinned.

Six of the most dangerous men in the world plunged into space.

Mack Bolan scanned the sky and spotted six small smudges gliding down
toward the outskirts of Crucible. He clambered into the cab of
Larquette's Jeep Cherokee and drove westward out of town. Looking up
through the window, he could see the smudges turn into the dark gray
rectangles of parafoils descending in lazy spirals out above the flats.
Past them, two cargo chutes with torpedo shaped jump containers drifted
down to crunch into the sand of the desert floor.

Bolan stopped the Cherokee and got out as the parachutes veered and
began to steer in his direction. The lead parafoil pulled up almost to a
stall and dropped the jumper directly in front of Bolan. The silenced
British L-34 Sterling submachine gun strapped across the jumper's chest
told Bolan immediately that it was David Mccarter. The other five
jumpers descended in rapid order behind him.

The Briton pulled off his jump helmet and looked at Bolan with a cocked
eyebrow. He took in the big man's torn and bloodstained blacksuit and
the sun-darkened skin of his face. Bolan's body armor had a number of
ragged holes punched in its outer shell, and he carried a Russian AK-74
assault rifle loosely in his hands. Mccarter gave him a grin.

"Been having a jolly good holiday, I see."

The others finished folding their chutes and formed a loose ring around
Bolan. Manning nodded at the Executioner as he slipped the jump cover
off of his M-14 sniper rifle. "What's the situation?"

"A foreign crime syndicate has dug a tunnel between the United States
and Mexico. Approximately five hundred hostages are being held in a
secondary tunnel. The opposition has at least one nuclear demolition
charge and is threatening to detonate it if they're hindered from
withdrawing into Mexico."

Lyons snorted as he unslung his automatic shotgun. "So who's the
opposition?"

Bolan stared at Lyons frankly. "At least one full-strength platoon of
Russian Spetsnaz troops, elements of a second, and support by an
indeterminate number of combat engineers and specialist troops."

"A platoon of Spetsnaz here?"

Bolan nodded. "Here, and getting ready to bug out as we speak."

Mccarter shrugged and unclipped his submachine gun. "Not bloody likely."

Bolan turned to Schwarz. "I need you to take out the charge, Gadgets."

Schwarz nodded. "It shouldn't be too difficult. A demolition charge
probably won't be very sophisticated. The problem, of course, will be to
get to it before they decide to detonate." Gadgets paused. "They're
going to detonate anyway, aren't they? Whether they get away or not."

Bolan's voice was stone. "I believe so."

Manning finished checking his weapon. "What's our plan?"

The Executioner pointed at the ground. "We come up underneath them."

Ramzin barked his commands. "Lukov! Report!"

"Everything proceeds, Major. Galanskov and his team have the hostages
secured in number two tunnel and await orders. Captain Baibakov has the
base mobilized and has troops ready to cover withdrawal. All
nonessential personnel have gone to the warehouse, and the convoy is
preparing for departure."

"Good. Continue to keep me updated until departure."

The Witch spoke behind him. "What of our assets here?"

Ramzin turned. "All portable assets have been mobalized. What of our
move across Mexico? Do you have your end covered?"

The Witch smiled. "My husband had friends in Mexico, and it is amazing
what a few million dollars in the right hands will do. I expect little
trouble in Mexico. It is a very large country, and much of it is lightly
populated. A temporary base is being set up for us in the mountains
between Sonora and Chihuahua. It will be a hard drive, through rough
roads, but I expect we can reach it in seventy-two hours if we push. I
was at this hacienda once with my husband some years ago. It will
serve."

Ramzin nodded and folded his arms. His one fear had been that of being
caught in the open by hostile Mexican authorities and overwhelmed. He
wouldn't be happy until they had reached this hacienda in the mountains,
but at least now he dared to hope.

There was no sign of any activity by the Americans. No planes had been
spotted. No word had come from the Witch's spies in the Arizona state
government that anything was known, much less being done about the
situation in Crucible. It seemed that even the Yankee commando had
blinked at having the blood of five hundred hostages on his hands. The
plan appeared to be working.

He looked down at the twin detonators sitting on his desk. The blood
would be on his hands. Ramzin's father had fought the Nazis in the Great
Patriotic War to Defend the Motherland. He had been one of the
liberators at the death camp in Treblinka, and seen the Nazi atrocities
first hand. A cold wind blew through Ramzin's soul, and he wondered what
his father would say to his son now. Ramzin's resolve suddenly
stiffened. He knew exactly what his father would tell him. He had told
it to him a hundred times, from the train station that had first taken
him to officer training school to the departure gate that had sent him
off to the war in Afghanistan: be brave, do your duty, keep your men
alive.

Ramzin turned to the Witch. "Have all your affairs in order and prepare
to move."

The Executioner gave the vertical shaft a final glance and stepped back.
"All right, Gadgets, blow it."

Schwarz pressed the red button on his remote detonator. "Fire in the
hole!"

There was a muffled boom as smoke and dust fountained out of the shaft.
Manning tossed a coil of rope into the hole, and it fell away down into
darkness. He handed the other end to Lyons, and the Ironman quickly
fired a climbing spike into the surface of the butte with a piton gun
and knotted the rope to it. He tugged on the rope to test it and gave
Bolan the thumbs up.

Blancanales squatted on the lip of the hole and peered down the shaft. A
circle of yellow light shone into the darkness below. "We've got a clear
passage to the floor of the mine."

Bolan jerked his head at Lyons. "Carl, take point."

The Ironman clipped the rope to his harness and positioned himself at
the lip of the shaft. He took the rope in one hand and held his
automatic shotgun across his chest with the other. Without a word, he
rappeled backward and disappeared into the mine. Seconds later the rope
went slack, then jerked twice. Bolan clipped himself onto the rope and
laid the M-4 Ranger carbine that his team had brought him across his
chest. They had also thoughtfully brought him more grenades, .44 Magnum
and 9 mm ammunition than one human being could reasonably be expected to
carry and still be able to walk.

He kicked back from the edge of the hole and rappeled into the vertical
tunnel. The explosive charge had broken away the rocks and loose scree
choking the shaft and had left a chimney wide enough for a man to rappel
down without bumping the sides. Bolan slid down the rope in three stops
and dropped lightly onto the pile of rubble on the floor of the mine.
Lyons squatted a few yards away with his weapon trained down the mine.
The Executioner unclipped and jerked the rope twice. He pulled his
night-vision goggles over his eyes and stepped forward as Mccarter came
down the rope.

Bolan glanced around his former grave. The walls were still scorched and
stank of vaporized explosive and flamethrower fuel. Dozens of empty
shell casings littered the floor. Manning was the last man down the
rope, and he pulled his goggles over his eyes as the team assembled
around Bolan.

The Executioner led them to the hole he had blasted a few days earlier.
Gadgets examined it, then grinned. "A little sloppy." He ran a device
around the jagged metal edge of the ventilator and pointed the device's
antenna downward. "There doesn't appear to be any active alarms or
surveillance. This shaft leads to the primary tunnel?"

Bolan nodded as Encizo uncoiled a second rope. Lyons fired a piton into
the wall opposite the hole and attached the rope to it. Blancanales
wrapped a field dressing around the rope where it lay against the ragged
edge of the hole in the ventilator and covered the padding with tape.
Ironman gave the rope an experimental yank and nodded satisfactorily.

"We're a go, Striker."

Bolan clipped himself in and entered the ventilator. With the aid of a
rope, the descent was simple and he quickly reached the fan. Larquette's
Winchester was still jammed between the blades, and the sling of his
sniper rifle still dangled from a support strut. He crouched above the
fan and listened intently. In the distance he could faintly hear noises
and the echo of an occasional shout. He locked his ankles around the
rope and hung his head past the ventilator fan.

