STEEL CLAWS


                                      By
                                 Don Pendleton

Synopsis:

Mack Bolan continues his war against a Chinese tong known as the 14K by
attacking businesses and homes owned and operated by members of this
prominent Chinese crime family.  From amsterdam to Paris to the jungles
of Burma, The Executioner and his Phoenix Force Warriors leave behind a
trail of death and destruction.  The goal is to severely cripple one of
the most powerful crime families in the world--one with strong ties to
Communist China.  Violence. 211th novel in the "Executioner" series,
second novel in the "Red Dragon Trilogy," 1996.


                               A GOLD EAGLE BOOK
                            From Worldwide Library
                          TORONTO - NEW YORK - LONDON
                     AMSTERDAM - PARIS - SYDNEY - HAMBURG
                      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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retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the
publisher, Worldwide Library, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada
M3B 3K9.

First edition July 1996

ISBN 0-373-64211-3

(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
#209 Asian Crucible
#210 Fire Lash
#211 Steel Claws


                                ACKNOWLEDGMENT


Special thanks and acknowledgment to Mike Newton for his contribution to this
work.



There is justice, but we do not always see it.  Discreet, smiling, it is
there, at one side, a little bit behind injustice, which makes a big noise.
-Jules Renard

Justice is catching up to the bad guys, this time.  It won't be pretty, it
won't be smiling, and it's going to make one hell of a noise. -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.


                                       1


                                   Amsterdam

     Holland's largest city had something for everyone, from classic art
museums to war memorials, exotic dining, festivals and flower markets, ancient
churches and ultramodern department stores.  For those in search of "special"
action, there was Nieuwmarkt, which included the red-light district, sex
shows, quasi-legal hash bars and the largest Chinatown in Europe.

     It was a yearning for Chinese that brought Mack Bolan into Nieuwmarkt on
a Thursday night, when garish neon and low-lying clouds eclipsed the stars.
He moved along the fragrant streets like any other tourist, smiling at the
hookers who displayed themselves in lighted windows, and rubbed shoulders with
the young and not-so-young who wandered in and out of small cafes that reeked
of marijuana.

     Unlike the others, though, he wore a sleek Beretta 93-R automatic slung
beneath his left arm, with an Uzi submachine gun on a swivel rig below his
right arm.  His plain black raincoat hid the weapons, but he wore the coat
unbuttoned to facilitate a fast draw if the need arose.

     Considering its liberal drug laws and preeminence in foreign trade, it
came as no surprise to anyone that Amsterdam was labeled the heroin capital of
Europe.  Chinese triad mobsters dominated the trade in Asian heroin, with
Amsterdam doubling as a lucrative market and transshipment point.  Hard drugs
were technically illegal in the Netherlands, but Dutch police had publicly
proclaimed that intercepting drugs in transit wasn't a priority.  As for
domestic junkies, their enslavement to the needle helped account for Holland's
shocking crime rate, with a per capita victimization rate surpassing that of
the United States, Great Britain, France or Italy.

     You wouldn't know it, walking on the peaceful streets of
Amsterdam--unless, perhaps, you took a wrong turn in the red-light district
and wound up on one of the seedy side streets around Oude Zij de Voorburgwal.

     The Chinese colony in Amsterdam was located on the northern edge of
Nieuwmarkt, where an ancient sea dyke once protected Amsterdam from being
flooded by the turbulent North Sea.  A walk along those streets, adjacent to
the red-light district, conjured echoes and aromas common to the Chinese
neighborhoods of London, San Francisco, New York and a hundred other cities
circling the globe: exotic restaurants and tourist shops, street signs in
Cantonese and pharmacies that peddled powdered rhino horn and tiger's penis
side by side with ginseng root and herbal teas.

     As anywhere, the vast majority of Chinese residents in Amsterdam were
peaceful, law-abiding folk, if somewhat reticent in dealing with the
authorities.  As anywhere, the proud community was also victimized by certain
predators who focused more on profit than on brotherhood.

     It was the predators whom Bolan sought this night.  His quest had brought
him to the Zhi-chuing Club, a gambling parlor owned and operated by a local
family of the Triad known as the 14K.  It was, if nothing else, a place to
start.

     The Executioner had come to Amsterdam in ernest, and he didn't come
alone.



     David McCarter stood across the street from a small restaurant on
Warmoesstraat and watched the soldiers trooping in and out.  They weren't
military men, per se; no uniforms or weapons were openly displayed, though
most of them were surely armed.  These soldiers served the 14K, and their
commander was a Hong Kong refugee named Kin Yau.  Their actions weren't
advertised and rarely made the papers.  They were no less deadly for their
secrecy, however, and McCarter kept that fact in mind.

     It was his second day in Amsterdam, and McCarter was glad to be moving at
last.  There had been no hitch in the pickup when he rendezvoused with Bolan
in the terminal at Schipol Airport.  Yakov Katzenelenbogen had been waiting in
the car outside.  The afternoon had been consumed with planning, sharing
information, bringing one another up to speed.  Now they were ready.

     Anyhow, as ready as they'd ever be.

     Three men against an army didn't make the best of odds, but it was always
like that with Phoenix Force.  They never drew a job where the U.S. Marines
would do as well--black operations, hit-and-run, the kind of thing that
Washington wasn't supposed to be involved in.  Now, with three-fifths of the
team side-tracked on other pressing business in Peru, Katz and McCarter would
be backing Bolan's play in Amsterdam--and on from there, whatever happened
next.

     But for the moment McCarter's full attention focused on the restaurant
that was his target.  Owned and operated by the Chinese godfather of
Amsterdam, it was a combination hangout for the troops, nerve center for
dispensing information and convenient laundry for a portion of the money Yau
raked in from the narcotics trade.  Legitimate investments let the dirty cash
remain in circulation, written off as restaurant receipts, and provided Yau
with a facade of decency that served him well in the community at large.

     McCarter reckoned it was time to shake things up a little bit.  He
crossed the street.  One of his hands was inside the vertical slit pocket of
his raincoat, wrapped around the pistol grip of his MP-5 K subgun.  The stubby
weapon, devoid of silencer, was supported on a shoulder sling.  McCarter
wanted noise when he cut loose inside the restaurant--no doubt about his
purpose, no mixed signals to the enemy or innocent bystanders on the
battleground.

     Nobody tried to stop him at the door.  The restaurant was popular with
tourists who were ignorant of any underworld connections, satisfied to eat
their food and share stale jokes about how they would all be hungry in an hour
or so.

     A smiling hostess offered to relieve McCarter of his coat, but he
declined and asked to see the manager.  She led him off to one side, skirting
the main dining room, along a murky corridor to reach a tall green door.  The
woman knocked and waited, showing him a strained, uncertain version of her
smile before the door was opened by a hardened Triad gunner who peered through
the crack.

     McCarter wasted no time on formalities.  He kicked the door with force
enough to break the shooter's nose and cheekbone, following through before the
other men inside the private office had a chance to wonder what was happening.
The SMG was in his hand, its stubby muzzle covering the room at large and
daring anyone to make a move.

     The Briton had the time to count four soldiers standing, with an older
man behind a cluttered desk, before it went to hell.  One of the gunmen on his
left was fading back, his right hand inside his jacket, and McCarter didn't
have the time or inclination to negotiate.  He held down the MP-5 K's trigger
and swept the room, 9 mm bullets ripping into flesh and fabric as his human
targets started twitching, reeling, going down.

     He emptied the 30-round box magazine, then reloaded swiftly, conscious of
the Chinese hostess screaming as she fled.  The groggy soldier at his feet was
struggling to rise and fight, so McCarter drilled him with a 3-round burst at
close to skin-touch range.

     The Phoenix Force commando heard the reinforcements coming, but stood his
ground and met them with a burst that dropped two soldiers in their tracks.  A
third man stumbled back and out of sight with bullets in his side and
shoulder.

     The dining room was chaos: women screaming, diners rushing for the exits,
overturning chairs and tables as they fled, some of them slipping, sliding,
sprawling in the spillage from their neighbors.  On the far side of the room,
a Triad soldier fired two pistol shots and missed McCarter by at least ten
feet.  The Briton let it go, merging with the exodus of customers, and made it
to the street as half a dozen Triad gunners did their best to buck the tide to
get back inside to help their comrades.

     They were late this time, but something told McCarter they would have
another chance before too long.



     Yan Kwong lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply, letting smoke spill from his
nostrils as he checked his Rolex watch for the sixth or seventh time in half
an hour.  He was tired of sentry duty at the Zhi-chuang Club.  The hours
seemed to drag, and Kwong was bored.

     Sometimes he almost wished that something big would happen, just to shake
things up and let him see some action.  It was dreary, watching old men come
and go around the mah-jongg tables, smoking their cigars and sipping liquor
from tiny glasses.  It reminded Kwong of working in a rest home.  He had yet
to draw the pistol that he wore concealed beneath his jacket, and the only
"action" he had seen since his assignment to the club featured two men in
their sixties arguing about a hand of cards, exchanging curses, waving bony
fists.  A schoolboy could have separated them, and in lieu of kicking ass, the
proprietor dispensed free drinks to calm them.

     Still, it was easy work, and Kwong had ample free time for the hash bars
or some window-shopping in the red-light district when he wasn't propping up a
wall and watching old men lose their money to the house.  On the rare
occasions that a debt was overdue and Kwong had to go collect the money or a
pound of flesh, he never had trouble with the senior citizens.  Their bones
were brittle, muscles turning into flab, and it didn't require much energy to
make them see the error of their ways in holding out on Kin Yau.

     Kwong hadn't killed a man as yet, but he was looking forward to it.  In
the old days, he was told, bloodshed was part of the Triad initiation process.
Every soldier had to prove himself, if not in battle, then with the
assassination of some target chosen by his chief.  More recently, while
terrorism still remained a most effective tool in Chinatown, the emphasis was
placed on monetary profits rather than displaying proof of manhood with a
knife or gun.

     Kwong sometimes read about the ancient long wars and discussed the "good
old days" with aging soldiers who had fought to make the 14K preeminent in
Amsterdam, back in the early 1970s.  A rival family from Singapore had claimed
the city for its own, trying to control the flow of heroin from Southeast
Asia, executing any challengers.  Kin Yau had been the new kid on the block,
the youngest red pole in the 14K, entrusted with a mission that would make or
break his future with the Triad.  It had taken three long, bloody years to
rout the Singaporeans, but Yau had done the job.  Now he was reaping the
rewards of victory, relaxing in his forties, letting younger men--like
Kwong--stand watch against potential enemies.

     Except there seemed to be no enemies these days.  A brief dispute with
the Colombians, over the cocaine trade in Amsterdam, had been negotiated
without bloodshed eight months earlier.  No one was fool enough to challenge
Kin Yau in Chinatown.

     But there had been rumors the previous night of war in London.  It was
whispered that Wong Kam was dead, along with many of his soldiers, and the man
or men responsible were unidentified.  A tiny item in the newspaper referred
to certain deaths in London's Chinatown, but there were no specifics,
certainly no mention of the 14K.

     And so Kwong almost hoped that something of the kind would happen in
Amsterdam.  He didn't want to die, but war would mean a break in the infernal
tedium, a chance for him to prove himself.  He was too young to fear a
faceless enemy, regardless of the damage suffered by his brothers on some
other battlefield.

     Kwong took a last drag on his cigarette and moved in the direction of a
standing sand-filled ashtray several paces to his left.  The main room of the
Zhi-chuang Club was fairly quiet aside from the sounds of riffling cards and
clicking dominoes, the muted voices of old men exchanging stories they had
told a thousand times before.  A smoky haze hung in the air--tobacco smoke, no
opium or marijuana was allowed on the premises.

     Too bad, Kwong thought.  If they made hash available ...

     Kwong lost his train of thought as he beheld a stranger entering the
smoky gaming room from the direction of the storage area in back.  The new
arrival was a white man, tall and dark, well dressed in a stylish suit beneath
the raincoat he wore.  His cold eyes took in the whole room at a glance.

     Kwong shot a hasty glance in the direction of his supervisor and quickly
ascertained that Chang Lu hadn't seen the stranger yet.  If this was a police
raid, they should certainly have been warned.  Kin Yau paid ample bribes to
keep himself from any rude surprises, and The Uzi in the stranger's hands told
Kwong that he was no policeman.  This was trouble, and he had to act without
delay; there was no time to ask Lu's advice.

     Kwong reached inside his jacket for the pistol, felt it warm against his
fingers as the Uzi swung in his direction, spitting fire.

     It was the last thing Yan Kwong ever saw.



     Yakov Katzenelenbogen's first grenade, tossed from a range of forty feet,
was right on target.  The painted window shattered, spilling light into the
alley, and he ducked back as the fragmentation grenade went off.

     Inside the cutting plant, confusion reigned.

     Katz counted off three seconds, waiting for the storm of shrapnel to
subside, then left the fire escape and entered the building through the
shattered window.  He wore a gas mask to protect himself from smoke, dust and
the drifting cloud of uncut heroin that his grenade had whipped up in the
loft.

     The cutting plant was one of six or seven operated by the 14K in
Amsterdam.  On any given day, it turned a dozen kilos of the finest China
white into a hundred kilos cut and ready for the streets.  That meant a profit
markup of some two thousand percent for Yau, who bought the uncut poison at a
special discount from his Triad brothers in the Golden Triangle and shipped it
out from Bangkok or Hong Kong.  Allowing for Yau's overhead, including payoffs
to police and customs agents, that still left a profit margin to the 14K
approaching seven million dollars per month.  The Dutch government's network
of supervised narcotic-distribution centers for registered addicts had shaved
a few bucks off the top, but there was still enough underground traffic to
keep Yau and his family well funded through the next century.

     Katz had a laser sight mounted underneath the muzzle of his Uzi SMG to
help him pick out targets in the swirling haze.  A Couple of the big
fluorescent fixtures overhead had been destroyed by shrapnel from his frag
grenade, and the surviving lights were flickering like candles in a fitful
breeze.

     He scanned the room and saw wreckage where the blast had flipped a long
and heavy wooden table over on its side.  Equipment from the cutting plant was
strewed across the floor: digital scales, a drift of plastic sandwich bags,
spoons and knives, some broken dishes, heroin and baking soda heaped together
on the vinyl floor.  It felt like walking on a beach, the powder grating
underfoot, but Katz was busy seeking targets.  He could always clean his shoes
another time.

     Two bodies lay on the floor immediately to his left.  Both male, he
recognized, despite the surgical masks they wore, since both were stripped to
undershorts.  It was the standard uniform for cutting plants, where the
proprietors were more concerned with possible employee theft than the havoc
they were wreaking on society.

     One of the workers was unconscious, maybe dead, blood streaming from an
ugly scalp wound.  His companion tried to rise, still dazed from the blast,
but Katzenelenbogen kicked him in the face and put him down again.  The kick
dislodged his target's mask and left him sucking uncut scag in volumes that
would kill a horse.

     A sound of shuffling footsteps to Katz's right swung him in that
direction, following the Uzi's lead.  The red dot of his laser sight fixed on
a flat, round face, eyes glaring at him above a crooked surgical mask.  This
man was fully dressed, a watchdog, groping for the pistol that he wore beneath
his dusty jacket.

     Katz stroked the Uzi's trigger, slicing the gunman's face off with a
burst that pitched him over backward.  There would be other sentries on the
premises, Katz knew, and he would have to be alert for any who had come
through the initial blast intact.

     Outside and down the hall he heard somebody shouting.  He didn't speak
the language and had no way of knowing whether it was one of Yau's soldiers or
a neighbor shaken by the sounds of combat.  Either way it meant that
reinforcements would be coming--either Triad troops or the police--and Katz
wasn't prepared to deal with either if they came at him in heavy numbers.

     Time to go, but first he finished checking out the room.  A second gunman
huddled in the corner, groping for a weapon he had lost when the grenade went
off.  Katz kicked the pistol over toward his cringing adversary, waiting while
the Chinese gunman saw his last, dim chance and went for it.  The Uzi
stuttered, slamming half a dozen parabellum rounds into the rag-doll figure
before he got his automatic off the floor.

     The third and final soldier had been killed by shrapnel, laid out on his
back with glassy eyes fixed on the ceiling overhead.  The rest were workers,
dazed or wounded, and two of them were already twitching through the final
stages of an overdose from breathing uncut China white without their masks.

     Katz left them to it, wished them all the good luck they deserved.
Outside he kept his mask on as he scrambled down the fire escape, then took
time to dust his clothes off in the alley.  Tucking his Uzi out of sight, he
started back in the direction of his car.

     Not bad.

     And they were only getting started, still in the initial phases of their
strike.

     The best, he knew, was yet to come.



     The Triad soldier went down kicking, gutted by a burst from Bolan's Uzi,
flopping like a grounded trout across a floor already slick with blood.  Those
first rounds from the Executioner's SMG brought panic to the Zhi-chuang Club,
with players scrambling from their seats and overturning tables as they tried
to reach the nearest exit, running for their lives.

     This kind of interruption obviously didn't happen every day in Chinatown,
but the surviving gunners held their ground like pros.  The three men were
staked out at the remaining corners of the room, prepared to nail their
round-eyed adversary with triangulated fire.  It was a good defensive plan,
and Bolan had to dive for cover as they opened up in unison, their bullets
chipping at the redbrick walls.

     He landed on his stomach, knees and elbows pumping as he sought the cover
of a capsized mah-jongg table.  Scattered tiles and money slithered out from
under him as Bolan found his meager sanctuary, keeping low to duck the bullets
that had followed him and were already hammering the table.

     Sitting still was suicide, he realized.  The gunners had all night to
pepper him with bullets, and it wouldn't take that long for them to shred the
table, riddle it with holes and nail him where he lay, concealed but hardly
out of range.  It galled him, being stuck on the defensive in the early
moments of his probe, and Bolan knew that there was more than pride at stake.
His very life was riding on the line, unless he seized control of the unstable
situation and reversed the odds.

     The Executioner poked his SMG around a corner of the table, firing blind,
to keep his opposition on their toes.  No lucky hit that time, but he wasn't
expecting one.  It was a diversion, something to prevent them from rushing him
while he was reaching underneath his raincoat to extract a stun grenade.

     The stunner--what police sometimes referred to as a flash-bang--was
designed to render enemies unconscious or disabled without lasting injury.
The Executioner had clipped one to his belt before he left his car, with
thoughts of the casino's clientele in mind.  Civilian casualties weren't part
of his game plan, and it sounded as if a few stray customers were still pinned
down between the Triad gunners and his own position, crying out in fear each
time the guns went off.

     He couldn't target all three gunners with the same grenade, but if he
played his cards right, it would still distract them, maybe blind them or at
least stretch their reaction time enough to give him a fighting chance.

     He yanked the safety pin and made the pitch without a clear fix on his
targets, angling for a point across the room and near the middle of the floor.
He heard the stunner hit and roll, one of the gunners calling out some kind of
warning to his friends before their time ran out.

     He kept his eyes closed and missed the blinding flash of light, but
Bolan's ears were ringing as he vaulted to his feet.  There was no time to
waste, since the effects of the grenade depended on proximity.

     The Triad gunner on his left was closest--which meant farthest from the
blast--and Bolan nailed him first, a rising 6-round burst that stitched him
from his groin up to his larynx, slammed him back against the nearest wall and
left a crimson smear behind him as he slid down to the floor.

     The gunner at the apex of the triangle was nearest to the blast and
seemed to be unconscious, stretched out on the floor.  His sidekick, off to
Bolan's right, was scrubbing at his eyes with one hand, while the other
squeezed off aimless bullets from a shiny automatic pistol.  The Executioner
shot him in the chest, four rounds to put the soldier down and keep him there,
then swung back toward the middle man, still sprawled out on the floor,
unmoving.

     Let it go.

     It wouldn't hurt for him to leave a witness who could spread the word
among his fellows, maybe wreaking havoc with morale.  the soldier would
describe a round-eyed adversary, and Kin Yau would ultimately draw connections
with the past week's violence in London, New York City, San Francisco and
Vancouver.  Fine.

     It wouldn't hurt to lay the cards out on the table, Bolan thought, and
let his enemies imagine what was coming next.  Besides, the Executioner still
had some aces up his sleeve.


                                       2


     Lieutenant Jan van Straten of the Amsterdam police department's drug and
vice division watched as paramedics brought another shrouded corpse out of the
Zhi-chuang Club and stowed it in the waiting ambulance.  Three dead, plus one
unconscious and a handful who complained of minor injuries, including bruises
and abrasions, headaches and bloody noses.

     And the detective knew it could have been much worse.

     It was worse, several blocks away, at Yung Fat's restaurant, where half a
dozen men were dead.  Worse yet at the illegal cutting plant, a short walk to
the south, with shrapnel, gunshot wounds and overdoses in a kind of grisly
competition to see which would finish off the ten employees there.

     Straten had already been inside the Zhi-chuang Club.  He knew it was an
outlaw gambling establishment, protected by a combination of tradition and
strategic bribes.  Unlicensed and restricted to a Chinese clientele, it
offered no real competition to the great Holland Casino Amsterdam, in the
Hilton Hotel on Apoliolaan, where tourists gladly gave their money to the
house.  No one complained if the Chinese amused themselves in Chinatown ...
unless it started getting bloody, as it had this night.

     Straten knew there would be no arrests for gambling, even so.  The
laissez-faire approach to law enforcement ruled in Amsterdam, where
prostitution, live-sex shows, hard drugs and child pornography were all
proscribed by law, but no one gave a damn.  As long as the illegal business
was conducted quietly, with no disturbance of the peace, police had more
important things to do.  And since the vilest murderer could only be
imprisoned for a short term in Holland under the prevailing law, there was no
great incentive to pursue arrests on charges that would mostly be thrown out
of court in any case.

     It sometimes frustrated Straten when he thought about his job, the
fifteen years he had invested in the abstract game of law and order.  The
wealthy merchant class of free-and-easy Amsterdam complained if pushers sold
their wares too openly, outside the better shops, but those same "civic
leaders" championed the red-light district as a tourist draw that helped make
everybody rich.  Except the junkies, hookers and compulsive gamblers, of
course ... but who were they, and who was interested in what became of them?

     Aware that drug addiction led directly to the vast majority of muggings,
burglaries, assaults and robberies investigated by police in any given year,
Straten blamed the Chinese Triad for the lion's share of crime in Amsterdam.
Without cocaine and heroin, the Dutch crime rate would never have surpassed
America's or Britain's, as it had consistently in recent years.  No racist,
the lieutenant recognized that there were predators and thieves in any ethnic
group, but there had been no underground drug culture in the Netherlands, no
syndicated crime to speak of, in the years before the Triads came.

     And there was nothing he could do about it now.

     Straten watched the ambulance depart--no flashing lights or wailing siren
for the dead--and wondered if his scheduled meet with the American would shed
some light on what was happening, perhaps suggest a tentative solution to the
problem.  It was doubtful, granted, but Straten lived with hope.  As cynical
and jaded as his job had made him, the lieutenant still had moments when he
hoped to glimpse a dim light at the tunnel's end, to know that justice had
been served.

     Fat chance.

     The meet had been arranged by Captain Dekker, on his own initiative.  No
explanation, just an address and the order to appear, meet the American and
cooperate if possible.

     There was some trouble with the Triads in the States.  What else was new?
Straten knew about the recent shooting match in London, too, and wondered if
it was somehow connected to the sudden deaths in Amsterdam.  A gang war was
the last thing anybody needed, but Straten wouldn't mind too much if some of
Kin Yau's soldiers went to their reward.  And if the red pole bought it, too,
well, that would be a shame,.

     Like hell.

     He checked his watch and saw that it was almost time to keep his date
with Mike Belasko, from America.  A pseudonym, no doubt, but it was better
than the normal "Smith" or "Jones" routine he got from the DEA.

     Straten lit a cigarette and turned back toward his car.

     It wouldn't do to keep an ally waiting, after all.



     It had been thirteen years since Kin Yau had murdered with his own two
hands.  He had an army to perform his dirty work these days, and it was rare
that problems went so far as to require a death sentence.  The past two years
his men had executed only four men that Yau could recall, and three of those
had been Colombians who broke the trade agreement Yau had signed with Medellin
by poaching in his own backyard.

     He was a man of peace, the chief philanthropist of Chinatown, well-known
among his people as a patron of the arts.  Of course, they feared him--that
was only proper--but he didn't wield the power he possessed in vengeful or
haphazard fashion.  Yau bent over backward, in his own view, to accommodate
his own and the community of Amsterdam at large.

     All things considered, then, the flurry of attacks against his men were
even more despicable.  The men responsible would have to be found and punished
for their insolence.  A red pole who allowed himself to be insulted in the
public eye would quickly lose respect, and that meant he would ultimately lose
control.

     It was a fact that Tu Sheng had tried to warn him.  He'd flown in from
London with his tail between his legs and babbled on about the troubles there,
how Wong Kam and his soldiers had been massacred by round-eyes from America.
It made no sense, and Yau had chosen to ignore the problem, let his brothers
in the U.S.A.  and Britain deal with matters in their own preserves.  He still
had no proof that the raids in Amsterdam were related to attacks in England or
the States, but it defied coincidence that Yau would find himself besieged so
quickly after his associates had come under fire and failed to properly defend
themselves.

     He had to do better than the others; that was obvious.  He wouldn't
contemplate defeat.  It was preposterous.  Unthinkable.  His soldiers were the
best, though many of them had never faced determined enemies of flesh and
blood.  Still, they were willing, able, armed and ready.  They would fight and
die as necessary, for the honor of the 14K.

     He thought of calling Sheng, then dismissed the notion.  The last thing
Yau needed at the moment was some mainlander's "I told you so," when he had
work to do and enemies to kill.

     Besides, Sheng would find out the bad news soon enough.  He merely had to
turn on the television or listen to the radio.  Perhaps he would be
frightened, run away again as he had done in London.  It would be amusing to
observe the Dragon's insolent ambassador in flight, as if he were a child.

     In fact it might redeem an otherwise pathetic day.

     While he was waiting for the mainlander to run, though, Yau had work to
do.  Somewhere in Amsterdam his enemies were scheming, looking for another
opportunity to stab him in the back.  He had to be ready for them when it
happened, have his soldiers on alert and prepared for anything.  It wouldn't
do for him to be caught napping when an empire was at stake.

     Already they had cost him men and money.  It wasn't disastrous yet, but
Yau could ill afford such treatment at the hands of strangers.  Round-eyes
yet.  That made the insult all the more humiliating.

     He knew that much from survivors at the Zhi-Chueng Club and Wing Fat's
restaurant.  White men had done this to him, placed him in a situation where
he had to take arms and defend himself against invaders for the first time in
two decades.

     Why?  He neither knew nor cared.  Consideration of an adversary's motive
only helped if you were leaning toward negotiation--which Yau wasn't--and then
only if you knew his name.  In this case, where he was the victim of a brutal
sneak attack, the only fair response was overwhelming force.

     And still Yau's problem was the same.  He couldn't strike back at his
enemies until he found out who and where they were.  It was impossible to
fight a war with shadows and expect to win.  The fact that his opponents were
Caucasian hampered Yau, in that his eyes and ears were mainly concentrated in
the area of Chinatown.  Not solely--that would be a serious mistake--but it
would take both finesse and cash to draw the necessary information from police
... assuming they knew anything to tell.

     Yau poured himself a double shot of gin and concentrated on the problem,
thinking hard.  For every riddle there was a Solution.  All he had to do was
find it, soon.  In time to save his empire and his life.



     The Dutch referred to them as "brown cafes," those rough equivalent of
English pubs that served three meals a day, along with native gin and other
potables.  The name derived from polished wood interiors, low-wattage lighting
and the residue of nicotine imparted by generations of enthusiastic smokers.
Spartan decor was the rule of thumb, with no upholstery or cushions on the
furniture, although some brown cafes sported well-worn Persian rugs atop their
tables to absorb spilled beer.  The walls were generally bare of art or other
decoration, save for calendars that were as likely to be out-of-date as
current.

     Seated in the rearmost corner of a brown cafe on Zeedijk, Bolan sipped
his pint of beer and waited for the Dutch policeman to arrive.  It was a
chancy moment, meeting someone who could just as easily betray him as assist
his cause.  He had no way of knowing what the lawman had been told by his
superiors, or whether private attitudes would make the meet a waste of time.
A false step, here and now, could ruin everything.

     He recognized the cop at once by type, despite the fact that they had
never met and no description had been offered in advance: the old
world-weariness around his eyes that came from seeing too much death and
degradation in the line of duty, furrows carved in sunburned cheeks by the
habitual frown.

     His guest spied Bolan, a silent signal passing between them, and he
stopped off at the bar to get a glass of gin before he made his way back to
the narrow booth.

     "Mr. Belasko?"

     "In the flesh.  And you are ...?"

     "Jan van Straten, first lieutenant, narcotics and vice division.  What
brings you to Amsterdam?"

     "The 14K."

     "I should have guessed.  You've had some trouble with them recently in
the United States, I think."

     "The trouble cuts both ways," Bolan said.

     "Mmm.  Indeed."  The lawman sipped his gin.  "You're far from home, in
any case."

     "The men I'm after don't like sitting still."

     "There are procedures," Straten said.  "Surely you know that."

     "Of course.  That's why I'm touching base."

     "What can I do for you?"

     "Are you familiar with a Chinese named Tu Sheng?" Bolan asked.

     "That one!"  Straten made a sour face.  "He plays the part of a respected
lower-level diplomat, holds meetings with some undersecretary now and then to
talk about the prospects for increasing trade with mainland China.  On the
side he spends a great deal of his time with members of the Triads, doing God
knows what.  If I were a suspicious man, I might think someone in Beijing was
looking for a treaty with the 14K."

     "You wouldn't be far wrong."

     "I thought as much.  Of course, we can't touch Sheng.  He's got the
standard diplomatic cover, and there's no hard evidence of any criminal
activity.  So there is no great incentive to investigate a foreign diplomat
who can't be legally detained in any case."

     "I wasn't planning to arrest him," Bolan said.

     "Oh, no?"

     "Strictly speaking I'm not a policeman.  More of a soldier, really."

     "Ah.  And has the U.S.A. declared war on the Triads, then?"

     "You won't find anything on paper."

     "Plausible deniability," Straten said.  "I have the term correctly?"

     "Close enough."

     "It's not the way we do things here in Amsterdam.  I'm not sure why my
captain wanted us to meet."

     "I'm not recruiting soldiers," Bolan said, "but I could use some
information from a man who knows the area."

     "What sort of information did you have in mind?"

     "A better list of Kin Yau's properties than what I have.  More
importantly a lead on Sheng.  Someplace where I can find him if I need to, day
or night."

     Straten thought about it, finishing his gin and frowning.  "You'd make me
an accomplice to assassination, then."

     "Depends on how you look at things.  One way to think of it is that
you're helping flush the scum out of your town."

     "Suppose you fail?" Straten asked.

     "My problem.  You won't be in the line of fire, and no one gets your name
from me."

     Straten thought about it for another moment, then finally cracked a
smile.  "It's thirsty work, remembering these details," he remarked.  "I'd
better have another drink."



     The News had gone from bad to worse, and Tu Sheng was on the verge of
desperation, pacing in his apartment on Waalsteeg like a tiger in a too-small
cage.  He recognized the symptoms, but he had no antidote.  The fear was
stifling, and no solution came to mind, no matter how he racked his brain.

     He was supposed to be secure in Amsterdam, protected from the kind of
madness that had threatened him in London--was it only yesterday?  It felt to
Sheng as if the ordeal had dragged on for days or even weeks.  He hated hiding
like a fugitive, despised himself for cowardice and worried what the others
had to be thinking of him even now.

     No matter.

     It wasn't his place to prowl around the streets and shoot at people in
the dark.  If anyone confused him with a soldier, it was his mistake, not
Sheng's.  His mission was to supervise the 14K, coordinate its dealings with
the Dragon and make sure that everything ran smoothly overseas.

     In that regard, at least, the past two days had been disastrous.  Sheng
hadn't communicated with the Dragon since his flight to Amsterdam, and it
wasn't a pleasant prospect now, with new attacks, new violence to report.  Of
course, he knew that none of it was his fault; anyone with common sense would
recognize that fact, but Sheng was also well aware that setbacks of this
nature called for the assignment of responsibility.  That sometimes meant
selection of a scapegoat if the real culprit wasn't identified.