Everything was clear in both directions. The noises were coming from the
United States side of the tunnel. He dropped the loose coils of the rope
and quickly slid down to the packed earth of the tunnel floor. Bolan
crouched for several long seconds and listened. After a moment he pulled
up his night-vision goggles and let his eyes adjust to the orange glare
of the tunnel lights.

He tugged twice on the rope, and one by one his team silently slid to
the tunnel floor. They moved swiftly down the corridor in a short L
formation, with Bolan, Lyons and Blancanales in the front. As they moved
closer to the American side, the noise became louder and Bolan
recognized the shout of "Halt! Stay back!" in Russian.

The Executioner held up his fist and the team halted and dropped to the
ground. He pulled out the range-finding binoculars the team had brought
him and trained them down the tunnel. The underground corridor was a
straight shot, and Bolan adjusted the gain on the binoculars as shapes
resolved in his view. The shapes were two gun jeeps, parked in front of
what appeared to be an access door set into the side of the tunnel. Two
men stood in the backs of the jeeps and leaned casually on the grips of
post-mounted DSH K heavy machine guns. A third man sat in the passenger
seat of the nearest jeep, apparently manning the radio. Bolan pressed
the laser range finder and the read-out told him six hundred and
forty-two meters, a little over half a kilometer. He looked back and
jerked his head at Gary Manning, who moved forward on knees and elbows
with his M-14 sniper rifle cradled across his forearms. Bolan handed him
the binoculars, and Manning looked down the tunnel. "Three targets,
Gary. I suspect there are more Russians in the side tunnel. Probably
guarding the hostages. I need those three taken out, quick and silent."

Manning shook his head. His M-14 was an extremely accurate weapon, but
it was a semiautomatic battle rifle, chambered for the powerful .308
NATO cartridge. He could take out the targets quickly, but it would make
a lot of noise.

A rifle like the M-14 was extremely hard to suppress, much less silence.

"Get me Gadgets's Heckler & Koch, and I can do it. But I'll have to get
close."

He nodded and signaled Gadgets forward. Schwarz silently hunkered in
between them. Bolan handed him the binoculars, and Gadgets scanned the
situation. The Able Team warrior peered down the tunnel, then handed the
binoculars back with a shrug.

"Gary should use my weapon."

Bolan and Manning looked at each other. You could never overestimate
Gadgets Schwarz.

Manning took the submachine gun and handed Schwarz his big rifle. He
examined the weapon in his hands. The German Heckler & Koch MP-5 was
undoubtedly the most sophisticated submachine in the world. Its closed
bolt action and precision manufacture allowed it rifle-like accuracy
past two hundred yards under ideal conditions. Its suppressor was built
into the gun itself instead of being threaded onto the end of the
barrel. When the gun fired, it spoke barely above a whisper.

"Your call, Gary," Bolan said. "How do you want to play it?"

Manning unfolded the weapon's collapsible butt-stock as he calculated.
"I'll have to get within a hundred yards to make it work. But if they
manage to get off a shot, we're blown. I'll need you and Gadgets to back
me with your Berettas if it gets hairy."

Both Bolan and Gadgets had sound suppressors on the end of their Beretta
93-R pistols, and they drew their weapons. The Executioner signaled to
the others, and they crept close.

"We're going to take the sentries. Keep a hundred yard interval behind
us and stay low. If you hear gunfire, come in hard."

He turned to Lyons. "Carl, if it hits the fan, I want you to take out
those cables along the ceiling." Bolan pointed up at the exposed bundle
of wiring that tracked the length of the tunnel. "Hit that transformer
box. With any luck that will kill the lights. All of you have your night
vision ready."

Lyons nodded, and the rest of the team powered up their goggles but kept
them ready on their foreheads.

The Executioner, Manning and Schwarz detached from the group and began
to creep up the tunnel. The overhead lamps threw regular, evenly spaced
pools of orange light in the tunnel, and the warriors silently stuck to
the shadowy fringe along the walls. They crept on interminably, until it
seemed they were so close that the Russians couldn't help but see them.

Manning held up his fist and came to a halt. They were within a hundred
yards. He peered down the sight of the submachine gun at his targets.
Luckily the jeeps were parked tandem and sat squarely under one of the
overhead lights. He looked at the big guy, then Schwarz. Both held their
silenced pistols ready. If Manning couldn't get all three before they
could react, Schwarz and Bolan would pour in suppressed fire from their
weapons, hoping to get a hit and prevent the Russians from firing their
weapons or sounding the alarm.

Manning placed the MP-5's sight on the man in the far jeep. The machine
gunners were the priority. If they got off a shot, it would sound like a
cannon firing in the confines of the tunnel. He adjusted his aim a hair
and took a breath. His target was motionless, leaning in bored fashion
against his machine gun. Manning slowly let out half of his breath, then
began to squeeze the trigger.

24

Lieutenant Galanskov shouted angrily and waved his hand in a cutting
motion as one of the Mexican laborers edged along the wall of the tunnel
toward the service entrance. "Get back!"

Galanskov didn't speak Spanish, and the Mexican didn't speak Russian,
but as the corporal behind Galanskov swiveled the big DSH K heavy
machine gun, the meaning was very clear. The laborer's eyes widened, and
he moved back into the press of his comrades behind him. His eyes never
left Galanskov's face.

The lieutenant settled back on the jeep's seat and kept his hand close
to his machine pistol. He was a decorated combat engineer, not some
snot-nosed private from Siberia to be pulling guard duty on a bunch of
peasants. But guard duty was the least of what bothered him. If someone
was going to mind a nuclear demolition charge, he was undoubtedly the
most qualified man on the base. It was the eyes of all those men staring
at him in fear that gnawed at him. Galanskov had designed and built
these tunnels, and these men had worked for him. They had nearly broken
their backs, working, sweating and bleeding in ceaseless nonstop shifts
to finish the tunnels on time. They had done so without complaint, all
in the hopes of seeing the promised freedom and opportunity of the
United States. Now he was going to blow these men into their component
atoms. Well, he wasn't going to do it. Ramzin had the detonators, but
there was cold comfort in that.

Galanskov watched the laborers walk about nervously, jammed into the
dead end of the unfinished second tunnel like sardines. They knew very
well that something was wrong. Only the heavy machine guns of the jeeps
kept them in check. The engineer glanced unhappily at the charge where
it lay against the wall.

It was the size of a large suitcase and covered with green webbing. It
was a fairly small charge, only ten kilotons, but it would bring down
everything within a kilometer. The timer was set for twenty-five minutes
after activation, plenty of time for him and his men to drive to Mexico
in the jeeps and escape once the convoy had passed. The laborers,
however, would never be able to hike out in time. Even if they managed
to run several miles down the tunnel and escape the fireball, the blast
would be channeled down the corridor like a fire hose of superheated
rock and air. They would be incinerated instantly.

"Halt, damn you! Halt!" Corporal Zubarev shouted and swiveled the heavy
machine gun as the laborers in the front were pressed forward by those
in back. The throng halted as Corporal Sviridov swiveled his weapon from
the second jeep, as well.

Down the access tunnel, Sergeant Bridilov shouted from the second pair
of jeeps guarding the entrance to tunnel number one. "Is everything all
right, Lieutenant?"

Galanskov craned his neck around and snarled, "Everything is fine!" He
looked at his watch. He would have to check in with the base in another
minute. He looked up and his face split with rage. One of the poor
bastards had a rock in his hand. He would have to shoot a few of them to
keep the rest quiet. Galanskov pointed a condemning finger at the man,
and the DSH K swiveled on its mount behind him. The man dropped the rock
and desperately tried to move back into the throng, but the press was
just too close.

"That one! Shoot him and the men around him!"

Galanskov jumped at the sudden sound of an automatic weapon tearing into
life somewhere behind him in the first tunnel. With the hard won
instincts of a tunnel rat he grabbed his machine pistol and rolled out
of the jeep as the tunnel lights cut out.

The Executioner moved through the darkness with Manning and Schwarz on
either side of him. The big Canadian had taken out the three men in the
jeeps within three seconds of the "Everything is fine!" Then, from down
in the access tunnel, where they couldn't see, had come the shouted
order in Russian, "Shoot him and the men around him!"

Bolan had made a cutting motion with his hand, and Lyons had ripped into
the overhead lighting transformer with his automatic shotgun. The
Executioner raced down the tunnel and his night-vision goggles flared as
bright light suddenly shone forth from the access tunnel.

Whoever was inside had lights.

Bolan pulled a flash-stun grenade from his belt and roared at the top of
his lungs in Spanish, "Get down! Down if you want to live!"

From inside, a heavy weapon ripped into action and tracers streamed out
of the tunnel entrance. The Executioner crouched and tossed the grenade
around the corner. Theexplosion was horrendous in the confines of the
tunnel. Bolan took the corner low. The concussion had shattered the
searchlight mounted on the gun jeep, and a man leaned drunkenly on the
heavy machine gun and blindly tried to get his bearings. Four other men
weaved and groped in the dark with weapons in their hands, two in the
jeeps and two on foot. One man crouched and fixed his bayonet to his
rifle, trying to discern what was happening in the inky blackness around
him.

The Executioner knew from experience that the man couldn't hear anything
through his ringing ears, or even know direction after the stun grenade
had hit him. Bolan strode up to the Russian, keeping himself out of line
with the man's rifle barrel and gave him a heavy butt-stroke to the chin
with his carbine. The man fell back as if he had been shot.

Bolan pointed at the man on the heavy machine gun, and Manning jumped
into the jeep and brutally yanked him backward, spilling him to the
ground. The Russian landed badly, and as he groped in the dark, Schwarz
walked up to him and smashed the knife edge of his hand into the side of
the soldier's neck. The third Russian gagged and folded as Bolan rammed
the muzzle of his carbine into the pit of his stomach.

The fourth was crouched and groping for the weapon he had dropped when
the grenade exploded. Manning butt-stroked him with his borrowed
submachine gun and gave an affirmative thumbs-up. The rest of the team
stormed in, and Bolan gave them the all-clear signal as Manning and
Schwarz bound the incapacitated Russians.

The Executioner looked past the jeeps and saw the hundreds of men lying
on the floor. Bolan reached into one of the jeeps and turned on the
headlights. The men looked dazedly into the sudden glare, and a few rose
warily to their knees. Bolan shouted in Spanish, knowing most had been
partially deafened by the blast.

"We have come to rescue you. Get up slowly, then move forward slowly. We
are going to get you out."

The men stood and began to come forward, some helped by others. Bolan
turned to his team. "Rafe, Pol, get me a quick head count and see if any
of them are injured. The rest of you spread out and find the charge."

A voice spoke from behind them in Russian. "Do not move."

Mccarter slid his eyes down and to the right of the vehicles, and Bolan
followed the subtle movement.

There was a Russian under the jeep.

The man peered out grimly from where he had wedged himself between the
jeep's large, all-terrain tires. He brandished a machine pistol in one
hand and the other was awkwardly held back out of sight.

The Russian jerked the muzzle of his Stechkin at Bolan. "Drop your
weapons."

Bolan regarded the Russian. "No."

"I will kill you."

The Executioner shrugged. "Maybe, but my men will kill you, regardless."

The man nodded. "Perhaps, but none of them will live to see daylight."

"You have the charge under there with you?"

The man nodded. "Surrender. Throw down your weapons."

"You are willing to die?"

The man stared at Bolan without blinking.

Bolan pointed back into the side tunnel. "You are willing to sacrifice
your men?"

The man looked over to where his four men sat bound against the wall of
the tunnel. He was obviously surprised to see them still alive.

The Executioner lowered the muzzle of his carbine. "Surrender. You and
your men will be well treated."

The Russian looked at his men, then over to where the laborers stood
milling apprehensively. Finally his gaze rested back on Bolan. For a
moment the man didn't move, then he tossed his machine pistol a few feet
away and began to crawl from under the jeep. As he rose, he pulled a
large rectangular package with him. The Russian stood and dusted himself
off. He was a short, powerfully built man and he held himself ramrod
straight. "I am Senior Lieutenant Vitali Galanskov. I surrender."

Bolan nodded. "Go and sit by your men."

He switched over to English. "Schwarz, check him and tie his hands."

As Schwarz patted down Galanskov, the radio in the lead jeep squawked.
Bolan turned and looked at Galanskov. The Russian sighed. "I am supposed
to check in regularly. I am late."

Bolan crooked a finger at Schwarz. "Bring over Lieutenant Galanskov."

The Executioner sat in the jeep and picked up the transmitter.

Ramzin punched the transmitter's button a second time with mounting
unease. "Galanskov! You are overdue! Report!"

There was a small burst of static and a cold voice came over the
receiver. "It is finished, Ramzin. Surrender."

Ramzin's blood went cold. Baibakov's knuckles cracked and went white as
he drew himself to his full height. The Witch stared at the radio set
incredulously.

The voice spoke again with the surety of command. "Surrender. It is
over."

Ramzin keyed his transmitter. "What of my men who were in the tunnel?"

"Two are dead, one is badly wounded. Several are injured but alive.
Lieutenant Galanskov is alive, and I have accepted his surrender. The
injured will be cared for." There was a long pause. "You cannot escape
through the tunnel. I can hold it indefinitely against your men. You no
longer have hostages. Reinforcements will arrive soon. If you force me
to take the camp, many of your men will be slaughtered. Surrender. Now."

Ramzin took a long slow breath. "I will give you one opportunity.
Release Galanskov and his men. When he tells me that you and your men
have been secured, I will instruct him to march you and the laborers out
of the tunnel before I collapse it behind my convoy. I give you my word
on this."

"That is not going to happen."

Ramzin picked up one of the remote detonators from his desk and pushed
the arming button.

"Then die."

25

Mack Bolan's gaze turned to stone as a green light began blinking on the
nuclear demolition charge's control panel. "Gadgets, I need you."

Schwarz leaned over and regarded the charge with great curiosity.
Galanskov stared at it in horror.

Schwarz scratched his chin and nodded. "Well, it's armed, all right."

"Can you stop it?"

Gadgets looked at Galanskov. "It will be easier if he helps. Your
Russian is better than mine, Mack. Ask him whether he wants to be blown
to bits."

Bolan turned to Galanskov. "Can you stop it?"

Galanskov stared at the charge as if it were a giant spider that had
dropped in their midst. He suddenly looked up at Bolan. "Stop it? Do not
be a fool! We must get out, now! The charge is set on a twenty-five
minute timer. Using the jeeps, your men and mine can be out of the
tunnel and to safety before it detonates. We must flee, now!"

Bolan turned his gaze to the laborers as they stared uncomprehendingly,
and Galanskov's gaze followed his. Bolan's voice was iron. "That is not
an option."

"You will kill us all!"

"You're wasting time."

For one long moment the Executioner and Galanskov stared at each other.
The Russian sighed heavily and resigned himself to fate. "Very well." He
jerked his thumb at Schwarz. "This man has some expertise in these
matters?"

Bolan nodded. "A little."

Galanskov snorted. "I do not doubt it." He nodded at Schwarz and they
squatted on their heels with the nuclear device between them. The two
men began to speak to each other in a rapid-fire jumble of Russian and
English technical terms.

Bolan leaned over Schwarz's shoulder. "What've we got?"

Gadgets tapped his chin with his finger. "It's a pretty standard Russian
nuclear demolition charge."