     But Sheng was no man's scapegoat, no pathetic whipping boy.  He wouldn't
willingly accept a stain upon his reputation when he knew that he wasn't to
blame for what had happened.

     He was innocent.

     The trick, he realized, would be to sell the Dragon on that notion, make
it stick and so protect himself from sharp knives in the back.

     Before he puzzled over that prospect, however, there was a more pressing
item on his mind.  In London he had narrowly escaped assassination by the
round-eyes who were persecuting members of the 14K in North America and
Europe.  He assumed the CIA had to be involved, but who was responsible was
less important at the moment than survival.

     Dead men didn't have to think about their reputations, after all.

     Sheng peered out through his window, one eye peeping through a two-inch
gap in heavy curtains.  There was nothing on the street below to indicate that
he was being watched, but would he see his enemies before they struck?

     Wong Kam had been prepared for anything in London, but it hadn't saved
him.  He was dead now, with at least two dozen of his soldiers who had failed
to keep their red pole safe from harm.

     Sheng had no soldiers of his own, instead relying on his comrades in the
14K to manage his security if there was any need.  Right now he had two young
men sitting in his living room, their pistols on his coffee table as they
smoked cigarettes and watched some X-rated garbage on the television.  Sheng
supposed they were professional enough, but what could two men do when
twenty-five or thirty weren't enough in London, New York, San Francisco and
Vancouver?

     Given half a chance, he would have run for home, but Sheng knew how the
Dragon would react to that.  There would be no appeal, no explanation for
deserting under fire.  An order to evacuate was one thing, but if he departed
on his own initiative, Sheng knew he was as good as dead.

     The next-best thing was to remain in hiding, wait to see which way the
storm winds blew in Amsterdam.  There was a chance that Yau would manage to
defeat these round-eyes, when his brothers of the 14K had failed.  In that
case Sheng would celebrate the victory, and they could all get back to
business as usual.

     And if it went the other way ...

     He didn't like to think about that prospect.  Visions of his own
mortality weren't inclined to lift Sheng's spirits or imbue him with
enthusiasm for his job.  In fact these past two days, he had begun to doubt
the People's Revolution for the first time in his life.

     Too late for that, of course.  His path was set, and there was no escape
from destiny.  Sheng might not be a soldier, but he still waged war against
the Western adversaries in his own way.  He was a vital member of the Dragon's
team, not easily replaced.

     Or so he hoped.

     If he was wrong, there would be hell to pay.



     "I thought we'd split the list three ways," Bolan said.

     He was seated on the bed in his hotel room at the Trianon, on
Brouersstraat.  Katz and McCarter faced him, both men holding to a military
posture in their straight-backed wooden chairs.

     "The cop came through?" McCarter asked.

     "A dozen possibles," Bolan replied, "plus an address for my buddy Tu
Sheng."

     "You want to take him first?" Katzenelenbogen asked.

     Bolan thought about it for a moment, then finally shook his head.  "I'd
like to rattle Kin Yau's cage a little more.  Give everybody in his family a
chance to feel the heat."

     "And after Amsterdam?" McCarter asked.

     "Depends.  I'm working back along the pipeline toward the source.  We've
got a whole list of deserving targets if we get that far.  Let's take it one
step at a time."

     "You're biting off a mouthful."  Katz didn't sound discouraged, but there
was a note of caution in his tone.

     "The 14K's been growing like a weed," Bolan said, everywhere you look.
They've got the family tree in Washington, chapter and verse, but no one's
really laid a glove on them so far.  Now, with the diplomatic angle, there's a
chance nobody ever will.  We can't allow that."

     "No," McCarter said, "but when you talk about the 14K, you're talking ...
what?  Some thirty thousand guns?"

     "I didn't plan to face them all at once."

     "There's still the law of averages," Katz stated.

     "Agreed.  That's why we take it one step at a time and see what happens
next.  I've never cared much for the kamikaze style of warfare."

     Katz ran a finger down the list he had received from Bolan.  "I saw this
place today.  It looked respectable enough."

     "What else is new?" the Executioner replied.  "Kin Yau's had twenty years
to cover his tracks in Amsterdam.  That's one thing on our side.  I think he's
gotten soft."

     "How many soldiers overall?" McCarter asked.

     "A hundred, give or take," Bolan replied.  "We've reduced the count by
ten percent already."

     "Reinforcements?" Katz queried.

     "With London out of action for the moment," Bolan said, "his best bet
would be France.  The 14K has people there, but nothing on the scale of
Amsterdam.  They have to deal with competition from the Corsicans.  It still
gets sticky every now and then."

     "That's good to know," McCarter said.

     "Could be.  Is everybody set in terms of hardware?"

     "Fine," Katz said.

     "I'm happy," McCarter added.

     "Great.  Let's grab a bite and hit the bricks."

     He understood the reservations of his Phoenix Force allies, felt the same
constraints himself.  The odds were overwhelming if they hesitated long enough
to check out the big picture; thirty thousand dedicated soldiers of the 14K
lined up to take them out.  But Bolan had come this far alone, and now the
three of them were even better able to contend with killer odds.

     As long as they were careful, stuck within the limits of a high-risk game
where everybody's life was riding on the line.

     The struggle had to be taken one day at a time, or it would break a man's
spirit, drive him crazy with the certain knowledge that his adversaries had a
bottomless reserve of predators to draw upon when there were vacancies to
fill.  As long as man had been a thinking animal, there had been predators on
tap to terrorize the "civilized," and that would never change unless some
laboratory found a cure for human nature.  Even then, Bolan thought, the men
who found the "cure" would almost certainly be angling for control, a bigger,
better slice of pie.

     The best that he could hope for was to stop their adversaries here, and
then move on to seek another battlefield, repeat the process time and time
again in hopes that it would stick someday.


                                       3


     The warehouse on Prins Hendrikkade was owned by Kin Yau through buffer
companies that kept his name well insulated from investigators.  It wasn't a
perfect screen, but it had served him well enough for seven years.  The fact
that Amsterdam police had documented ownership within the past twelve months
didn't suggest that Yau would suffer raids or any undue scrutiny around the
warehouse.  He behaved himself in public, there was nothing to suggest that
anyone was being murdered on the premises and the police had other, more
important fish to fry.

     David McCarter, on the other hand, was very interested in what went on
behind those doors.  The former SAS commando had good reason to suspect that
heroin, cocaine, illegal Chinese immigrants and other contraband arrived at
Yau's warehouse both by truck and by canal boat.  He didn't have to prove it
in the sense of satisfying judges, juries or specific rules of evidence.  It
was enough for him to know Yau owned the property, and the man was designated
as his target of the moment.

     He parked next door, one car among two dozen in the lot outside a
warehouse catering to frozen seafood.  Walking back to Yau's place, he had
time to double-check the compact submachine gun underneath his coat and the
pistol slung beneath his left arm in a fast-draw rig.

     The warehouse door was open and unguarded--so much for security.  He
stepped inside and let it close softly behind him, waiting while his eyes grew
accustomed to the change in light.  A sound of voices speaking Cantonese led
him along a corridor where careless footsteps would have echoed loudly, but he
watched his step.  A sharp turn to his left, and he was looking at the
warehouse proper, with a small enclosure designated as the office to his
right.  Plywood partitions were finished off with glass above waist level, and
the entryway was without a door.  Four men took up most of the space, one of
them pointing to a ledger that lay open on a cluttered desk, gesticulating
with a zeal that could have indicated anger or enthusiasm for his job.

     All four of those inside the office were Chinese, and three of them wore
guns that weren't supposed to show beneath their sport coats.

     Checking out the main space of the warehouse, McCarter saw no other signs
of human life, no workmen to concern him when he set the place on fire.

     He blocked the office doorway with his body, cleared his throat to let
the Triads know they weren't alone and gave them time to glimpse his SMG.  Two
of them went for guns, and that was all he needed.  He swept them from right
to left and back again, the MP-5 K stitching them with hot 9 mm rounds.  There
was no place to hide in the restricted office space, and all four went down in
seconds flat, blood pooling on the floor beneath them.

     That left the warehouse, and McCarter did his business quickly, placing
each of the four thermite canisters where it would do the ultimate in damage
when it blew.  He had no way of knowing what was in the crates, and he didn't
care.  The merchandise, legitimate or otherwise, would cost Yau money to
replace, and that was part of bleeding him before the final killing stroke.
Debilitate his operation, strike on several fronts at once, and it would all
come crashing down.

     In theory, anyway.

     If they were wrong, McCarter told himself, there could be hell to pay.



     The sniper rifle was a folding-stock Galil, chambered in 7.62 mm, with a
20-round box magazine and a Nimrod six-power telescopic sight.  The built-in
bipod offered more stability than Bolan would have had if he was firing
free-hand, and the stock was fitted with a rubber recoil pad.  A specialized
version of the standard Israeli service rifle, the Galil scored consistently
inside an eleven-inch circle at six hundred meters--almost five times the
range of Bolan's target from the firing point.  The bulky silencer would shave
a bit of muzzle energy, but that was fine.

     The office occupied a fifth-floor corner space, northwest across
llperveldestraat.  From Bolan's rooftop aerie, with the Nimrod scope, he had a
clear view of the office: some expensive-looking watercolors on the wall; a
telephone constructed in the antique style, which looked as if it were made of
gold and ivory; oak furnishings hand polished to a mirror shine.  It was
conspicuous consumption all the way.

     The man behind the massive desk wasn't Kin Yau, but he would do.  Yau's
second-in-command was fielding calls despite the hour, and three men ringed
his desk in captain's chairs, as if awaiting orders to depart and essay some
heroic feat to please their master.

     They'd get their chance now, Bolan thought as his warm cheek pressed
against the cool wood of the sniper rifle's stock.  His index finger curled
around the trigger, taking up the slack until he felt resistance, knowing that
another pound or so of pressure would unleash a screaming round downrange to
shatter glass, rend flesh and bone.

     He watched as Yau's lieutenant dropped the telephone receiver back into
its cradle and began to lecture his small audience.  The others nodded,
puppet-like, but didn't speak.  It would be rash to interrupt, a bad career
move all the way.

     In Bolan's case, however, he had no job to protect and he was bent on
interrupting with a vengeance.  Any second now.

     He shifted to the nearest of the flunkies, zeroed on the nodding profile,
made allowances for elevation and the standard drop of a projectile traveling
one hundred meters at a downward angle, which he estimated at fifteen degrees.

     The Executioner took a breath and held it, leaned into the weapon as he
squeezed the trigger gently and felt the rifle kick against his shoulder.  The
office window rippled, sprouted spiderweb designs.

     His target lurched, blood spouting from the ruin of his face, and started
sliding from his chair down to the floor.  Before he made it, Bolan had a
second face framed in his cross hairs, squeezing off again.  There was no time
for them to think or comprehend exactly what was happening before a second
corpse lay stretched out on the deep-pile carpeting.

     The two survivors were moving as he tracked them with his scope.  The guy
behind the desk had better possibilities for cover, so the next round went to
him, a trifle hastily.  It dropped slightly, ripping through his larynx rather
than his face.  It did the job, regardless, blood exploding from the man's
jugular and his carotid artery.  The impact spun him in his swivel chair and
dumped him out of sight behind the desk, but he was done, unless somebody got
him to a trauma center in the next two minutes flat.

     And that left one.

     The soldier had a fair start toward the door, and Bolan helped him along
with a well-placed round between the shoulder blades.  His running target
vaulted forward, like a long jumper going for Olympic gold, and slammed
face-first into the office door.  A smudge of crimson marked the point where
nasal cartilage met wood and came off second best.

     Bolan spent a moment breaking down the rifle, stowed it in an olive drab
duffel bag and slung the bag across his shoulder.  Heading down the service
stairs, he half expected someone to confront him--the apartment building's
super, possibly a tenant--but he got out clean.  Two blocks later he reached
his car, by which time he could see a handful of pedestrians collected on the
sidewalk way downrange, examining the broken windows overhead and talking, no
doubt, about the meaning of it all.  How long before somebody called the cops?

     No matter.  He was on his way, unnoticed, moving toward the next mark on
his hit list.  Katzenelenbogen and McCarter would be on a roll, with any luck
their paths converging toward the final target that would bring them all
together for the coup de grace in Amsterdam.

     The war was far from over, but the battle was progressing well enough.



     The latest news struck Kin Yau like a resounding slap across the face.
He didn't mourn for Sin-Kiong Yau, but the man had been a valuable lieutenant,
good with men and money--an unusual combination in the world Yau occupied.
Replacing him would take some careful thought, and at the moment he was
totally preoccupied with finding out who had pulled the trigger.

     The raids against his sundry operations were continuing, and Yau still
had no idea who was responsible, beyond the fact that various survivors said
his enemies were white men.  Not Colombians, from the description; more like
Western Europeans or Americans.  Yau thought immediately of the Mafia, perhaps
the Corsicans, but they had all signed treaties with the 14K some time ago.  A
band of renegades, perhaps, intent on poaching Yau's narcotics territory?

     No.

     Competitors would concentrate on earning money first, and there had been
no indication of unlicensed peddlers on his turf.  There had to be some other
motive, then ... but what?

     Revenge was something Yau could understand, and he had enemies enough to
fill a good-sized auditorium, but most of them were fellow Asians, some
Hispanics, one or two disgruntled Turks.  He hadn't been to the United States
in seven years, and there had been no trouble at the time, a simple pleasure
trip, with minor business meetings on the side.  Yau's business took him into
London several times a year, but none of the Caucasian gangs was large or bold
enough to challenge him in Amsterdam.

     Who, then, and why?

     He slammed the desktop with his fist once more because the pain helped
ease his rage.  It galled Yau to sit behind a desk and wait for fresh news of
disaster while some unknown adversary ran amok in Amsterdam, killed his
employees, vandalized his property and burned up precious merchandise.  Much
more of this, and he would be a laughingstock among his troops and the Chinese
community at large.

     But what to do?

     His contacts in the Amsterdam police department had been worse than
useless so far.  They were scurrying around behind the faceless gunmen,
cleaning up their mess and interviewing Chinese witnesses who wouldn't
willingly provide a lawman with the time of day.  Officially it was suspected
that the raids were staged by "criminals or terrorists."  For all the insight
their analysis contained, they might as well have said Yau's troops were shot
by "men with guns."

     Of course the lightning raids were carried out by criminals.  Of course
they aimed at terrorizing Kin Yau, but to what end?  There had been no demands
for tribute, territory or the like.  No threats had been received, no messages
of any kind, in fact.  Survivors could recall no conversation with the gunmen
who appeared and disappeared so readily on Yau's home turf.  Whatever they
intended for him, it was still a closely guarded secret kept among themselves.

     That made it all the worse, of course.  Yau understood the base
emotions--lust, hate, envy, greed--that motivated people in his world.  If
this had been a blood feud or a war for territory, he would understand ... and
he would also more than likely recognize his enemies.  It was unprecedented
for a group of white men to attack the 14K in Chinatown.  Yau's last war, with
the Singaporeans, had been a fratricidal interlude that never really fazed the
Dutch community at large.

     A race war, though ...  Well, that was something else.

     Authorities would feel a greater need to intervene if there was any risk
of white men getting killed.  A threat to local tourism would be the worst
scenario, and Yau could expect some repercussions if the violence took a bite
out of the city's pocketbook.

     With luck and fortune on his side, Yau knew it wouldn't have to go that
far.  Once he identified his enemies, they could be isolated, hunted down and
made to disappear.  It wouldn't be the first time or the last that he made
problems go away, vanish without a trace.

     And if it didn't go that smoothly, if his adversaries fought tenaciously,
died in some public place, the media would soon forget about it.  There would
always be some fresh sensation, scandal or disaster waiting to monopolize the
short attention span of a pathetic round-eyed audience.  This time next week
the public would be more concerned with some movie star's love life or the
rising price of gasoline than with the fate of gunmen from a foreign country
who had met their long-awaited doom in Amsterdam.

     Yau sat back in his chair and made a conscious effort to relax.  His
enemies had had the upper hand so far, but they would soon run out of steam,
and when that happened, it would be his turn.



     Katz let the Chinese sentry see him.  The Israeli was an old man,
shuffling awkwardly along the alley west of Zeedijk, nothing for a strong
young Triad soldier to regard as a potential danger.  Maybe he was drunk or
just decrepit, but he posed no threat in either case.

     The fact that Kin Yau's lieutenants were concerned enough to post a guard
outside the back door of the Jueding Club, where there would normally be none,
told Katz something.  Inside, the live-sex shows would be continuing, the
players heedless of the fact that they were screwing in a war zone, but the
men in charge were learning from their early losses.

     Not enough so far, but they were working on it.

     Katz was even with the sentry now.  He faked a sudden fit of coughing,
doubled over, knowing the man would make no move to help him.  No help was
required.  His left hand found the Browning automatic underneath his jacket,
and he thumbed off the safety, turning toward the lookout as he drew his
weapon from its shoulder rig.  The silencer reduced the noise of the report to
something like a muffled sneeze, and Katz stepped in to catch the young man as
he fell.

     Inside, the air was heavy with tobacco smoke and musk, the sweaty smell
of sex.  Four paces brought him to the backstage area, where he could peer out
at the all-male audience beyond the naked bodies coupling on a mattress
planted in the middle of the stage.  It didn't take a truckload of
imagination, and the choreography was nonexistent, but the voyeurs in the
audience were getting what they paid for.  Later, if they didn't lose their
edge to alcohol or hash, a short walk to the west would put them in the middle
of the red-light district, where their fantasies could come to life in other
ways.

     But not tonight.

     Katz primed a compact smoke grenade and rolled it underneath the nearby
curtains, backing off before it popped and sizzled, spewing out ten thousand
cubic feet of smoke.  He didn't need a translator to know the customers were
yelling "Fire!" as they stampeded for the exits, cursing, jostling one another
in a panic as they ran.

     So far so good.

     Katz found a pair of Chinese sluggers closing on him, shouting in
Cantonese at first, then switching to Dutch as they discovered he was white.
The Uzi took them by surprise, sliding out from underneath his coat like magic
and locking into target acquisition.

     It was all downhill from there.

     They tried to break in opposite directions, pro-style, but they never had
the chance.  The Uzi stuttered discreetly, tagging the guy on Katz's left and
spinning him like a top.  Before his body hit the floor, the second gunner was
already jerking, spouting blood from blowholes in his chest and belly,
tangling in the nearby curtains as he fell.

     It was a short walk to the office, with no more opposition on the way.
Katz found the harried-looking manager just clearing out, and shoved him back
inside.  A sharp jab from the Uzi's muzzle stifled any protest as the man
slumped against his desk.

     "Speak English?" Katz inquired.

     "I do."

     "How badly do you want to live?"

     "I'm sorry?"

     "Don't apologize," Katz snapped, "just answer.  Do you want to live or
die?"

     His captive didn't need to think about it.  "Live," he promptly answered.

     "Fine.  You have a safe in here?"

     "A safe?"

     "You keep repeating everything I say.  It's using up your time," Katz
said.

     A sound of running feet behind him made the Israeli turn just in time to
see a young Chinese approaching, gun in hand, as if to warn the manager of
danger.  Gaping at the stranger with a submachine gun in his hand, the young
man skidded to a halt and raised his pistol.  Too late.

     A stream of parabellum manglers slammed him backward onto the painted
concrete floor, blood pooling beneath him.  It was the last straw for the sex
club's manager.  He raced around the desk, crawled underneath it with
Katzenelenbogen watching him and got the floor safe open in five seconds flat.

     Katz didn't know the day's exchange rate, and he didn't have a chance to
count the bundled currency as it filled a plastic shopping bag, but there were
thousand-guilder notes in there, along with hundreds, fifties and a host of
smaller bills.

     Not bad.  "Okay," he told his hostage when the safe was empty, you can go
now.  Tell your red pole this is only the beginning, right?  He's got a
migraine coming that will blow his head off."

     "Migraine?"

     "Never mind," Katz told him, pointing to the exit with his SMG.  "You
improvise.  And move your ass before I change my mind."

     The man was running like a track star when he hit the alley, never
looking back.  He didn't see his adversary follow him outside, turn in the
opposite direction from the open door and vanish into darkness with the sack
of cash.



     It would have been a relatively simple job to set the place on fire.  A
thermite canister through any window facing the street would do it, gut the
place in no time, but Bolan didn't want to kill the girls or paying customers.
He had dropped the hammer on a woman more than once, but each was armed and
doing everything within her power to kill him at the time.  As for civilian
bystanders, he had an ironclad rule against involving them in any action that
would cost an innocent's life.

     Which meant that he would have to clear the Triad brothel before he
burned it down.

     Okay.

     The getting in was easy.  All he had to do was knock and smile at the
attractive hostess on the door.  She led him to a common room, where women
dressed in filmy lingerie or their birthday suits lined up to greet him, offer
him a drink, compete for his attention and his cash.  A couple of them started
screaming when he brought out the Uzi, and Bolan left them to it, waiting for
the muscle to appear.

     They didn't keep him waiting long.

     One of the Triad soldiers was upstairs, his clumping footsteps all the
warning Bolan needed, and he was ready for him as his legs came into view
before the rest of him.  There was a blackjack in his fist, some kind of
compromise in weaponry until he checked out the problem, but Bolan shot him
anyway, a short burst to his chest that dropped him in a boneless sprawl and
spilled him down the stairs.

     More screaming, then, and when the next two soldiers came at Bolan, they
had pistols in their hands.  The gunners started to shoot at their first
glimpse of a round-eye with a weapon, wounding two of the girls before the
others scattered.  Bolan answered with a curse and short precision bursts that
stopped the shooters cold.  One was stretched out on his back and twitched
like a broken robot, while the other went down on his face and didn't move
again.

     The Executioner checked the injured women, found one barely grazed, more
terrified than hurt.  The other was bleeding from a flesh wound in her side.
When both were on their feet, assisted by their friends and co-workers, he
gave them time to fetch clothes from their rooms and make a hasty exit.  By
the time they started filing out, regarding him with awestruck glances, Bolan
had his thermite canisters lined up along the wet bar, waiting for the main
event.

     When he was satisfied that there was no one left alive inside the
brothel, he got down to business, pitched one thermite bomb upstairs and
dropped another in the small administrative office, where they also kept a
stash of pornographic video-cassettes on hand for rental to tricks who might
require a jump start.  Heading for the street, he tossed a third grenade
behind the bar and sprayed the ranks of liquor bottles with his Uzi, adding
fuel to help the coming flames take hold.

     Outside, pedestrians were staring, drawn by sounds of gunfire and the
rapid exodus of working girls, but Bolan made no effort to conceal his face.
Experience had taught him that the best eyewitnesses were next to useless in
emergencies, and most of those on hand were gaping at the upstairs windows,
where a cloud of smoke was drifting out to stain the sky.

     Nobody tried to stop Bolan and no one followed him as he walked the long
block to his waiting rental car.  The fire was something tangible, and
women--many of them almost nude--were spilling from adjacent houses now as
fire alarms began to clamor on the street.  It was enough of a diversion that
the Executioner could slip away, if not unnoticed, then at least forgotten in
the crush.

     He thought of Tu Sheng, the target who had dodged him back in London, and
decided it was time to try a different angle of attack.  Thus far, he had been
concentrating on the local Triad and ignoring its political connection with
Beijing.  But that was all about to change.

     The Executioner was seeing Red.


                                       4


     The radio told Tu Sheng that it was time for him to run.  He didn't like
it, but the obvious alternative was tantamount to suicide.  If he remained to
face his enemies, he would surely die.  In Paris he could find another place
to hide, regroup and cut his losses, try to start afresh.

     The Dragon would be furious, but that couldn't be helped.  Ideal
reactions in a killing situation seldom matched the choices available in
reality.  Would it somehow be better for the People's Revolution if Sheng
remained in Amsterdam and let himself be slaughtered like an animal?

     He didn't need a crystal ball to answer that one.  The decision had been
made, his bag was packed and he had telephoned ahead to Schipol Airport for
his ticket, first-class all the way.  It was incumbent on a diplomat to
represent his homeland well and generate respect whenever possible.

     Before he started to relax, though, Sheng would have to make it to the
airport in one piece.  That meant departing from his apartment as soon as
possible, escaping while the chance remained.  He had two escorts from the
Triad, one to drive, the other riding shotgun.

     It would have to be enough.

     He wondered idly whether one of his watchdogs had told Yau that he was
bailing out.  It hardly mattered now.  If either of them tried to stop him,
Sheng would use the pistol he had tucked inside his belt.  If not, there would
be time enough to ditch it in the men's room at the airport prior to boarding
his flight.

     Whatever happened, he wasn't about to let himself be killed for nothing
in a white man's city far from home.  There was a world of difference between
a willing sacrifice, in service to the People's Revolution, and a simple waste
of life.  Sheng had vowed to sacrifice himself if absolutely necessary, but
without some order from the Dragon, it would be for him to say when that
necessity arose.

     This day, he had decided after due consideration, wouldn't be the day.

     He made a final sweep of the apartment, making sure that nothing had been
left behind to trap him later.  Sheng had rented the apartment in another
name, with bogus documents supporting that identity, and there would be no
comebacks later when his check bounced and the next month's rent was overdue.
Landlords didn't trace fingerprints, and his weren't on file with Dutch
authorities in any case.

     All set, then.  He could leave without concern, and if his travels ever
brought him back to Holland, Sheng would wear a new identity--perhaps a
brand-new face, as well.  The surgeons in Beijing were masters at transforming
agents of the People's Revolution, thus allowing them to serve repeatedly in
areas where they would otherwise have been arrested, even hunted down.

     Sheng sent one of his escorts to check the street and smiled at the
report that there were no apparent traps in place on Waisteeg.  It was beneath
his dignity to carry luggage, but he made the sacrifice this time so that his
guards could have their gun hands free in case of any unexpected trouble.
Only after he was seated in the gray Mercedes-Benz did Sheng relax a bit,
beginning to believe that he would make it.

     Even so, he spent the drive to Schipol checking fearfully behind them,
watching for any indication of a tail.  The driver should have spotted it, but
Sheng believed in looking out for number one.  He wouldn't trust another with
his life, unless he took precautions for himself.

     At Schipol he allowed one of the bodyguards to take his bags inside the
terminal; the other waited in the car.  Sheng didn't thank him, barely nodding
at the soldier before the man disappeared in the crowd.  He felt a trifle
anxious as he dropped his pistol in the men's room trash and covered it with
paper towels, but seven minutes later he was safe in the first-class departure
lounge.

     As safe as he could be in Amsterdam, at any rate.

     Sheng bought himself a double whiskey and settled in to wait.  He would
have time in transit to consider how the Dragon would react to this, his
latest getaway.

     Meanwhile he was alive.

     What more could he expect or hope for in the middle of a war?



     Bolan parked his rental two doors down from Sheng's apartment building
and walked back.  He didn't know exactly what he should expect, but there were
no guns on the street, no lookouts visible in upstairs windows to his left or
right.  If gunners were watching out for Sheng, they knew enough about their
job to make a point of keeping out of sight.

     With one hand on the Uzi, Bolan mounted concrete steps and entered the
apartment building's lobby.  To his left mailboxes were arranged in rows, six
deep and eight across.  The other wall had artwork of a sort, some kind of
abstract paintings that were mostly daubs of gaudy color thrown together
without seeming rhyme or reason.

     Bolan waited for the elevator, stepped inside and punched the button for
Sheng's floor, then stepped out again and let the empty car go up without him.
He was running when he hit the stairs, ten flights to put him out on the fifth
floor, but he was counting on the fact that any sentries would be momentarily
distracted by the elevator.  When he reached the fifth-floor service door, he
hesitated long enough to catch his breath, then took a firm grip on his SMG
and barged into the corridor--to find it empty.

     The Executioner felt his stomach knotting as the elevator doors slid
shut.  The car departed as it had arrived, without a passenger, and Bolan
spent another moment waiting, almost hoping for an ambush, something that
would tell him he wasn't too late.

     Where were the guards?  Had Yau abandoned his accomplice from Beijing?

     The Executioner moved along the hall with long, swift strides, his weapon
covering each door in turn, prepared for anything.  Apartment 5D occupied the
northeast corner of the floor, the last apartment on his right.  As with the
other fifth-floor apartments, its door was painted blue.

     He wasted no time knocking, but gave the door a solid kick that snapped
the lock and carried him across the threshold into darkness.  Bolan hit a
fighting crouch, dodged to his left, aware that he would make a perfect target
with the hallway's light behind him.

     Nothing.

     Thirty seconds later, knowing he had come too late, he rose and found the
light switch, flicked it on and closed the door behind him.  How much time?
He had no way of knowing whether he had roused the neighbors or if one of them
would summon the police, but it wouldn't take long for him to search the
place.

     He went directly to the master bedroom, checked the closet and the
dresser, noting a suspicious dearth of clothes.  Sheng had taken everything he
owned, from all appearances, the empty drawers and hangers indicating that he
wouldn't be returning soon, if ever.

     Bolan finished going through the motions--bathroom, kitchen, parlor--just
in case, but there was nothing to suggest that Sheng had simply picked this
day to start that overdue vacation he had meant to take for months.  It was
another bail out, plain and simple.  This time, though, he didn't have a fix
on where his target might have gone.

     There was a notepad by the telephone, some hotel's logo on the top.  The
pages were blank, as he riffled through, but Bolan's eye picked out the faint
impression of handwriting on the topmost sheet of paper.  Now, if Sheng had
only jotted down the note in English, rather than Chinese ...

     He checked three kitchen drawers before he found a stubby pencil, long
forgotten, hiding underneath a tray of silverware.  He lacked an artist's
touch, but got the job done, scribbling lightly on the pad until the faint
impressions had become the white numerals and letters on a darker background:
"KLM 2163."

     A flight on Royal Dutch Airlines.  Going where?  Departing when?  A phone
call to the airport could retrieve those answers, but he couldn't tarry any
longer in the empty apartment.  The neighbors might be deaf and dumb, but
Bolan still had work to do in Amsterdam before he went in search of Tu Sheng.

     And there was never any doubt in Bolan's mind that he would follow Sheng.

     The agent from Beijing thought he could run and hide, but he was only
half-right.  Running was the easy part, but he could only run so far.

     And there was no safe haven in the world that would protect him from the
Executioner.



     It was approaching daybreak when McCarter took his place behind Kin Yau's
expensive block of condominiums on Oudezijdskolk.

     A chill had crept into his bones, but he was ready, psyched up for the
raid that was supposed to ring down the curtain on their excursion to the
Netherlands.  McCarter understood that Bolan had come up empty when he went to
find Tu Sheng, but they could always fix that later.  At the moment they were
batting cleanup on the 14K, and they weren't finished yet by any means.

     Yau was said to own the building, but he occupied only the topmost floor,
according to reports from Bolan's contact with the Amsterdam police--one huge
apartment for the boss, and two much smaller flats that served as quarters for
his private bodyguards.  Yau liked his privacy, and there was no way in or out
unless you had an invitation.

     So they said.

     McCarter would have bet that "they" were wrong.

     He would have liked to go with Bolan for the rooftop entry, but he
understood that someone had to watch the rear, cut off that angle of escape
when it hit the fan.  With Katz in front, they had their target well and truly
boxed, assuming he hadn't flown off to parts unknown with Sheng.

     On Bolan's signal from above, the Phoenix Force warriors would move in
and close the trap on anyone inside.  Ideally they would make a clean sweep of
the red pole's private aerie and decapitate the 14K in Amsterdam.  Whatever
happened with the Triad family after that, it would be someone else's
headache.

     "I'm in."

     The voice was crystal clear, McCarter's tiny earpiece picking up the
signal from on high without a trace of interference.  Bolan was inside the
building, closing on his target, and the time had come for Phoenix Force to do
its part.

     McCarter went in through the service door and rode the elevator up to the
sixth floor, one floor below his target.  Elevator access to the top floor
took a special key, which he didn't possess, but it was no great strain to use
the stairs from the floor.

     By the time the elevator stopped, McCarter had his MP-5 K submachine gun
out and ready, leading with the stubby weapon as he left the car and hurried
to the nearby service door, then the stairs beyond.  He took the stairs three
at a time, imagined Katz in much the same position at the far end of the
building, closing off the other exit to their enemies.