Talking to Gadgets about technical matters was like pulling teeth. "The
situation, Gadgets, quickly."

"Well, it's a fairly primitive, uranium 235, gun-type nuclear charge.
Which means when it goes off it's going to slam one piece of fissionable
uranium into another and we are going to have a nuclear explosion. It's
a dial-a-yield, which means you can select an explosive yield from about
three to ten kilotons, and our friends have it cranked up to ten."

Galanskov looked up and spoke in crude English. "Da, ten kilotons."

Schwarz nodded. "That's about a kiloton or two shy of the bombs at
Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and it's going to go off in twenty-two minutes."

The Executioner folded his arms across his chest. "So what are you going
to do about it?"

Gadgets shrugged and peered at the charge's casing. "Well, that's the
rub. It's a nuclear demolition charge, not a warhead or a bomb,
specifically."

Bolan nodded and waited for more.

Schwarz began tapping his chin again in meditation. "Well, you see, a
bomb or a warhead is generally pretty straightforward. You fire it off
in a missile or drop it out of a plane, and it does its job. If you know
what you're doing, disassembling one or disarming it shouldn't be too
difficult. But a nuclear demolition charge is something your men use on
a battlefield. Generally you put one in place to destroy an underground
command bunker, or a tunnel or something big, deep and fortified, and
then you get the hell out of there. In that kind of situation, you don't
want the enemy coming up and disarming it after you bug out, so you make
it tamperproof."

"And?"

Gadgets sighed. "And our friend Galanskov has done an excellent job of
tamper-proofing his charge. To disarm the charge I have to get inside
it, and if I try to get inside it, it goes off. He has put sensors on
the four bolts that hold the casing together. If I try to unscrew the
bolts or cut them away, I'll break a circuit and the charge will
detonate instantly."

"How about cutting into the casing?"

"Well, that's one way, but Galanskov has rigged an intrusion sensor
inside."

Galanskov spread his fingers outward in an explosive gesture. "Boom."

Bolan stared hard at Gadgets. "So you can't disarm it?"

Schwarz tapped at his chin a moment. "Yeah, but not in our given time
frame."

"So what are you going to do about it?"

Schwarz shrugged. "I believe I'm just going to have to blow it up."

Bolan looked at him and cocked an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Gadgets steepled his fingers. "I think that if I use some C-4, I can
blow up the charge and make it detonate low order. We'll still have
limited fission, but because the fissionable masses won't have slammed
together correctly, the explosion will be much smaller--maybe a kiloton,
maybe less."

"And?"

"And everything for several hundred yards will be blown up. The mountain
itself will collapse over the blast area and contain the radiation. A
mile or two down the tunnel, everything should be all right. That is, if
everything goes correctly, which I can't promise you. But-"

Bolan unfolded his arms and cut him off. "Do it."

He turned to Encizo and Blancanales. "Find out who among the workers
were foremen and put them in charge. Tell them to get their men as far
down the tunnel as fast as they possibly can, and not to stop until they
get to Mexico. Tell them to take the Russians with them."

The two men began to address the laborers, and some of them raised their
hands and stepped forward through the throng. Bolan turned to Lyons.
"Take the radio and get topside. Contact Jack and let him know we're
going to need up close air support, and I need it ten minutes ago. Then
get back here as fast as possible. You have fifteen minutes."

Lyons jumped into one of the jeeps without a word and peeled off in a
screech of tires toward the team's entry point down the tunnel. Bolan
turned to Manning and Mccarter. "If the Russians are going to blow the
tunnel, then they'll have sealed off their side. Take any explosives
that Gadgets isn't using and rig a jeep."

Manning nodded. "We're going to assault?"

The Executioner pointed north. "Right now Ramzin expects us to be
running toward Mexico for our lives. He'll be busy getting ready to bug
out himself. He's not expecting to get hit from underneath."

The witch was nearly spitting with fury. "Blow up the tunnel? Are you
insane? You have cut us off!"

Ramzin shook his head. "No, this American is correct. The tunnel is
narrow. He can hold it for hours, perhaps days until help arrives. Let
him have the tunnel. Let it be his grave."

She looked at him in cold anger. "And what is it we are to do now? Hold
the base against the United States Marines?"

"No, before the tunnel was completed, some men and materials had to be
smuggled across the border through the mountains. There are paths there
that the trucks can manage. It will be long and risky, but we can still
get into Mexico."

"You are a fool, Ramzin. How are we to get across undetected? A whole
convoy? The American authorities are probably already on their way."

"Yes, undoubtedly. That is why we will require a diversion."

The Witch's anger switched gears and she peered at Ramzin. "What kind of
diversion?"

"A ten-kiloton surface blast on United States soil should be ample to
divert their attention from some lonely mountain passes on the border.
It should keep them busy for days."

"You have another charge?"

Ramzin held up the second detonator. "Of course."

"You are going to blow up the base behind us."

"You are correct. The entire American early-warning system will go mad
when their satellites detect a surface nuclear explosion. Once in the
passes, we will be in no danger. We will have a mountain between us and
the charge when it goes off, and no one will be looking for us. They
will have too many other things to look at and think about. Once in
Mexico, however, we will require your resources to get to safety."

The Witch calculated. "I do not see that being a problem. Once we are
across the border I will alert my contacts to the change in plan. We
should still be able to proceed through northern Mexico disguised as a
Mexican army convoy. The way has already been paved. I trust the
markings on the trucks are in place?"

Ramzin glanced at Baibakov, and the giant nodded. "More than an hour
ago."

The major nodded in grim satisfaction and put the detonator in his
pocket. "Good. We leave in half an hour. Have the men ready."

Jack Grimaldi waited in the control tower of Fort Huachuca with his
escort-liaison, Warrant Officer Steven Anderson. The base commander
hadn't known what to think when Grimaldi had flown into his base in an
unmarked C-130 with more top-secret security clearances than he had ever
heard of. He wanted the man watched. Anderson had almost forgotten about
his mission. The mysterious guest knew just about everything there was
to know about military aviation, and they had spent the past hour in
deep, arcane, aeronautical conversation. Anderson enthusiastically
pointed at an AH-64D Apache helicopter gunship out on the pads. He was
the Apache's gunner and was very proud of his aircraft. The gunship sat
on its pad bristling with missiles and rocket pods.

"That's Stella. We're going to take her through a demonstration run for
some South Korean military-procurement types. She took out four tanks
and two armored vehicles in the Gulf. She's got all the latest target
acquisition sensors, I mean everything, and all the latest upgrades, as
well." He gazed down lovingly. "She's one sweet machine."

Grimaldi whistled as he looked at Stella. The armored attack helicopter
was remarkably ugly. Her only beauty was in the totally stark
functionality of her lines. She resembled an overgrown, utterly hostile
prehistoric dragonfly. The tower communications officer spoke as the two
men stared in the dreamy camaraderie of the air at the lethal machine
below.

"Mr. Grimaldi, I have a flash-priority communication for you, code name
Striker."

"Thanks." Grimaldi took the handset. "Go ahead, Striker."

"This is Ironman."

"Go ahead, Ironman."

"We need close air support ASAP." Lyons tensely gave Grimaldi the
situation. Grimaldi's eyebrows rose as the nature of the threat and
where it was hit home. His face tightened.

"I'm already inbound, Ironman. When I come, you pop green smoke.
Anything else I see, I'm going to trash."

"Understood. Ironman out."

Grimaldi handed the communications officer the handset. "I need to speak
with the base commander immediately. This is a military emergency."

The officer gawked at Grimaldi. Fort Huachuca never had military
emergencies. "Right away!"

Grimaldi turned to Anderson. "Get your flight suit on. We're taking
Stella for a ride."