     He stood outside the service access door on the seventh floor and peered
through the tiny window that was two glass panes with wire mesh in between.  A
Chinese sentry wandered past, disappearing in seconds flat.

     Patrolling?  Going home to sleep?  Just killing time?

     McCarter checked his watch and saw that he was out of time.  There would
be no more signals or directions from their leader; they had worked out the
plan in advance and knew the moves by heart.  McCarter had to move now or
stand and watch the whole thing fall apart.

     He moved.

     The shooter he had glimpsed was opening a door to McCarter's left, about
to step inside.  He heard the whisper of the service door and turned in that
direction, his frown becoming an expression of shocked surprise as he saw
death staring back at him.

     It was no contest, but the shooter had to try it anyway.  He made a jerky
grab for hardware and he had to have known that he would never make it.  You
could give him points for effort, but the brass ring hung impossibly beyond
his reach.

     McCarter stroked a short burst from his SMG and opened up the gunman's
chest.  His target staggered, rubber legs collapsing under him, and he went
down.  The MP-5 K had no silencer, and any notions of a soft approach were
banished instantly.

     McCarter had known it would come down to this, and he was ready for it.
He'd take the open doorway first and see if there was anybody home.  If so,
the tenants would be scrambling for their weapons now, but there was still a
chance to catch them while they were confused, disoriented.  Any edge was
preferable to none at all.  He reached the door and ducked inside.



     The Godfather of Chinatown was sleeping fitfully when someone grabbed his
shoulder, jarring him awake.  He came up in a rush, fists clenched and ready
to defend himself, before he recognized his bodyguard.

     "Ling, what is it?"

     "Trouble."

     Even as the man spoke, a muffled burst of automatic gunfire ripped the
early-morning stillness.  Yau leaped out of bed, almost colliding with his
soldier, only now discovering the man's pistol ready in his hand.

     "How many?"

     "I don't know."  Ling shrugged as if to emphasize his ignorance.

     "The others?"

     "I came to wake you first."

     "All right.  Go find them.  Wait!  First call Chung Man for help.  Tell
him to hurry!"

     "Yes, sir."

     Yau pulled on his dressing gown and fumbled in the top drawer of his
nightstand for the pistol he kept hidden there.  It was a Walther PPK, small
but deadly in the proper hands.  Not much against machine guns, granted, but
his men had better weapons.  They would stand between Yau and his enemies.

     If they were still alive.

     Yau caught himself before the panic could take root and blossom.  He
wasn't done yet by any stretch.  Gunfire outside the apartment was one thing;
he could still defend himself, sit tight until his reinforcements came--or the
police, whichever got there first.  It made no difference now.  He was the
victim, and deserving of protection.  Any minor firearms violations could be
dealt with when the smoke cleared, once his enemies were dead or safely locked
in jail.

     And it amounted to the same thing in the end.  If they lived long enough
to be arrested, Yau would find a way to punish them himself, regardless of
security precautions.

     Such an insult had to be avenged if he intended to preserve his
reputation as a ruthless man of power.

     Yau cocked the Walther and left the safety off as he turned back in the
direction of his living room.  There were more sounds of gunfire from the
corridor outside his apartment, and he could hear his bodyguard speaking into
the telephone, relaying orders.  It would take some time for Chung Man to
respond, collect his troops and get them on the road, but Yau had had men on
standby ever since the trouble began the previous afternoon.

     As Yau was entering the living room, a burst of automatic fire ripped
through the door of his apartment, bullets slapping into walls and ceiling.
He retreated to the bedroom, left his bodyguard to deal with anyone who might
come charging through that door.  Yau wished there were a fire escape outside
his window, but the newer buildings had dispensed with such anachronisms.  In
the case of an emergency, he could escape by stairs or elevator, maybe leap
down to the street below if all else failed.  It was a drop of fifty feet or
more, and Yau wasn't prepared to take that grim, irrevocable step.

     Not yet.

     He closed the bedroom door behind him, briefly thought of blocking it
with furniture, then decided it would be a foolish risk.  A barricade would
keep him in, as well as keeping adversaries out.  If he was forced to flee in
haste, Yau didn't care for the idea of being trapped by obstacles which he
himself had set in place.

     The firing sounded closer now.  He still couldn't be sure exactly who was
firing, but it stood to reason that his own men wouldn't use their weapons in
the absence of a living, hostile target.  If this was some bizarre mistake ...

     Impossible.

     He walked around the king-size bed, then sat on the deep-pile carpeting
so that his head and shoulders were the only part of him exposed above the
mattress.  It wasn't much in the way of cover, but he knew a mattress would
stop bullets fairly well, and Yau would have a clear shot at his enemies as
they came through the bedroom door.

     If they got that far, it would mean that he was all alone, his soldiers
dead or rendered helpless to assist him.  It would be the end.

     But he could go down fighting, even so.  It was the best way for a man to
die.



     The service stairs seemed awfully steep to Katz as he was climbing,
counting flights and cursing every other step or so.  Already winded, and he
hadn't even glimpsed the enemy.

     He briefly wondered if he was getting too old for fieldwork, then pushed
the thought away to concentrate on more-important matters.  Like survival,
when he reached the seventh floor and the bullets started flying.

     He paused on the landing to catch his breath and stiffened as he heard a
door slam somewhere overhead.  On seven?  If so, what did it mean?

     Before his mind could come to grips with either question, Katzenelenbogen
heard the sharp, staccato sounds of automatic-weapons fire.

     He cursed himself aloud and was starting up the next-to-last flight when
his ears picked up the sound of hasty footsteps coming down to meet him.  Katz
was crouching with his right side braced against the metal banister, his Uzi
leveled from the hip, as a young Chinese came into view.

     Deserting under fire?  En route to call for reinforcements?  It didn't
matter.

     The young man had a pistol in his hand, already bringing it to bear on
Katz as recognition of an enemy showed in his face.  The Israeli beat him to
it, squeezing off a burst that stitched the Triad gunner from his waist to his
chin, explosive impact lifting him completely off his feet and body-slamming
him against the metal stairs.  He dropped the shiny automatic and wound up in
a huddled sprawl at Katz's feet.

     It had been too close for comfort, one of those events no one could ever
really plan for in a combat situation.  Shaken but unharmed, Katz stepped
across the lifeless body and resumed his climb.  The sounds of battle echoed
all around him in the stairwell, a reminder of his late arrival on the scene
that made his ears ring, sparking pain behind one eye.

     He had a job to do, and there was nothing to be gained by agonizing over
unavoidable delays.  He reached the seventh-floor landing, peered out through
the tiny window in the service door and saw enough to tell him he was needed
on the other side.

     From where he stood, two enemies were visible in profile, firing down the
hallway to his right, in the direction of some target Katz couldn't see from
where he stood.  Was it McCarter?  Bolan?  Someone was returning fire, which
made his next move doubly perilous, but Katz couldn't stand by and watch the
action from the sidelines any longer.

     It was time to move.

     He shouldered through the service door and caught one of the Triad
hardmen turning to investigate the unexpected sound and movement on his flank.
Katz stroked the Uzi's trigger, slammed a 4-round burst into his target's rib
cage.  The shooter staggered, reeling, impact and momentum finishing the turn
he had begun with conscious thought.  His weapon was a Czech-made Skorpion,
and it was spitting death at Katz even as the youthful gunman toppled to the
floor.

     Katz hit the deck, heard bullets rake the wall above his head, a couple
of them spanging off the metal access door.  None struck him, and he lay
facedown and waited for the storm to pass.  Incoming rounds from somewhere
down the hall--McCarter's theoretical position--tore into the wallpaper
nearby, and Katz saw human targets dodging, weaving, trying to protect
themselves.

     Three men, goddammit, two of whom had been invisible before he left the
shelter of the stairwell.

     He came up firing, holding down the Uzi's trigger, sweeping all in front
of him.  Katz had one chance to get it right, if McCarter didn't shoot him in
the meantime by mistake.

     It always came to this at last: the killing, one-on-one.  It was a
soldier's job, the moment he'd prepared for from his first trip to the firing
range, in basic training.  It was never pleasant--almost never, Katz amended
silently--but there was no escaping it.  Why else, indeed, would there be
soldiers in the first place?

     Snarling like a cornered animal and firing from the hip, Katz met his
enemies and let them have a taste of hell on earth.



     The entry had been relatively simple.  A service door up on the roof had
yielded to his picks, and Bolan scrambled down a short, wall-mounted ladder
into darkness.  With his feet on solid flooring, he risked a light and found
himself inside some kind of service closet, housing brooms, an upright vacuum
cleaner, paper towels and cleansers.  When he cracked the door an inch, he
found himself inside a bedroom, small but amply furnished, with a door that
opened on a lighted corridor beyond.  The sleeping quarters of a live-in
bodyguard, perhaps.

     He had the bedroom to himself and moved swiftly toward the open door
directly opposite his closet hideaway.  There was no time to waste, as the
Phoenix Force warriors would be making their move, responding to his signal
from the roof.  They'd be on their way by now, in fact, and while he couldn't
clear the way for their approach, he could get on about his business--hunting
Kin Yau.

     The sprawling suite of rooms was Yau's apartment obviously, but the
live-in guard or servant wouldn't sleep adjacent to the master.  Bolan spied
an intercom beside the bed and pictured Yau calling for his bodyguard in the
middle of the night to satisfy some errant whim.

     The Executioner had no floor plan to guide him in his search, but he had
eyes and ears, which ought to do the trick with any luck at all.

     The corridor ran to his left, and Bolan followed it, moving cautiously.
He heard a television playing softly somewhere up ahead, and assumed that
would be the living room.  A guard was on duty, then, to help Yau sleep at
night.

     The sound of automatic-weapons fire froze Bolan in his tracks.  His
comrades had arrived outside, and he could now count the time still left to
him in seconds.

     The television set clicked off.  Someone was moving toward him from the
direction of the living room.  He had a choice to make--reveal himself at once
or try to spot his target first--and Bolan chose discretion over zeal.  A
closet to his right provided ample cover, and he kept the door cracked, saw
Yau's bodyguard duck into another bedroom farther down the hall.  Two muffled
voices spoke Cantonese, then the guard reappeared, moved back in the direction
of the living room and the front door.

     Yau showed himself a heartbeat later, seemed about to join his bodyguard,
when a burst of gunfire stitched his door and changed the red pole's mind.
Yau doubled back into his bedroom and slammed the door.  Whatever else went
down from that point on, it was apparent that the godfather of Chinatown would
try to ride it out and let his soldiers take the heat as much as possible.

     Yau didn't know the heat was coming for him, even as he huddled in his
bedroom, praying for a break.

     Emerging from the closet, Bolan moved along the hallway, past Yau's
bedroom, toward the parlor.  By the time he got there, Yau's bodyguard had
gone to join his comrades, fighting to defend their master in the rooms and
corridor outside.

     So much the better.  For the next few moments, anyway, it meant that the
Executioner would have the red pole to himself.

     He didn't bother checking out the bedroom door.  It might be locked or
not; in either case Yau would be watching it, most likely armed, and it was
probable that he would open fire with everything he had the first time someone
touched the doorknob.  Bolan kicked the door instead, went through it in a
diving shoulder roll and fetched up hard against a heavy antique dresser.

     The first shot missed him by at least a yard and gouged plaster from the
wall in the corridor outside.  Yau cursed in Cantonese and tried again, his
second bullet chipping splinters from the ancient chest of drawers.  A short
burst from the Uzi drove him under cover, crouched behind the king-size bed,
and Bolan saw a chance to make his move.

     It was a risky proposition, but they couldn't very well trade shots all
night across the bed that separated them.  Nor could he tag Yau with a burst
fired underneath the bed, since it was mounted on some kind of solid platform,
adding several inches to its normal height.  Royal treatment all the way, and
while the setup hadn't been created with defense in mind, it had the same
effect in any case.

     He palmed a frag grenade and yanked the pin, pushed off with heels
against the wall and pitched the bomb as he rolled in closer to the bed.  Most
of the shrapnel should go up and out--the bed would clearly take its
share--and while he wasn't terribly concerned about a shrapnel wound, the
blast would still be deafening.

     The mattress lifted off, propelled by the concussion of the blast, as if
some giant chef were flipping pancakes in Yau's bedroom.  Bolan saw it coming
and brought his knees to his chest as light was blotted out, the weight
descending on him like a body slam.  His arms were tangled in the bedding,
thrashing hopelessly for precious seconds, while the shrapnel flew around him,
scoring plaster, wood and flesh.

     He didn't hear Yau die, but the results were obvious as Bolan freed
himself from his encumbrance, scrambled clear and eased around the smoking
remnants of the bed to find his prey.  The godfather of Chinatown had clearly
tried to save himself, retreat from the grenade, since most of his raw
shrapnel wounds were in the back and side.  Yau's robe, pajamas and the flesh
beneath were shredded, blood drenched.  Mama Yau wouldn't have recognized him,
but the Executioner had no doubts that the corpse before him once had been a
ranking member of the 14K.

     With ears still ringing, he moved back in the direction of the living
room.  It was peculiar how the sounds of combat faded, once your eardrums had
been dealt a solid blow.

     No, it wasn't simply deafness from the blast.  Outside, the firing had
subsided.  Bolan picked out voices, calling back and forth along the corridor,
but they spoke English, with familiar accents.

     "Coming out!" he warned the Phoenix Force warriors, hoping one or both of
them could hear a damn sight better than he could.  The risk of friendly fire
was ever present in close-quarters combat, and he didn't take it lightly.
"Come ahead," Katz called.


                                       5


                                     Paris

     The easy part was tracing KLM 2163, the flight from Amsterdam to Orly
International Airport, just south of Paris.  Bolan nailed it with a phone call
to the airline's toll-free information number, then made his next call to
arrange a hasty charter flight for three beleaguered businessmen who had to
make an early-morning confab with potential clients in the advertising
industry.  The pilot wasn't interested, as long as they paid cash up front.

     The best thing about Europe, Bolan thought, was how variety and change
stood side by side with ancient history.  You couldn't drive ten miles without
encountering some landmark from the Middle Ages, Renaissance or Reformation
sharing space with high-rise office towers, software factories and new
apartment buildings.  More to the point, each border crossing introduced new
languages and culture, culinary styles and dress codes.  In the States a
traveler could drive for days on end across vast deserts and rolling plains,
and the barns and gas stations and fast-food restaurants all looked the same.
In Europe all you had to do was drive around the block to find a change of
scene.

     But some things never changed.

     The Triads' way of doing business, for example.  When the Chinese mob put
down its roots in Paris, as in every other Western city where the 14K or its
competitors were well established, it began in Chinatown, spread out from
there by stages, forging treaties with the local syndicates when they could
not be overcome by force of arms.  The Mafia, the Medellin cartel, the
Corsican Milieu, the Yakuza--all these and more had made their peace with
representatives from Hong Kong and Macao, to keep the drugs and money flowing
smoothly into greedy hands.

     The Chinese quarter might not be so obvious in Paris as in Amsterdam or
London, but it still existed.  Above the Parc Monceau, between the Avenue de
Villiers and the Boulevard de Corcelles, the Far East had invaded Paris,
slowly taking over through the years, until a hapless visitor might be
forgiven for suspecting he had been set down in San Francisco or New York by
accident.  The street signs were in French, but Cantonese was still the major
tongue of commerce.

     Bolan stood a half block south of Rue Jouffroy, outside the Yang-rou
Club, and felt a nagging sense of deja vu.  It was a pain to start from
scratch each time Tu Sheng slipped through his fingers, but he had no choice.
If nothing else, the unexpected tour of Western Europe was allowing him a
chance to shake the 14K in several venues, let the shock waves spread to
maximum advantage while his enemies were scrambling to find out what was going
on.  It brought a smile to Bolan's face, imagining the calls that had to be
burning up the lines to Hong Kong and Macao, one echo of disaster following
another, weakening the fat, malignant octopus as first one tentacle and then
another was destroyed.

     No lethal damage was inflicted on the monster yet, but they were making
progress.  Step by step the 14K was losing ground to Bolan's swift and
well-coordinated campaign.  He had too much experience to count his chickens
yet, but it was still a hopeful sign that he had come this far without a major
setback in the field.

     Small favors, Bolan thought, and concentrated on his target just across
the street.  It was too early for the piece to be unlocked; not even janitors
would be around at this time of the morning, but he didn't mind.  For Bolan's
purposes, an empty club would do just fine.