26

The Executioner stared up the ramp through the remains of the chain-link
fence that guarded the entrance to the tunnel on American soil. The
final door was corrugated iron, similar to the entrance on the Mexican
side. There had been no traps when he and Larquette had stolen into
Mexico, but he was taking no chances.

He nodded down the tunnel to Manning. "Hit it."

The big Canadian rammed the jeep's accelerator to the floor, and the
vehicle leaped forward in a screech of tires. He gave Schwarz the sign,
and Gadgets hit the detonator on the preemptive explosive he had
attached to the Russian nuclear charge. The jeep tore up the ramp, and
Manning jumped out and rolled behind the shelter of the concrete ramp's
edge.

Bolan heard a dull rumbling and felt the earth shake beneath his feet.
Two and a half miles behind them hundreds of thousands of tons of dirt
and rock were shifting to fill the empty space the nuclear charge had
created with its miniature atomic fireball.

The jeep slammed into the corrugated door, and the ten pounds of C-4
high explosive detonated. There wasn't time to worry about whether
Gadgets had attained a low order explosion with the nuclear charge. The
team's own smaller explosion was the more immediate danger, and Bolan
and the rest of the Stony Man warriors crouched as shards of metal and
scrap from the jeep flew over their heads in lethal, burning arcs. Bolan
shouted over the ringing in his ears as the metal fragments fell and
clattered to the floor. "Move!"

The Executioner raised his M-4 carbine to his shoulder and triggered its
40 mm grenade launcher, sending a white phosphorus grenade arcing
through the smoking wreckage of the door to explode in the warehouse
behind it.

The team stormed up the ramp. Lyons drove the second gun jeep and it
ground up the ramp in low gear. Its bumper slammed into the wreck of the
jeep blocking the way and pushed the blackened hulk before it into the
warehouse. Encizo stood behind the heavy Russian machine gun mounted in
the back, and Blancanales manned the lighter weapon mounted on the hood
in front of the passenger seat. Both weapons blazed into life as they
gained entrance to the warehouse.

Bolan jogged to where Manning crouched by the ramp and handed him his
sniper rifle. "You all right?"

The big Canadian shook his head to clear it and grinned as he took his
weapon. "Never felt better."

Bolan grabbed his hand and hauled him to his feet. "Good. Let's get
moving."

Ramzin stood on the running board of one of the trucks and gave
last-minute instructions to its driver. He turned as a low rumble echoed
through the desert air and the very mountain behind the base seemed to
groan and shake. Dust slowly shook off the Mountainside like shuddering
tufts of red smoke, and small avalanches of rocks and gravel rattled
onto the desert plain.

Ramzin checked his watch curiously. The explosion was five minutes
early, and much smaller than he had anticipated. He looked back into the
center of the base. The main warehouse should have been ripped apart by
the venting of the blast through the tunnel, and a pillar of superheated
air and dust should have rocketed into the sky like a geyser.

The warehouse sat squatty in the middle of the base, apparently
unharmed. Ramzin and Baibakov stared at each other.

An explosion boomed hollowly inside the warehouse and the corrugated
walls shook and the high-set, narrow windows shattered. It was followed
almost immediately by a smaller and higher-pitched blast.

Ramzin's blood turned to ice as he realized the absolute worst of his
fears were coming true. There was only one thing left to do, and that
was to save his men. He turned to Baibakov and a feral snarl split his
face.

"Captain, take the convoy and get it to Mexico. I will take two squads
and fight a delaying action."

Baibakov stared at his commander in horror. "Major, we must-"

Ramzin's face was a rictus of rage. "Do you question my orders, Captain
Baibakov?"

Baibakov snapped to attention. "I obey your orders without question,
Major!"

"Then get my men out of here." Ramzin slapped the side of the truck.
"Squads one and two! Fall out!"

Heavily armed men began to leap out of the truck and fall in behind
Ramzin. As the last man leaped out, the major shouted to Baibakov. "I
will catch up with you once our backs are safe!"

Baibakov nodded as he leaped into another truck.

Ramzin pulled a spare AK-74 rifle and a belt of spare magazines from the
abandoned truck and jerked his hand at his men.

"Follow me!"

The Apache gunship roared across the desert at 190 miles per hour, armed
with eight Hellfire antitank missiles and two 18-round pods that fired
70 mm rockets. The aircraft's M-230 chain gun was fully loaded with
1,200 rounds of 30 mm shells, and the airframe shuddered as the
helicopter streaked across the sky under full emergency war power. In
the distance, Grimaldi could see the rugged rock peaks that marked his
destination. He took the aircraft down a hundred feet and checked his
bearings. The red rocks swept toward them as he kept the throttles full
forward.

Warrant Officer Steven Anderson spoke into the intercom from the weapons
officer's station in the forward cockpit. His commanding officer had
told him he was to do whatever this mysterious pilot told him to, and
that it was a matter of national importance. The XO had told him this
while Anderson was yanking on his flight suit, and the old man hadn't
elaborated further. His face had said "Don't ask," and Anderson didn't
question orders. Now that they were up in the air he was getting a
little nervous. "Er, Mr. Grimaldi, what exactly is our mission?"

"Close air support," Grimaldi replied as he adjusted course slightly.

"Oh. Supporting who?"

"United States citizens."

Anderson considered this. "Against what?"

"Enemies of the United States."

"I see." Anderson decided to try a different tack as they suddenly swept
low across the rocky hills. "What kind of resistance are we expecting?"

Grimaldi's voice was terse across the intercom. "Heavy. Automatic
weapons, heavy machine guns, possible missile threat. I suggest you
begin countermeasures now."

Anderson didn't have to be told twice, and he armed the switches on the
ALQ-144 jammer. To the human eye, nothing happened, but in the infrared
spectrum, blinding pulses of infrared light streaked in all directions.
Anderson flicked on the Longbow ground attack radar and immediately got
feedback.

"Mr. Grimaldi, multiple moving targets on radar!"

"Where?"

"Moving into the mountains, away from the target area."

"All right, arm all weapon systems. We're going in."

"They're coming, Mack!"

Bolan clambered into the jeep behind Lyons and took the handles of the
DSH K heavy machine gun. "Which way?"

Blancanales was peering through a hole he had punched in the warehouse
wall with his knife. "Due west, from the edge of the compound. At least
one squad, probably two."

Bolan turned to Gadgets, who was busy on the opposite wall. "Blow it!"

Schwarz moved away from the wall where his long, thin rope of flexible
charge was attached in a ten-foot hoop the shape of a giant mouse hole.
He punched the detonator as he got out of range. There was a hissing
crack and a shower of sparks as a section of the corrugated iron wall
was instantly cut away and fell in a warbling clatter.

The warehouse had been empty on entry, but they could hear the grinding
of the trucks and jeeps outside, and they knew that their entrance had
been heard. Bolan racked the bolt on the heavy machine gun as Encizo
grabbed Gadgets's arm and pulled him into the jeep. The Executioner
slapped Lyons's shoulder.

"Hit it!"

Bolan crouched behind his weapon as the jeep barely cleared the jagged
top of the hole they had cut and shot out into the sunlight. Behind him,
he heard Blancanales and Mccarter open fire from the opposite side of
the warehouse to get the opposition's attention.

"Ironman! Take her around, northern side!"

The jeep's gears ground and dust sprayed out behind them as Lyons took
the jeep around the warehouse's northern corner. Encizo shifted his grip
on the light machine gun mounted on the hood as they barreled around the
final corner.

The Russians were moving from cover to cover, engaging the front of the
warehouse, where Blancanales and Mccarter were holed up. From behind a
parked bulldozer, a rocket-propelled grenade hissed from its launcher
and slammed into the side of the warehouse, sending its lethal payload
of molten metal and superheated gas inside. Several Russians were firing
automatic weapons from behind a thick tube of rolled metal siding.

The heavy machine gun thundered in Bolan's hands as he sent burst after
burst into the siding. The rolled metal would stop small arms fire, but
it was no match for the machine gun, and the Russians fell under its
withering fire. Sparks screamed off the bulldozer as Encizo engaged it
with his light machine gun. The RPG team crouched behind the heavy
vehicle and reloaded. Bolan shouted at Schwarz and released the heavy
machine gun. "Take it!

Ironman! The dozer!"

As the jeep sped ahead toward the bulldozer, Gadgets manned the heavy
machine gun and engaged targets off to their left. Bolan pulled a
grenade and leaped from the vehicle as it pulled past the bulldozer. He
pulled the pin as he rolled and as he came up he lobbed the grenade over
the bulldozer's thick shovel blade. There was a sharp snapping explosion
as the grenade went off, and the Executioner sprinted around the
vehicle's south side to keep it between him and the rest of the
Russians.

Two bloodied Russians lay behind the bulldozer. One moaned weakly, and
the other lay facedown over his RPG launch tube and didn't move. The
jeep pulled behind the cover of the bulldozer as a swarm of small arms
fire began to shriek against the heavy vehicle. Bolan unslung his M4
carbine and flipped up the grenade launcher's sight.

"Where?"

Encizo leaped out of the jeep and took the light machine gun with him,
wrapping the dangling belt of ammo around his left wrist. "One group,
fifty meters, behind those concrete pilings."

Bolan remembered the pilings. Tracers had streamed from them. He raised
the grenade launcher in a high arc and A few seconds later he was
rewarded with the dull boom of the grenade and screams of pain. The
Executioner shucked a high-explosive grenade into the smoking breech of
his launcher.

"Rafe, we need cover."

Encizo flopped down between the treads of the bulldozer and began to
fire short bursts into the pylons, while Bolan, Schwarz and Lyons burst
from behind the vehicle. Schwarz dropped behind a metal drum and added
to the covering fire as Bolan and Lyons charged. Bullets chewed into the
ground by the Executioner's feet, and he fired the M-203 off to his
left. The two men dived behind a pickup truck as tracers streamed into
the truck's body.

Bolan slid a grenade into his launcher as Lyons fired a burst from his
automatic shotgun over the hood of the truck. "They're moving, Striker."

The soldier nodded as he adjusted the ladder sight of his grenade
launcher. "They'll flank us if they can."

Lyons pulled a white-phosphorus grenade from his belt, yanked the pin
and hurled the bomb off to the right. Streamers of white smoke and
burning phosphorus arced up into the air. Bolan's head jerked up as he
heard the whooshing sizzle of a rocket.

"Incoming!"

They threw themselves flat as the RPG round struck the truck and
detonated. The pickup rocked violently on its chassis and flames shot
out from under the hood. Bits of burning metal flew into the air. Bolan
stood and fired a burst through the dark smoke. Return fire raked the
pickup's charred and burning hulk.

The Executioner spoke quietly into his throat mike. "Gary, we need you.
We're pinned down and they've got an RPG. Our cover is deteriorating
rapidly."

Manning's voice spoke in Bolan's earpiece. "I read you, Striker. Targets
acquired. Hold tight."

From the roof of the warehouse a heavy rifle boomed three times in rapid
succession. Some of the fire pinning down Bolan and Lyons dropped off,
and the Executioner saw the sparks of bullets striking metal on the edge
of the warehouse's roof.

Manning's voice spoke through the radio. "RPG team down, Striker, but
the rest of the boys know I'm here."

"Roger. Get out of there before they start lobbing grenades."

"I'm gone," Manning replied, and the radio went silent.

Bolan heard the hollow thumping of grenade launchers and smoking trails
arced toward the roof of the warehouse. The Executioner fired off a
grenade of his own toward where the smoking arcs had originated.
Blinding white flowers of white-hot phosphorus bloomed on the roof of
the warehouse, and ribbons of the burning element drifted down across
the battlefield. Lyons fired a burst from his automatic shotgun and
dropped behind cover as Bolan spoke into his mike.

"Gary?"

There was no reply. "Gary, do you read?"

A voice panted into Bolan's earpiece. "Here, Striker. Things got a
little hot. I'm rappeling down the far side. Will engage targets of
opportunity."

"Roger that." Bolan spoke to Mccarter. "Get out of the warehouse. You're
being flanked."

"Roger that, Striker, but we're already flanked."

Another RPG exploded into the side of the warehouse and the hollow thuds
of grenade launchers boomed not far away.

Bolan glanced about and spoke into the mike. "Gadgets?"

The concrete pylons exploded in a thundering ball of orange fire. Bolan
risked a glance over the top of the truck and saw Schwarz crouched some
yards away from the pylons behind several cement-filled drums. Bullets
shrieked off of the drums but no more grenades boomed from behind the
pylons. "Gadgets?"

"I'm okay, Striker, but that was the last of my C-4, and I'm running out
of options out here."

"Sit tight, we'll get to you."

"Roger that." Lyons fired another burst and dropped behind the truck.
"They've stopped their initial attack."

Bolan nodded. "Yes. They're going to get sneaky on us now."

The Able Team leader slid a fresh magazine into his automatic shotgun.
"What's the plan?"

The Executioner glanced at his watch. "Pop green smoke."

They had barely gone a half mile from camp when Baibakov leaned out the
cab of the truck and stared upward in alarm. A helicopter was rapidly
descending out of the pass ahead like a thundering monster from a
nightmare. Its olive-drab contours were all slants and angles, and it
was loaded with weapons. There was no way it was a police helicopter or
border-patrol observation craft. It was a gunship.

Baibakov grabbed the CB radio from the dash and roared into the mike.
"We are under attack! Break formation! Now!"

The lead jeep of the convoy opened fire with its heavy machine gun. The
helicopter was coming straight on, and yellow flashes sparked off its
fuselage as the heavy bullets struck it. The gunship dived into the fire
and a missile burst into life below one of its stub wings and roared off
its launch rail. The jeep broke to the right but the missile slanted to
follow. The driver desperately swerved to the left, and the missile
jinked its trajectory.

The gun jeep blew apart in a ball of orange fire.

The vehicles began dispersing in wide swerving arcs. The men in the
jeeps swiveled their heavy guns and fired on the helicopter, but the
gunship ignored the machine guns and swooped among the trucks and jeeps.
A swarm of rockets hissed from one of the helicopter's pods, and a truck
shuddered and lifted up off its axles as it was rocked by multiple
explosions. The vehicle jolted up onto two wheels, then fell over on its
side, where it lay burning. There were no survivors.

Baibakov cursed as he reached behind his seat. "Halt the truck!"

The giant kicked open his door as he drew a long, slender launch tube
from the back of the truck. He grabbed the cabin's outside railing and
vaulted onto the roof. He crouched as the helicopter tore apart a jeep
with its chin-mounted automatic cannon. The gunship was too heavily
armored. It would take a miraculous hit or extensive cumulative damage
with machine guns to bring it down, and Baibakov and his men had time
for neither.

The captain rose and shouldered the SAM-7 surface-to-air missile. The
helicopter was flying away from him, a perfect angle for the tail-chase
profile of the heat-seeking Grail missile. The giant tracked the
helicopter through the optical sight and activated the infrared seeker.
The indicator light blinked and held as the missile's seeker achieved a
lock-on.

Baibakov took a breath and fired.

The Grail missile hissed out of the launch tube, and the second stage of
its rocket engine fired. The missile rapidly accelerated to Mach 1 and
shrieked toward the gunship. The missile's seeker became extremely
unhappy. It had been unhappy the moment Baibakov had turned it on. Its
computer mind knew nothing of the Apache gunship's ALQ-144 jammer. To
its heat-seeking eye, there was only a strobing pattern of incredibly
bright infrared flashes, but no gunship. It knew something was there,
but it couldn't achieve a genuine lock. It was like trying to stare at
something that was flying straight out of the sun. The Grail flew into
the blinding pattern, and suddenly it was clear. It was a contact weapon
and its fuse had slammed into nothing. There was nothing ahead of it in
its narrow cone of observation. It flew for another thousand yards and
sought another target until it ran out of fuel. Its rocket motor burned
out, and it began to fall back to earth.