     The small athletic bag he carried held five pounds of Semtex plastic
explosive, with a twelve-volt battery and detonator he could trigger by remote
control.  All he had to do was slip inside the club, secure his parcel and
retreat a block or so to set it off.  No sweat.  Round one in Paris would be
his, no fuss, no muss.

     The Executioner was whistling softly as he crossed the street.



     McCarter saw his target coming, flanked by goons, emerging from the posh
apartment house on Rue de Phalsbourg.  Three men were on the sidewalk now, and
number four was waiting with the car, a charcoal gray Mercedes-Benz.  The car
might not be armored, but McCarter didn't want to take the chance.

     His mark was Sun Fan, a chief lieutenant in the Triad family led by Toh
Lim.  While Paris was Lim's seat of government, his influence was also
strongly felt in Lyon and Marseilles, where Asian opium was processed into
heroin and uncut China white was "stepped on" prior to resale on the streets.
Most of the heroin came in from Amsterdam, but Lim had also forged a lucrative
alliance with the Medellin cartel, wherein he purchased cocaine by the ton and
handled distribution for the whole of France.

     That kind of business needed muscle standing by, and Sun Fan had made his
reputation as a leg-breaker, assassin and arsonist.  He wasn't a large man,
but he obviously had a killer attitude.

     McCarter crossed the street and came up behind his target, one hand in
the pocket of his trench coat wrapped around the MP-5 K submachine gun's
pistol grip.  No silencer for this job--he would be relying on surprise,
audacity and speed to see him through.  If anything went wrong, the Briton
understood that the penalty for failure would be death.

     A dozen paces separated predator and prey, no more than half that
distance left between the three Chinese and their Mercedes-Benz.  The driver
stayed behind the wheel and kept the engine running.  One of Fan's flankers
would be handling the doorman's duties this time out.

     McCarter's targets were within accepted killing range.  He raised the SMG
and pointed it from fifteen feet away.  There was no need to aim this close,
but there was no point taking foolish chances, either.  Picking out a point
between the left-hand gunner's shoulder blades, McCarter held down the MP-5
K's trigger and swept the stubby man-shredder from left to right, staccato
thunder in his ears, brass streaming out of the ejection port to rattle on the
pavement.

     They went down like puppets with their strings cut, tangling together as
they fell.  Sun Fan was twitching, but a final 3-round burst relaxed him.
Blood ran down the sloping sidewalk toward McCarter, forming crimson streams.

     He stepped aside to let it pass.

     The driver was emerging now, a pistol in his hand, the car between them.
It was too late for his boss, but he couldn't be sure of that, and honor
called for him to make the effort.

     The Briton fired a short burst from the hip to test the Benz's window
glass for bulletproofing, and it shattered instantly, dissolving into pebbles.
Satisfied with the result, he held down the trigger and used up the remainder
of his magazine to nail the driver where he stood, wrongly believing he was
safe.

     The man staggered, squeezing off a shot as he went down, but it flew high
and wide.  He dropped from sight behind the Benz, and McCarter circled far
enough around the car to verify a solid hit before he turned his back and put
the killing ground behind him.  Curtains stirred on both sides of the main
residential street, but no one ran outside to challenge him.  Police--or Lim's
people--would eventually hear the story of a white man who had pulled the
trigger on four Triad soldiers, and the word would get around.

     As planned.

     The blitz in Paris would require a slightly different angle of attack
than Amsterdam, since more-diverse participants were in the game.  That made
things doubly difficult in some respects, but if they pulled it off, the end
result would be more damaging for Triad interests in the city--and in France
at large--than if they simply killed Lim and let it go at that.

     They had a chance to bring down the house this time, and the opportunity
was too good to ignore.

     McCarter walked back to his car, climbed in and drove away.

     Toward Judgment Day.



     Tu Sheng was dozing when the phone rang, jarring him awake as if someone
had dashed a bucket of cold water in his face.  The room was dark, thick
curtains drawn against the daylight, and he fumbled for the telephone
receiver, nearly dropping it before he got it to his ear.

     "Hello?"

     Sheng recognized the voice at once.  Toh Lim wasn't a man to shout when
he was angry; rather, he was prone to speak more softly as his fury escalated
toward the detonation point.  It didn't please Sheng to realize that Lim was
almost whispering.

     He sat and listened as the red pole told him what was happening in
Paris--four men were executed by a round-eye with an automatic weapon, in full
view of several witnesses; there had been a bomb blast at the nightclub where
Lim stopped for drinks and dinner several times each week.  The godfather of
Chinatown had questions for Sheng, concerning London, Amsterdam, the curse
Sheng seemed to carry with him as he fled across the continent from faceless
enemies.  A car had been dispatched to pick him up.  He should be ready when
Lim's soldiers rang the bell, so they weren't compelled to wait.

     It never crossed Sheng's mind to run away before the gunmen came to fetch
him.  Bailing out of Amsterdam was one thing, when the tide of battle had
already turned against his Triad "friends" and there was nothing he could do
to help them on his own.  It was a different thing entirely to ignore a
summons from the local red pole when he asked for--or, more properly,
demanded--information that might save the day in Paris.

     Not that Sheng had much to say.  He had been fortunate so far in managing
to sidestep lethal contact with the unknown enemy.  He didn't doubt that those
responsible for the attacks in Amsterdam and London were the same men now at
work in Paris, but that knowledge wouldn't help Lim protect himself.

     Sheng dressed in haste, ignoring the mirror until it was time to brush
his hair.  His tie was crooked, and he left it that way.  Fashion was the
least of his concerns.

     He thought of reaching out for contact with the Dragon, asking for
advice, but finally decided it would be a waste of time.  He had to look bad
enough already, running for his life while two important segments of their
network were reduced to ashes.  Still, the Dragon had to realize that Sheng
wasn't a gunman.  It had never been his job to pull a trigger.  He was a
negotiator and a fixer, skilled at shoring up alliances between unlikely
partners.  Much of what the Dragon had accomplished in the European theater of
operations would be credited to Sheng.

     If he survived.

     In realistic terms he knew that no amount of previous success would cover
for repeated failures.  It was illogical for anyone to blame him for the
recent difficulties, but he also understood that logic was in short supply
once bullets started flying and the troops began to die.

     Sheng would be blamed, to some extent, because he had survived the raids
in Amsterdam and London, while so many others fell.  No matter how he pleaded
his case, some would revile him as a coward who had run away to save himself
while braver men stood fast and lost their lives.  It wouldn't matter that a
single man--untrained in combat skills, at that--could make no difference when
the Triad's finest troops were going down in flames.  It still looked bad for
Sheng, and he would have to think of some way to redeem himself.

     It would go far in that direction, he decided, if he found a way to help
Lim destroy the pesky round-eyes.  Sheng had no idea how that could be
accomplished, but it seemed the only way for him to come out--how did the
Americans express it?--smelling like a rose.

     The buzzer sounded, and he went to answer, switching off the lights
behind him as he left each room in turn.  He took a moment at the door to peer
through the peephole, verifying Chinese faces on the other side.

     For once the sight of Sheng's fellow countrymen was neither reassuring
nor entirely welcome.  These men belonged to the Triad, owned body and soul by
Lim.  At a word from their master, they would dismember Sheng and drop him in
the Seine to feed the fish.

     It wasn't likely that the godfather of Chinatown would kill him, risk the
Dragon's wrath, but Sheng couldn't absolutely rule it out.  If his survival
seemed to threaten Lim, his family or the 14K at large, Sheng had no doubt
that loyalty to the Triad and self-preservation would prevail.

     His work would all have been for nothing, then.

     More to the point, he would be dead and gone.

     Sheng's hands were trembling as he opened up the dead bolt and turned the
knob, but he was smiling as he greeted Lim's warriors.  Three cold faces
stared at him, jackets open so that they could reach their weapons.

     "I'm ready," Sheng informed them.  "Shall we go?"



     Katz found his targets sitting down to breakfast in a restaurant on Rue
Cardinet.  There were eight of them, all cho-hai--sharks--who handled muscle
work in Paris and environs for the 14K.  These were the men who went to see
you if you stiffed the family on loan payments or your merchant's tribute for
the month was running late.  They were extortionists by trade and brutes by
inclination, savages in any language.

     The Israeli crossed the busy street, moved swiftly down an alley on the
east side of the restaurant and went in from the back.  The kitchen smells
made his stomach growl, reminding him that he had eaten nothing since a
sandwich on the charter flight from Amsterdam.

     There would be enough time later to take care of that, if he got through
the next few Moments safe and sound.

     He kept the Uzi submachine gun hidden underneath his raincoat as he
passed the bustling kitchen, glancing in at the workers in their snow-white
jackets.  They were spotless to a man, and too absorbed in work to pay him any
mind.  A couple of them glanced at Katzenelenbogen, recognized a stranger in
their midst and quickly turned away.

     It took all kinds, he thought, and Katz could only guess what kind of
hard-eyed customers passed through a Triad hangout in the course of any given
week.  Colombians, Corsicans, Sicilians, an American or two, some would-be
mobster in from London to negotiate a deal for China white.  The kitchen help,
he calculated, wouldn't be surprised by much of anything.

     At least, until the guns went off.

     Once he was past the kitchen, Katz had a straight shot to the dining
room.  It wasn't crowded at this hour.  In fact, aside from Katz's targets and
their waiter, there was no one in the place.  That made it easier, at least in
theory, since he wouldn't have to think about civilians blundering across his
line of fire.

     He crossed the open dining room, no hesitation now, his left hand wrapped
around the Uzi's pistol grip, the metal claw that was his right hand ready to
support the weapon when he opened fire.  Another fifteen paces, and the sharks
hadn't seen him, yet.  The waiter glanced toward Katz, frowning slightly, and
seemed about to speak before the scowl on Katz's grim face changed his mind.
The young man turned away and started to walk toward the kitchen as if his
life depended on it.

     Perfect.

     Now he had the sharks all to himself.

     By the time they saw death coming, Katz was twenty feet away, the Uzi's
short, unlovely muzzle sliding out from underneath his coat.  He had the
weapon cocked, its safety off, before he ever stepped inside the Chinese
restaurant, so there was nothing to delay him now.

     The gunner farthest from him, at the table's head, was rising, pointing,
calling out a warning to his friends in Cantonese.  The other seven heads were
swiveling to face Katz as he opened fire.

     The Uzi's racket was hellacious in the quiet dining room.  He swept the
far side of the table first, because the gunmen there were facing him as he
approached and therefore stood a better chance of returning his fire.  Three
soldiers tried desperately to rise and reach their weapons as a storm of
parabellum manglers punched them over backward, sprawling in their high-backed
chairs.

     The leader, seated at the table's head, had one hand in his jacket and
was lurching to his feet when Katz shot him in the chest.  It was a short
burst but it did the trick, dumping the shark onto the floor in a boneless
sprawl.

     Four down and four to go.

     Katz kept on firing, sweeping the near side of the table, where a couple
of the Triad hardmen had been startled into immobility.  They couldn't seem to
move, and the Israeli helped them, blasting both men from their chairs and
sending them crashing to the blood-streaked floor.

     The last two sharks were on their feet now, weapons in their hands.  One
fired a wild shot at his round-eyed adversary and received a disemboweling
burst in answer to his effort.  Number eight, the last survivor, saw a chance
to run and took it, sprinting toward the kitchen, but he never made it.  Katz
used the last rounds in his magazine to drop the runner on his face and nail
him there.

     Reloading on the move, Katz cautiously retraced his steps and checked out
the kitchen, where a pall of utter silence had replaced the normal clatter.
He left the staff to take whatever steps they thought appropriate.  It made no
difference to him if they reached out for the police or Toh Lim.  In either
case, the red pole would be briefed on what had happened soon enough.

     And that was what they wanted, after all.  A little extra seasoning
tossed in the pot as it began to boil.  Somebody would be getting scalded
soon, or Katz was very much mistaken.



     The two young Triad gunners saw it coming, but their inexperience was
such that neither of them knew exactly what to do when death came calling.
Both fumbled underneath their stylish jackets for their pistols, but it was
too late.  When you were covered going in, a weapon cocked and pointed at your
face with no diversion handy, there was nothing much to do but pray.

     The Beretta spit two silenced rounds at point-blank range.  The lookouts
never had a chance, but Bolan felt no sympathy for men who chose to make a
living from the misery of others.  They were voluntary players in a lethal
game, and they had lost.

     Stepping over crumpled bodies, Bolan tried the back door of Yuan-lin Club
and found it wasn't locked.  Why should it be, with two brave soldiers
standing watch?

     He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, listening for any sound
that would betray another human presence in the club.  The gambling wouldn't
start before eleven, maybe twelve o'clock, but he could still hear voices,
muffled by an intervening wall somewhere ahead of him.  He homed in on the
sound, replaced the Beretta in its armpit rig and swung his Uzi from under
cover as he closed the distance to his prey.

     The club was yet another night spot owned by Lim and company, a
combination hangout for the mob and business enterprise designed to separate
Chinese civilians from their hard-earned money at the gaming tables.  Since
there were no customers this early, Bolan would assume the sounds he overheard
were made by members of the Triad management.

     A door stood open on his left, six paces farther down the corridor.  He
took his time, aware that some pedestrian might find the stiffs outside at any
time, but still less concerned with an alarm than with the consequence of
rushing when he had his targets cornered but their strength was unknown.

     He risked a peek around the doorjamb, counted four men in the office and
decided it was time to introduce himself.  The oldest of the four was seated
at a desk with ledgers open on the blotter, a compact adding machine replacing
the traditional abacus.  His three companions ringed the desk and listened to
his every word, intent on following the point he sought to make ... until the
desk man lost his voice and sat back with a gasp, eyes fixed on Bolan and the
submachine gun in his hands.

     It took a heartbeat for the other three to register the source of his
confusion, then they swung around to face the round-eyed stranger in the
doorway.  Looking at a clear-cut choice of do or die, they tried to do, but
they were facing even worse odds than their late, unlucky friends out back.

     The Uzi stuttered and dropped them in their tracks, one dying soldier
slumping back against a nearby filing cabinet, raking coffee cups and
magazines from the top as he reached Out for some support and missed it,
finally sprawling on his face.

     The man behind the desk was speechless, staring down the Uzi's muzzle,
waiting for his turn to die.

     "Speak English?" Bolan asked him.

     "Yes."

     "May I assume you want to live?"

     "What must I do?"

     "I have a message for Toh Lim.  You pass it on, I pass you by.  Fair
trade."

     "What message?"

     "Tell him it's the end.  He's out of time.  Too many debts are overdue,
and I'm collecting.  Have you got that?"

     "Is the end.  No time.  Debts coming due."

     "That's close enough."  Bolan waited for another moment, staring at the
man behind the desk, then said, "Are you still here?"

     The guy was quick for someone Of his age and girth--a senior track star
passing Bolan in the home stretch, making for the finish line.

     Another seed of discord, sown on fertile ground.  He left a thermite
canister behind him in the office then cleared the club before it started
spewing white-hot coals.  A Viking funeral might not be appropriate for
Chinese gangsters, but it was the best he had to offer.

     There would be more funerals coming soon, he thought.  Enough to go
around for all concerned.


                                       6


     It seemed a long walk from the car to Toh Lim's office.  Tu Sheng was
sweating through his white dress shirt before his escorts brought him to the
door marked Private, on the sixth floor of an office building one block south
of Avenue de Villiers.  One of the hardmen, apparently the leader, knocked and
slipped inside, while Sheng and two stern-faced companions lingered in the
hallway, waiting for permission to enter.

     The minutes dragged like hours, with Sheng determined not to let nerves
make him fidget.  He wasn't some schoolboy called before the headmaster for
cutting up in class.  The problems Lim faced weren't Sheng's fault, and he
would not feel guilty for the fact that he was still alive.

     So far.

     Sheng knew there was a chance, however slim, that he wouldn't survive his
meeting with Lim.  For all of his soft-spoken charm, the red pole was a man
notorious for both his rages and the vengeance wreaked upon his enemies.
Sheng knew a few of the unpleasant stories, and he had no wish to be another
piece of Lim's grisly reputation.

     The leader of the pickup team returned, a curt nod urging Sheng into the
office.  None of them accompanied him, which was small relief as the door
closed behind him, leaving him alone with Lim.