Baibakov roared at the driver of the truck. "A missile! Another
missile!"

It was incredible. The missile had flown right at the gunship and
missed. The helicopter hadn't even moved. Now, however, it moved. The
gunship swung about on its axis and its nose pointed at Baibakov in
judging accusation.

"Another missile!"

The helicopter's stub wings were almost engulfed in flame as rockets
hissed out from underneath them and flew straight at Baibakov. His last
thought was to drop the launcher and unsling his rifle when his world
exploded in a storm of sound and orange fire.

Warrant officer Steven Anderson swallowed hard. "That was close."

"Yeah." Grimaldi swung the helicopter around. Two jeeps and one of the
trucks were heading back to the base as fast as they could, and they
looked like they might make it. The rest of the vehicles were either
knocked out and burning or didn't move. The survivors had stopped firing
and some had sought cover. One jeep lurched and smoked as it tried to
move. One man drove the beleaguered vehicle while another leaned
bloodily over his mangled heavy machine gun. A third man slumped
unmoving in the passenger seat. Grimaldi dropped the Apache almost right
on top of them. The jeep ground to a halt, and the driver stared at the
gunship as it hovered twenty feet in front of him.

The Stony Man pilot spoke into the intercom. "Aim the cannon at him."

The Apache's chin-mounted cannon was linked to the gunner's helmet
sight, and as Anderson turned his head and looked at the jeep in front
of them, so did the smoking muzzle of the gunship's cannon.

The Russian stared up at the helicopter and squinted against its
rotorwash. After a moment he raised one hand, slowly removed the jeep's
keys with the other and tossed them into the dust. Grimaldi grinned.
"Real smart fella."

"What now?" Anderson asked.

The Russians weren't going anywhere. Their vehicles were out of
commission, and they had wounded to attend to. The authorities or a
contingent from Fort Huachuca could sweep them up later. Striker needed
them now. "We're heading for the base. What is our weapons status?"

Anderson checked his screen. "Two Hellfires, fourteen rockets, 750
rounds of 30 mm."

Grimaldi grinned and shrugged. "Well, that ought to do the trick." He
pulled the gunship into the air and dropped the nose toward the mining
base. "What do you say we go meet the home team?"

27

Ramzin's face was contorted into a snarl of rage as he crouched in the
drainage ditch and fired his rifle. The American commandos were good.
Too good. Two of them were behind the burnt-out truck, and another was
pinned down by the pylons. Others--he didn't know how many--were still
in the warehouse. He could hear fighting and explosions beyond the base
where the convoy had been headed, and he gritted his teeth. His plan was
swiftly going to hell. The radio was in the truck, and he had no time to
go back and find out what was going on. He had hoped to delay the
Americans on the base, then make a strategic withdrawal. Once clear, he
would blow them to hell while he and his men lost themselves in the
mountains. Now they were holding him here in a stalemate as each side
pinned down the other. Time wasn't on his side, and he couldn't afford
to play games. He had to take these Americans, and he had to take them
quickly.

Ramzin figured he had at least fifteen able men left. It would have to
be enough. Degederov lay wounded beside him. He was shot through the
legs, but he still lay tenaciously behind his RPK-74 light machine gun
and fired bursts into the enemy positions. The major grinned in savage
defiance. Degederov was Spetsnaz. They were some of the most
well-trained and dangerous soldiers in the world. They would break this
stalemate, and they would break it now.

"Degederov, give me your weapon."

The man nodded and Ramzin pulled the RPK squad automatic weapon to him.
It was essentially a strengthened AK-47 assault rifle, with a heavy
barrel, a bipod and a 75-round drum magazine. Ramzin looped the sling
over his shoulder and handed Degederov the detonator for the second
nuclear charge, and his rifle.

"Do not let this fall into enemy hands."

Degederov nodded and grimly took the detonator and the rifle. Ramzin
loosened his CZ-75 pistol in its holster and took a high-explosive
grenade from his belt and pulled the pin. He hurled the grenade over the
lip of the drainage ditch toward the pickup truck the Americans were
using for cover. Ramzin took a deep breath and leaped up out of the
ditch. He pulled the RPK machine gun into the hip assault position and
roared at the top of his lungs.

"Follow me now! Attack!"

His men rose from their positions and rushed forward, hurling grenades
and firing on the run. The RPK snarled in Ramzin's hands as he led the
charge. Tracers streaked from their weapons in a smoking hail of
gunfire. It would end now. One way or the other.

"They come!" Lyons roared as he slammed a fresh magazine into his
weapon.

"Here they come !"

Bolan tossed the hissing smoke grenade behind them, and green smoke
coiled up into the desert sky. Similar plumes floated up from the
warehouse and Gadgets's position. Bolan and Lyons's cover was being shot
to pieces under the Russian assault. It appeared the Russians weren't
going to be sneaky, after all.

They were going for it.

The Executioner slapped the muzzle of his M-4 carbine over the pickup's
battered hood and fired the M-203 grenade launcher blind. The weapon
recoiled savagely from the defensive munition, and the 40 mm buckshot
round sprayed into the charging enemy. Bolan dragged the weapon back and
rolled to the truck's left fender. The carbine chattered on full-auto
and he heard the methodic hammering of Lyons's automatic shotgun from
the other side of the truck.

The Russians came on. It was an assault that would have overwhelmed
normal opponents, but the men from Stony Man were some of the most well
trained men on the planet. They didn't panic. They aimed and fired, and
the charging Russians fell.

Bolan tossed aside the spent carbine and brought up his Beretta 93-R
pistol in one hand and his .44 Magnum Desert Eagle in the other. A big
man led the charge with an RPK light machine gun, firing from his hip.
The Executioner put a burst into him from the Beretta, but the man
didn't fall. Instead, he coolly dropped to one knee and brought the
light machine gun to his shoulder and sighted directly at Bolan.

The Desert Eagle roared in the Executioner's hand and the .44 Magnum
round defeated the Russian's armor and slammed him backward. A second
round toppled him. Above the snarl of the assault weapons, Bolan could
hear the rapid booming of a heavy rifle, and he knew that somewhere
Manning was firing his M-14 sniper rifle as fast as he could acquire
targets. From the warehouse, Mccarter and Blancanales fired lethal
bursts into the Russian advance. Gadgets Schwarz's silenced 9 mm
submachine gun was felt but not heard.

The Russian assault broke as Encizo joined the fight with the stolen
jeep's heavy machine gun. The enemy stopped charging and dropped prone,
some providing covering fire while others rolled or crawled for cover.

Bolan rose and peered quickly across the hood of the truck. His stomach
tightened as he saw two jeeps and a truck tearing at dangerous speeds
into the compound. He knew that would be enough to turn the tide.
Ammunition was running low and his team was running out of time. The men
from Stony Man wouldn't be able to stop a second assault. Bolan glanced
into the sky as he slipped a fresh magazine into the Beretta.

Something that resembled a smoking fire hydrant streaked out of the sun,
and the lead jeep blew apart in a ball of orange fire. Men dived
desperately from the second jeep into a drainage ditch, and a moment
later the jeep was blown to pieces as another missile roared in from
above and struck it. More men jumped from the truck and scrambled for
cover in all directions. The air thundered and dust blew up in red
clouds as a helicopter gunship swooped out of the sky. The truck driver
leaped from the cab of his vehicle, and the chin of the gunship erupted
in fire as its cannon roared to life and chopped the truck into a
smoking ruin. The helicopter rotated and flew toward Bolan and the plume
of green smoke behind him. The Executioner couldn't see the man's face
through the windscreen and his tinted helmet as the gunship whirled
overhead, but he knew the thumbs-up the pilot threw him. Grimaldi had
brought the cavalry. The helicopter rotated to face the Russians, then
climbed up into the air to gain more altitude. The cannon spoke again,
and the Russians hurled themselves to the ground as the gunship drew a
smoking line across the compound.

Bolan shouted to Lyons. "Get back to Rafe! Bring out the jeep!"

Lyons ran back to the bulldozer. Moments later the jeep ground out from
behind its cover with the Able Team leader behind the wheel and Encizo
manning the big gun. The muzzle of the DSH K swung to cover the Russians
who lay in the open. Above the battlefield, the helicopter rotors beat
the air, like thunder. The enemy lying in the open looked at one
another. From cover, others cradled their weapons in the lull and
prepared to sell their lives dearly.

The Executioner stood from behind cover and holstered his weapons as
dozens of Russians trained their weapons on him. He walked forward
slowly with his hands open and knelt before the man who had led the
charge. The man was still alive, and he peered up at Bolan with
calculating gray eyes. He had been wounded in the shoulder and in the
side. The shoulder wound was clean, but the wound in his abdomen would
kill him soon if he didn't get medical attention. Bolan knelt beside
him. "You are Ramzin," he said in Russian.

The man grimaced against his pain. "Yes, I am Ramzin."

"Order your men to surrender, or the gunship will cut them to pieces."

Ramzin's eyes rolled up to look at the helicopter orbiting the camp. Too
many times in Afghanistan he had been in the armored gunships and
devastated helpless men armed only with rifles and machine guns. He
nodded bitterly. He had lost. His last duty now was to his men. "Help me
to my feet."

Bolan took Ramzin's arm and gently pulled him up. The Russian's breath
hissed from between clenched teeth, and he leaned heavily on the
Executioner's arm. The major took a deep breath and wheezed as he tried
to bark out a command. He tried to shout again, but couldn't seem to
fill his lungs with air. Finally he grasped the sling of the RPK around
his shoulder and with great effort he shrugged it off. The weapon
clattered to the dusty ground. Ramzin glared about at his men, then
sagged. Bolan lowered him to the ground, then shouted above the rotor
noise in Russian.

"I have accepted your commander's surrender! Throw down your weapons.
You will be well treated. There will be no reprisals."

A Russian stood slowly and looked at Ramzin where he lay. The man's
shoulders sagged, and he shook his head as he tossed his rifle to the
ground. After a long moment another rifle dropped, then another. More
soldiers clambered out of the drainage ditch, tossing their weapons
before them. Others threw their weapons aside but stayed by their
wounded comrades.

Mccarter and Blancanales emerged from the burning warehouse with their
weapons leveled. Gadgets rose from behind the blackened and battered
concrete pylons. Ramzin spoke at Bolan's feet. "My men. Many need
medical attention."

Bolan looked at him squarely. "They'll get it." Ramzin nodded. "Good.
That is good." He closed his eyes again.

A shrill voice shouted across the compound. "Drop your weapons!"

All eyes turned as Anne Tyler stood up in the drainage ditch. She held a
Makarov pistol in one hand and a small metallic box in the other. "Drop
your weapons now!"

Lyons raised his shotgun. "You drop yours, lady."

Bolan held up his hand and Lyons lowered the shotgun. The Witch walked
forward and glared at the Executioner. Her hair was disheveled, and her
face and clothes were smudged with smoke and dust. Her eyes glittered
clear and bright, and her thumb lightly tapped the remote control in her
hand.

"You know what this is, I assume."

He nodded.

"Then you will have your men drop their weapons. I will take Ramzin and
two men in that jeep your men are sitting in. You will guarantee us safe
passage to the Mexican border, or I will obliterate the entire
compound."

Bolan shook his head. "No one is going anywhere." The Witch trembled
with anger, and she stepped closer. Her voice dropped low. "I am an old
woman. My husband is dead by your hand. I am not going to spend my
remaining years languishing in an American prison. I will destroy you,
your men, my men and myself, and I will be glad of your company in
hell."

The Executioner stared into Anne Tyler's eyes and he had no doubt of it.
They stood fast and regarded each other.

Manning's voice spoke quietly in Bolan's earpiece. "Striker, take one
step to your left and I can take her out. One step and I'm green light.
You make the call."

The Witch slid her thumb on top of a black switch, and her voice came
from between her teeth in a hiss. "You have one second to decide, you
son of a bitch."

Gunfire erupted at Bolan's feet. The Witch jerked as round after round
struck her. She staggered backward as the bullets hit her mercilessly,
and the detonator tumbled out of her nerveless hand and fell to the red
dust. She collapsed to the ground as the CZ-75 pistol in Ramzin's hand
cracked open on an empty chamber.

The major sagged back and rested the pistol across his chest. He shook
his head wearily and looked up into the sky.

"I never liked her very much."

EPILOGUE "Ramzin shot Tyler?"

Bolan sat on one hip on Larquette's bed in the clinic. "Yes. Apparently
he didn't appreciate her idea of nuking his men in a last act of
defiance."

Bolan looked off into the distance. "He was a formidable opponent and a
good commander."

Larquette smiled at him. "You respect him, don't you?"

He met her gaze. "I don't respect what he was doing. I'm sorry to see
such a capable man turn to crime. But in his own way, he remained a man
of honor. He'll still have to pay for his crimes. So will his surviving
men."

He grinned at her suddenly and changed the subject.

"What about you?"

"Well, I'm chief of police these days. But I was appointed by committee,
so I guess there'll have to be an election."

"I think you might win."

She looked at him slyly. "Oh?"

He nodded. "Yeah. In town they're calling you Patti Earp. Not every town
has a chief who shoots it out with armed Russians on the steps of the
jail. You and Tom are heroes."

Larquette blushed bright red and looked at her toes. After a moment she
looked back up at him. "What about you?"

"There may be repercussions. I broke some rules."

Her eyebrows slanted together. "Screw the rules. You stopped a Russian
invasion. You got the man who murdered my father. That ought to count
for something."

Bolan shrugged. "Well, there is that."

Larquette glanced at him long and hard. "I don't know who you really
work for, and I don't suppose I'll ever get to know your real name,
either. But I bet somewhere along the line you had to swear something
about defending the United States against enemies both foreign and
domestic. If I were you, I'd keep my chin up."

The Executioner couldn't help but smile. "I also swore something about
upholding the Constitution. I think I may have violated Ramzin's civil
rights."

Larquette laughed. "I'm a lawyer, trust me. I think the case is
arguable."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"You do that." Her face became serious, and she reached out and took
Bolan's hand. "I want you to know, if this does get you in trouble, I'll
swear in court that I deputized you."

Bolan squeezed her hand. "You're a very remarkable woman."

"You're a very remarkable man," she replied.

Manning leaned into the infirmary. "The bus is leaving, Striker."

She peered up at him. "Striker?"

"Doesn't really matter, does it?"

"No, I guess not."

The Executioner placed a hand on her shoulder. "Take care of yourself."

He turned and walked out of the infirmary. Outside, the team was waiting
by his Bronco. They had a five-mile drive to the airstrip. Mccarter sat
on a bench and drank a Coca-Cola. The general store had an antique
machine that dispensed soft drinks in old-fashioned bottles, and the
Briton had become totally enamored of it. Bolan jerked his head toward
the truck.

"You ready?"

Mccarter rose. "Very ready. I believe this is going to be a terribly
exciting debriefing."

The Stony Man warriors loaded into the truck and headed toward the
airstrip and home.