     The red pole sat behind a massive desk of hand-carved ebony.  He didn't
rise in greeting, didn't smile, but waved a pale hand toward the solitary
straight-backed chair that stood before his desk.  Sheng crossed the room, sat
and waited for the grilling to commence.

     "How are you, Sheng?"  Lim's voice was soft, low pitched as always.
Intimate.

     "I'm well," Sheng replied, hoping it was the correct response.

     "You have no injuries to show for the events in Amsterdam and London,
then?"

     Sheng saw the trap and tried to edge around it.  "I was fortunate."

     "Indeed.  A number of my brothers did not share your luck."

     "I understand that."

     "And do you understand the cause of all this trouble, Sheng?  What is
your explanation for these treacherous attacks?"

     "I have no explanation, Toh."

     "Your function, as I understand it, is to harmonize our operations with
Beijing and to guarantee that everything runs smoothly.  Yes?"

     "I do my best.  There are no guarantees in life."

     "So, you admit to failure, then?"

     "I willingly admit these raids against the 14K have come as a
surprise--to you, as well, I think."

     "It was my understanding that our dealings with the Dragon were supposed
to make things better for my family, not get my soldiers killed."

     "You think these incidents relate in some way to the Dragon?"

     "What am I to think?" Lim asked.  "Your counterpart in the United States
was killed last week, if I am not mistaken."

     "Luk Pang.  You are correct," Sheng said.  "And you believe it was a mere
coincidence?"

     "I have no way of knowing that."

     "Am I supposed to be impressed by ignorance?"

     Sheng hesitated for a moment, gathering his nerve before he answered.  "I
want this business settled, just as you do.  I do not enjoy being hunted like
an animal through half of Europe."

     "So, you think these round-eyes are pursuing you?"

     "I didn't say that.  Clearly I have no way to determine who they are or
what they want."

     "But you continue running from them, all the same.  Or should I say you
keep on leading them to other targets."

     Lim had dropped his voice to something in the nature of a whisper now.
Sheng recognized the danger sign, deciding that his best defense was frank
defiance.

     "If you think I have betrayed you, call your soldiers.  Better yet,
inform the Dragon of your thoughts.  You are familiar, I believe, with his
response to traitors."

     "I have made no accusations," Lim replied, "but you'll admit the
circumstances are ... peculiar."

     "As you say."

     "Perhaps it would be wise if you stayed here and let my men watch over
you until this matter is resolved."

     Sheng felt his stomach rolling, but he couldn't very well refuse the
offer without driving Lim to some more drastic act.

     "I would be happy to accept your hospitality," he said.

     "It's settled, then."  The red pole keyed his intercom; Sheng heard the
door swing open at his back.  "For both our sakes," Lim said, "I hope this
trouble will be settled soon."



     It had begun as yet another ordinary day, with nothing to commend it, but
the morning call had changed all that.  Marcel Bouchet wasn't sure what to
make of his new orders, but he would do as he was told--up to a point.  The
Sorete didn't encourage great initiative among its officers, but he wasn't a
slave.  Sometimes it was convenient to ignore the book and take things as they
came.

     Bouchet could only hope the Triads were involved somehow, and that he
would obtain new information to help him in his five-year effort to defeat the
Chinese syndicate in France.  Bouchet wasn't alone in that pursuit, but he
still felt that way sometimes.  Their progress had been next to nonexistent,
and it sickened him to watch Toh Lim expand his rotten empire while the law
stood helpless to prevent him.

     Bouchet knew there was something going on in Paris.  That much was
apparent from the several violent incidents reported in the past three hours.
Triad property or personnel had been on the receiving end in every case, and
Bouchet would have been dishonest with himself if he pretended that he wasn't
pleased to see the Chinese gangsters squirming for a change.

     The heat would do them good, and if it drove them out of Paris
altogether, well, sometimes the end did justify the means.

     The meeting had been set by one of his superiors, with no warning to
Bouchet until the order was delivered at his desk by telephone.  Proceed to a
specific sidewalk cafe on the Avenue de Champs-Elys.  The man he was supposed
to meet--an American called Mike Belasko--hadn't been described.  It would be
his responsibility to find Bouchet, identify himself and take it on from
there.  The purpose of the meeting was obscure.

     He'd been told to listen, hear what Belasko had to say.

     About Toh Lim?  Could the Americans be interested in Lim's activities
somehow?  It seemed improbable, unless the red pole was expanding his
activities beyond their normal sphere.  In that case, anything was possible.

     Bouchet watched out for traffic as he passed the Eiffel tower and crossed
the Seine.  Most Parisian drivers handled their vehicles as if they were
disciples of the kamikaze pilots in the Second World War.  It almost seemed to
be a point of pride for them to blow their horns at someone every hundred
meters, give or take, and near-miss accidents were like a test of mettle, one
more way for men and women to escape their humdrum lives and snatch a moment
of adventure from the rat race.

     Bouchet knew the feeling--the frustration that came with going nowhere
fast, as the Americans would say--but he had enough danger in his life already
without seeking more on the road as a form of diversion.

     Across the river twenty minutes of dodging his fellow countrymen brought
him to a public parking lot, a long block from the street cafe where he would
find the mysterious Yank.

     Or maybe not.

     It seemed unlikely to Bouchet that this would be a hoax, but stranger
things had happened.  He even considered the possibility of a trap, but that
seemed too improbable to be taken seriously.  The Triads could reach out for
him at any time, if that was their desire, and while Bouchet didn't always
enjoy the best relationship with his superiors, it seemed preposterous that
they would join a plot to have him killed.

     Still, he was grateful for the pistol in his pocket as he parked the
Citroen and walked to the cafe, due east.  He found a table, as instructed,
sat and ordered wine.  It was too early for a meal, but there was always room
for alcohol.

     A shadow fell across the wrought-iron table as he sat and waited for his
wine.  Bouchet glanced up to meet the tall man's eyes.

     "Bouchet?"

     The agent nodded cautiously.

     "I'm Mike Belasko," the American informed him, thrusting out a hand.
"It's good to meet YOU."

     "TELL ME MORE about the Triads and the Corsicans," Bolan said, after they
had both been served: wine for Bouchet and coffee for himself.

     The sandy-haired French officer sat back and scratched his chin
reflectively before he spoke.  "They tolerate each other, yes?  It is a
marriage of convenience, you would say, The Union Corse--or Corsican Milieu,
if you prefer--has been our Mafia in France as long as anybody can remember.
Following the Second World War, your CIA hired Corsicans to help disrupt the
Communists in France.  They're not concerned with politics, per se, unless it
has some impact on their earning power.  How ironic that they should cooperate
with the Chinese today and help the Communists instead of fighting them."

     "Times change," Bolan said.

     "So they do."  Bouchet took time to sip his wine before continuing.
"Along with smuggling and assorted other crimes, the Corsicans have dominated
heroin in France for many years.  Your so-called French Connection, in the
1960s, was a deal between the Corsican Milieu and mafiosi in New York.
Traditionally they've imported opium from Turkey and refined it in Marseilles,
for sale in France and distribution overseas.  More recently, with some
assistance from the Triads, they've begun to deal in Asian heroin, as well.
More irony--a fair percentage of the drugs refined in France these days is
shipped to South America as payment for cocaine.  The men from Medellin and
Cali have no distribution network here, so they have struck a bargain with the
home team, as you say."

     "Where does the money go?" Bolan asked.

     "Oh, we have our share of laundries here, Monsieur Belasko.  To the
south, in the Basque provinces, it's known that the Colombians and Triads
laundered some one and a half billion francs last year.  That's roughly
one-third of a billion U.S. dollars, I believe.  We shut the operations down
whenever possible, of course, but still ...  it's difficult to outlaw commerce
altogether, no?"

     "I see your point."

     "There are legitimate investments, too.  Some forty kilometers from
Paris, on the Seine, the Triads own three hundred acres of commercial
property.  They've built two luxury hotels, together with a first-class
shopping center.  There is, of course, no law against improving the economy,
creating jobs and so forth."

     "So, your hands are tied?"

     "Not quite.  The drugs are still illegal, and we make arrests, send
various conspirators to prison.  As in your country, however, those on top
take care to insulate themselves from what goes on below.  We catch the
smaller fish, but sharks avoid the net."

     "I take it that you're following the link between the Triads and
Beijing," Bolan said.

     "It has come to our attention," Bouchet replied, "but the options are
limited.  Some Chinese visitors have diplomatic immunity, and all are welcome
to speak with their countrymen living in France.  It is impossible for us to
watch each Chinese in Paris, much less in the country."

     "Do you recognize the name Tu Sheng?"

     Bouchet put on a narrow smile.  "That one!" he said.  "We watch him when
we can, but he is skilled at giving us the slip, as you would say.  We know
about his meetings with Toh Lim and other Triads, but there is no crime in
talking."

     "That depends on what they talk about," Bolan said.

     "True enough, but Lim has learned to take precautions when it comes
to--shall we say?--eavesdropping.  He retains a small but expert team of
security specialists to watch over his home and office, his telephones and
vehicles.  They've frankly managed to defeat our best equipment for the past
three years at least."

     "Your problem," Bolan said, "is that you have to make a case in court."

     Bouchet responded with a weary shrug.  "Of course.  Our system is a
trifle different from yours, I think.  Defendants are required to prove their
innocence, instead of simply standing mute and letting us do all the work, but
we must still have solid evidence."

     "Suppose there was another way to go?"

     "And which way would that be?" Bouchet inquired.

     "A more direct approach, let's say."

     The Frenchman almost smiled, but caught himself and took another sip of
wine instead.  "You mean a frame-up?  Manufactured evidence?"

     "No, I was thinking more of straight elimination."

     "Ah."  The silence hung between them for a moment while Bouchet
considered that.  "I take it that you do not represent the FBI."

     "Not even close."

     "Three different letters come to mind."

     "Strike two.  I don't like working for the Company," Bolan said.

     "Would this have anything to do with the events that have transpired
since breakfast?" Bouchet asked.

     "It would."

     "You seem to have a fair start on the problem, as it is.  Why would you
risk yourself, approaching someone from the Sorete?"

     "I need your help," the Executioner replied.  "Your people know the
Corsicans and local Triads inside out.  Who better, for a target spotter, than
someone who spends his whole life studying the enemy?"

     "I'm not sure what to make of this," Bouchet replied.

     "You mean the fact that your superiors arranged the meeting?"

     "For a start."

     "Consider it a trend toward international cooperation on solution of a
common threat.  We could refer it to the diplomats, I guess, but I'd prefer to
get a handle on the problem in this century," Bolan said.  "How about
yourself?"

     "You tempt me," Bouchet told him, "but I've been trained to shun
temptation in my line of work."

     "No strings attached.  No one's asking you to pull a trigger, and they
never will."

     "What, then?"

     "The benefit of your experience.  Addresses, names, connections.  Like a
shopping list."

     The Frenchman laughed out loud at that, and took another sip of wine
before he answered.

     "Very well," he said.  "We'll have an early Christmas, then.  I think
I'll treat myself."

                                     Macao

     The Dragon lit a cigarette, inhaled and blew smoke from his nostrils,
sitting with his eyes closed in the dark.  It helped to put his thoughts in
order when he stood apart from other men and blocked their shrill, discordant
voices from his mind.  Most times a little solitude was all he needed to
resolve a problem, come up with an answer to some question that bedeviled him.
But not this time.

     He had been chasing shadows for a week now, watching as his network was
dismantled piece by crucial piece.  Five Triad families had been shattered,
and a sixth--in Paris--was already reeling from the first resounding blows of
what appeared to be another carbon-copy blitzkrieg.  Scores of Triad soldiers
had been killed, his own chief representative in North America was dead and Tu
Sheng was scampering around the European continent like some demented rodent
with a starving cat close on his tail.

     So far, for all the bloodshed, Cheung Kuo was still no closer to
identifying his opponents than he had been on day one.

     No, that wasn't entirely true.  The Dragon knew that they were
round-eyes, almost certainly American, because the trouble had originated in
the States.  Beyond those basic facts, however, he was at a loss for solid
battlefield intelligence.  His contacts in the British secret service had
reached out to counterparts at Langley, hoping for some kind of lead, but they
had come back empty-handed.  If the CIA was sponsoring these raids against his
network, they were covering the secret well.  No leaks to friendly forces
overseas or to police in the United States.

     That didn't rule out Company involvement.  They were supposed to be adept
at keeping secrets, after all, though harsh reality was often very different.
In normal practice it was Kuo's experience that secrets had a way of leaking
out, and great, important secrets frequently sprung massive leaks.  By now
some hint of what was happening should logically have made the rounds,
providing Langley was involved.

     And if the CIA was innocent, then who was left?  What suspects were
available?

     Kuo wasn't naive enough to think himself aware of every secret agency or
group controlled from Washington.  Americans kept up a kind of love affair
with their policemen--put them on TV, romanticized their exploits in the
cinema and novels.  That included secret agents, who were commonly distorted
out of all resemblance to reality in media reports and fiction.  It would come
as a distinct surprise, in fact, if there weren't at least a dozen secret
agencies the Dragon didn't know about.

     Was one of them assigned to track him down, destroy the network he had
worked so long and hard to build?  If so, how could he counteract the progress
that his enemies had made so far?

     The Triads were supposed to be professionals who looked out for
themselves.  Indeed, that had been the main attraction in seducing them to
help him spread the People's Revolution in the West.  Their worldwide network
was extensive and sophisticated, interlocking with at least a dozen other
criminal fraternities from Tokyo to Moscow, Sicily to the United States and
South America.  The 14K was absolutely ruthless with its enemies, well-known
for settling its debts in blood.  The very name was feared wherever Chinese
immigrants had put down roots in the New World.

     How, then, had five red pole enforcers and their private armies come to
grief when they were fighting a defensive battle on familiar ground?  Why were
police in Holland, England, Canada and the United States unable to suggest a
culprit in the string of organized attacks?

     The Dragon took a last drag on his cigarette, found the ashtray by touch
and stubbed out the butt.  His eyes opened on darkness, except for a faint
seam of light where the drapery failed to meet perfectly and the glow from a
streetlight bled through.  He focused on that light, as if it held some
revelation for him and would help him find his way.

     Tu Sheng had managed to survive thus far, where other men--including Luk
Pang--had miserably failed.  A part of that success, the Dragon knew, was
simple cowardice.  Sheng ran away before the enemy got close enough to touch
him.  Even so, he had escaped from London, then from Amsterdam, and he was
still alive in Paris, unless something had befallen him within the past two
hours.  Was there something he had learned about the enemy, some piece of
vital information that he might not even recognize as critical?

     It would be worth interrogating Sheng to find out what he knew, but that
could be a problem at the present time.  Toh Lim had taken Sheng into
"protective custody," a thinly veiled captivity that struck the Dragon as an
insult to his own integrity.  Still, he could understand the red pole's
thinking, recognized the fear Lim had to be feeling, even though the man
couldn't admit it to himself.

     So questioning Sheng would have to wait.

     And in the meantime Kuo would have to seek enlightenment in other
quarters, learn the names and motives of his round-eyed enemies before it was
too late.

     The Dragon reached out for his cigarettes and lighter in the darkness.

     He was swiftly running out of time.

                                     Paris

     Toh Lim was fond of saying that the secret to success was perseverance.
He outlasted enemies who seemed at first to have more men, more energy, more
zeal, and in the long run they went down before him in defeat.  Of course, the
fact that he was absolutely ruthless, took no prisoners, also contributed to
his success and reputation.  In a quarter century of service to the 14K, Lim
had ordered, supervised or personally executed some 350 murders; half again as
many victims had been killed or maimed in bombings, drive-by shootings and the
like while simply passing by or loitering about the scene where one of Lim's
intended targets had been marked to die.

     All that was business, though, and the attacks he had suffered through
the morning had a different feeling to them.  They seemed personal somehow, as
if an enemy Lim couldn't recall had surfaced from his past, intent on
destroying everything that Lim had worked for through the years.

     It couldn't be allowed.  His very life and reputation were at stake in
Paris.  If he failed to find his adversaries and destroy them, it would be a
death blow for his credibility among his brothers of the 14K.  His hill chief
in Hong Kong would be entirely justified in picking out another red pole to
command the troops in France--assuming any troops survived.

     Lim wouldn't permit himself to be humiliated further.  Chinatown was his
preserve, and no round-eye could hope to beat him in the territory he had
cultivated so assiduously for so long.  His enemies were on a lucky streak,
perhaps, but it would break and leave them stranded if they pushed their luck
too far.

     In fact, Lim told himself, they should be running out of luck already.
Every eye in Chinatown was on alert for white men who were obviously
foreigners, behaving in unusual ways.  Lim's network hadn't failed him in the
past, and he had no good reason to believe that it would fail him now.

     But he had seen enough of treachery and back-stabbing, participated in
enough of it himself, to know that anything was possible when greed,
self-interest and a craving for revenge combined.  It was conceivable that
someone in his own ranks could betray Lim in hopes of moving up the ladder
once he fell.  He took whatever steps he could to guard against a traitor in
the family, but there was no way to eliminate the risk entirely, not as long
as he was forced to work with human beings.

     But if all else failed, Lim made his mind up that he wouldn't go without
a fight.  The sketchy details he received from London, Amsterdam and the
United States left much to the imagination where the downfall of his brother
red poles was concerned.  Lim had no way of knowing whether they were
negligent or if their enemies had overwhelmed them with technology and
numbers.  Lim had seen their work already, and he knew that they were skilled
assassins, but he wasn't one to duck and hide from strangers in his own
backyard.

     If this was war--and so it seemed to be--Lim was prepared to make the
streets of Chinatown run red with blood.  His businesses would suffer, but no
more than if he stood aside and let the round-eyes run amok in Paris,
unopposed.  At least this way Lim's fearsome reputation would remain intact.
The stories carried back to Hong Kong and his hill chief would describe a
warrior fighting for his life, not some weak sister hiding in the dark and
waiting for the storm to pass.

     Lim drained his whiskey glass and reached out for the telephone.  He had
an army to command, and there was no more time to waste.


                                       7


     The black woolen ski mask was a trifle scratchy on his skin, but Bolan
had more-pressing problems at the moment than the mild discomfort of a hastily
contrived disguise.  He was about to step inside the lion's den, and it was
very possible that step could be his last.

     In that respect, at least, the mask was critical.  His targets this time
weren't Chinese, and he was bent on making them believe that he might be, if
not a Triad soldier, then at least some mercenary hired by Toh Lim to do a
dirty, under-handed job.

     His height and build were wrong for a Chinese, but Bolan was a master of
"role camouflage."  He was aware that persons caught up in surprise
emergencies most often saw what they expected--or what they were urged--to
see.  The Corsicans were famous for their paranoia, and it served them well.
His conversation with Marcel Bouchet had driven home the point that there was
no love lost between the Triads and the Corsican Milieu.  There had been blood
spilled when the Chinese gangsters first invaded Paris and Marseilles, and the
wounds, masked by time, had never truly healed.

     And with a little help, the Executioner was confident that he could rip
the scabs right off, remind those former enemies that all they had in common
were the profits from a business based on treachery and greed.

     His target was a Turkish bath off Boulevard du Port Royal, where heavies
from the Corsican Milieu hung out, killed time and generally did nothing much
at all, luxuriating in the role of men who weren't required to hold a steady
job because the money came to them.  The Corsicans were known as brutal
killers--French equivalents of the Sicilian Mafia or Medellin cartels--but
they were also businessmen, which meant that they weren't out stalking victims
on a daily basis.  Years of getting rich and fat from heroin, with minimal
effective opposition from the law or rival syndicates, had slowed them a
little.

     Bolan hoped so, anyway.

     He went in through the back and smelled sweat and steam before the door
had even closed behind him.  His marks were rich men, sweating off the
hangovers and heavy meals they took for granted, laughing, telling dirty
jokes, pretending they were still the lean, mean youths who fought their way
up from the gutters of Marseilles, where cops would crack your skull with
nightsticks for the fun of it and rival gangs would gut you like a fish to
steal the spare change in your pockets.

     These days they were so secure and comfortable that they didn't even post
a lookout when they dropped their trousers and retired to catch some steam.
These men were proud that they had no surviving enemies.  If the police were
coming, for whatever reason, they would more than likely telephone ahead.
That's what the weekly bribes were for.

     He checked the locker room and found it empty, so kept on going, starting
to perspire inside his woolen mask before he reached the steam room proper.
Visibility was poor inside there, and swarthy faces turned in his direction,
someone calling out in French for him to close the door.  No one but mobsters
were welcome in this private club, which made it easy for him.  He brought out
the Uzi, muzzle-flashes eerily reflected by the drifting clouds of steam.

     He swept the room from left to right and back again, saw naked bodies
sprawling, some in better shape than others, all of them in desperate trouble
now.  He counted seven men, without a gun among them, and left them sprawling
on the steam-slick tile or draped on wooden benches ranged about the walls.
Blood mingled with the sweat and condensation, swirling toward a central
drain.

     Emerging from the steam room, Bolan met a younger man, still dressed,
attracted by the sudden noise.  The choice was made on instinct.  Bolan lashed
out to club him with the Uzi's smoking muzzle, rather than immediately killing
him.  The death card from an I Ching deck replaced his pistol in its shoulder
holster when the Executioner relieved him of his gun.

     It wasn't much in terms of evidence--but, then again, the Corsicans were
quick to judge, notoriously flexible when it came down to rules of evidence.

     And Bolan wasn't finished with them yet.



     The trick, McCarter realized, was missing in the heat of battle, when
your every instinct sought to send the bullets in on target, leave your
adversary stretched out in a pool of blood and make sure that he would never
trouble you again.  Restraint was seldom cultivated as a virtue of the
front-line combat soldier, but it made an interesting change.

     So he would do his very best to drop the piglets in their tracks but let
the boar survive.

     You couldn't be too subtle with the Corsicans.  McCarter's chosen weapon
for this outing was the Chinese Type 68 assault rifle, their shameless
knockoff of the Russian SKS, chambered in 7.62 mm NATO with a 30-round box
magazine and a six-power telescopic sight for accuracy.  He didn't want to
spray the street, but it was good to have some firepower behind him when he
put the ball in play.

     His rooftop perch on Boulevard Bourdon gave McCarter a clear shot for
almost a hundred yards in each direction, north and south, but his target zone
lay directly beneath him.  No trick shots would be required for this mission
if his adversaries played it straight and went about their daily business in a
normal fashion.

     And, McCarter thought, why shouldn't they?  So far, the violence shaking
Paris had been limited to Chinese targets, members of the 14K.  If anything,
it stood to reason that the Corsicans--not fond of foreigners in general at
the best of times, or Chinese in particular--would be amused by any mishaps
that befell the Triads.  There was no good reason for the French mobsters to
suspect that they were next.

     Not yet.

     McCarter's target was a Corsican named on Heuse, who was
second-in-command of the French syndicate in Paris, answering directly to the
boss of bosses, one Franqois Dupin.  In everyday affairs Heuse called the
shots for distribution of narcotics, squeezing money from the labor unions,
some illegal gambling--all the things, in short, that midrank mafiosi handled
in the States.  Suspected in at least two dozen murders, he had served eleven
months for manslaughter in 1970 before a sympathetic judge "reviewed" the
evidence and let him walk.  It had been easy street since then, aside from
some tense moments with the Triads when they first invaded France.  All that
was history these days, and Heuse had settled down to making money, saving
stories of his gory glory days for nights out with the boys.

     McCarter checked his watch, saw Heuse was running late and was about to
curse his luck when a Mercedes four-door sedan rolled in from the south and
double-parked in front of the apartment building opposite.  A moment later his
target left the building's lobby and walked onto the sidewalk.  Two hardmen
preceded their boss, two more bringing up the rear.

     It would have been a simple thing to drop Heuse before he reached the
Benz, but that wasn't the plan.  Eliminating Corsicans was no great challenge,
but it took a bit more effort to provoke them into waging war against their
Chinese "allies" in the 14K.

     McCarter froze a target in the cross hairs of his scope, a young man with
a pale scar on his swarthy cheek.  He wasn't smiling but he seemed relaxed.
Another day, another boring job.

     The boredom ended with a hollowpoint projectile ripping through his
forehead, flattening on impact, taking out a fist-size chunk of skull in back
and spattering the young man's brains across the sidewalk.  By the time they
heard the shot, McCarter had another human target in his sights, already
taking up the trigger slack.

     His second target was turning toward the dead man stretched out on the
pavement, blinking at a glimpse of the impossible, a part of him no doubt
aware that he should already be covering his boss.

     Too late.

     The bullet found him well before the young man made his move, a hit dead
center in the chest that rocked him backward on his heels and took him down.
McCarter tracked on, his view a blur until the telescopic sight picked out
another Corsican and locked in on his face.

     The two survivors were intent on shoving Heuse into the car, where he
would have at least a minimum of cover from the enemy they couldn't see.
McCarter chose the man on Heuse's left and shot him in the neck, a red mist
covering the boss's face before he scrambled out of sight inside the Benz.

     And that left one.

     McCarter could have let him slide, but there was something in him that
rebelled at leaving work half-done.  The soldier was about to follow Heuse
into the vehicle, when yet another shot rang out, and he was catapulted
backward, spinning like a dervish as he fell.

     The Phoenix Force warrior used up half a dozen rounds on the Mercedes as
it powered out of there.  He didn't try to nail the driver, but was content
with chipping paint and flattening one tire so that the Benz was forced to
limp as it retreated from the ambush scene.

     He left the Chinese rifle where it could be found as soon as witnesses or
basic calculations led investigators to his roost.  In case they missed the
point, he palmed the death card from an I Ching tarot deck and curled it with
his fingers so that it would fit inside the rifle's trigger guard.

     It was a whole new game in Paris now, and things would soon be heating
up.  McCarter caught himself about to break out whistling as he reached the
service stairs, and settled for a silent smile.

     They weren't done yet, not by any means.  But they were getting there.



     Francois Dupin sat quietly and listened for a second time as Leon Heuse
described the ambush.  He was soaking up the details, few as there might be,
and correlating them with the police report he had received by telephone five
minutes earlier.

     The police had found a rifle and some kind of playing card, apparently
left by the sniper as a message to his enemies.  The weapon and the card were
both Chinese.

     What did it mean?

     Dupin was clear on what it seemed to mean, but life had taught him that
appearances were frequently deceptive.  Everybody lied; he knew that from
experience.  The standard rule of thumb in Dupin's business was to trust no
one unless you had complete and absolute control of a specific individual, the
power of life and death.  Dupin enjoyed that power over his subordinates, and
even they were known to try to deceive him from time to time.  As for the
world at large ...

     A Chinese rifle.  Chinese military-surplus ammunition.  And a Chinese
playing card.

     Could Toh Lim really be that foolish?  If he meant to break their treaty,
start an all-out shooting war, would he bend over backward to announce the
fact and point a guilty finger at himself?

     Perhaps.

     The godfather of Chinatown was well-known for his arrogance, a trait
Francois Dupin could well appreciate, because he shared it to a large degree.
What was the point in having power if you had to treat the peasant class with
common courtesy?  Still, Lim wasn't an idiot; his people weren't suicidal.

     And there was still the Turkish bath on Boulevard du Port-Royal to think
of.  One survivor had described a gunman in a ski mask, but the shooter hadn't
spoken, and the witness had been clubbed before he had a chance to focus on
his adversary's eyes to see what shape they were.

     If there was war, it pleased Dupin to think that he would win.  His
soldiers would be fighting on their own home ground--the next best thing to
Corsica, at any rate--and it was his connections to police and judges that the
Triads found so necessary to continuing their operations.  If it came down to
a killing choice, Dupin was quite prepared to pull the police and have Lim's
people thrown in jail.  He knew enough to run them ragged if he dropped some
well-placed hints and sent the SOrete on a hunt for Triad heroin connections.
It would hurt Dupin, of course, deplete his revenue somewhat until the storm
blew over, but he was prepared to sacrifice for victory.

     And for revenge.

     He had to think about the problem for a bit before he started taking any
action.  If Lim wasn't responsible for the attack on Heuse, then it would be a
grave mistake to strike back at the 14K.  Dupin would have to reach out for
his spies around the city and see what he could learn about the incident.
Once he reliably identified the man or men responsible, he would unleash such
fury that the hitters would be sorry they were ever born.

     He might wipe out their families, too, for fun--and to ensure that there
was no protracted blood feud waiting for him somewhere down the road.

     "I want the soldiers ready," Dupin said.  "All of them, no excuses.  If
the Chinese think they can take over Paris just like that, we'll have a big
surprise for Monsieur Lim."

     "You think it might be someone Chinese?"

     "I'm not prepared to say.  Someone believes that he can sweep us to the
side like so much garbage.  We must find out who's responsible before we
educate him in the nature of his fatal error."

     "If it's Lim," Heuse said, "I want the slant-eyed bastard for myself."

     "If we're at war with the Chinese," Dupin replied, "there'll be enough to
go around.  You needn't be afraid of missing out."

     "Just so you know."

     His second-in-command was blustering to cover up the fear he had to have
felt when bodyguards were dropping all around him, spilling brains and blood
across the sidewalk.  It was only natural for such a man as Heuse to feel his
manhood challenged by a sneak attack where he was forced to run away.  They
would be better off, though--closer to their goal--when Heuse started thinking
with his head, instead of with his balls.

     "I've heard you, Leon.  Now hear me.  We can't afford mistakes this time.
If anyone--and I mean anyone--moves against Lim before we're sure that he's to
blame, I'll have the bastard's head.  You understand me, Leon?"

     "But of course."

     "Good.  See to your soldiers, then.  I want them ready at a moment's
notice.  When the time comes, we'll need every man we have."

     And then some, Dupin thought, but he was smiling confidently as his chief
lieutenant left the room.  It didn't pay to sweat in front of your
subordinates.  The sneaky bastards might begin to get ideas.  And that would
never do.



     Katz drew the Triad beat because he was the only multilingual member of
the team, his fluency in French enhanced by study at the Sorbonne in his
younger days, before he'd donned a uniform for the Israeli government.  If any
one of them could pass as French--or Corsican--and thus persuade the Triads
that their grudging allies were prepared to run amok, it would be Katz.

     His first stop was the Jiang-you Club, a block north of the Parc Monceau.
He wore an Uzi submachine gun underneath his belted trench coat, thought of
topping the disguise off with a black beret, but finally decided he was
pushing it.  If all went well, the Triad targets he allowed to live would have
no doubt their hangout had been raided by the Corsican Milieu.

     The place was under guard when Katz arrived, not open to the gambling
public yet.  So much the better, leaving the civilians out of it.  He drove
past the club, parked on a side street and walked back along an alley redolent
of urine.  Stray cats flitted out of sight behind the battered trash cans as
he passed.  The two sentries on the back door looked bored, and Katz was ready
for them by the time they noticed him, his left hand wrapped around the
silenced Browning autoloader in the outside pocket of his coat.

     Katz drew and fired in one smooth motion from a range of twenty feet.
His first round struck the taller of the gunmen in the throat, all fight
evaporating as the young man had to concentrate on drawing breath.  He
stumbled backward, slumped against the wall and slithered down the grimy brick
into a seated posture, quickly going limp as oxygen and life ran out.

     By that time Katz had nailed his partner with a second round between the
eyes and was reaching for the doorknob with the metal claw that had replaced
his right hand decades earlier.

     Two guns on the door meant it was safe to leave unlocked, or so the
Triads had supposed.  Katz stepped across the threshold and closed the door
behind him, leaving just a crack to hasten his retreat, if need be.  Voices
led him down a corridor until he reached the gaming room, where nine or ten
young Chinese soldiers were collected, several of them grouped at two small
tables while the others lined the bar.

     "Monsieur Dupin sends greetings from the Corsican Milieu," Katz said in
French, his voice raised so all of them could hear him.  Whether they would
understand was something else.

     He hosed death along the bar, watching human targets sprawl before the
stream of parabellum manglers.  Tracking on, he found the gunmen at the tables
scrambling to their feet, all reaching for their weapons, trying desperately
to shave the round-eye's edge.

     He didn't need to kill them all--indeed, it would defeat his purpose if
at least one gunner didn't survive to spread the story of a killer spouting
French--but there was no time for precision work, with half a dozen pistols
jerking into view.  Katz swept the killing ground from right to left and back
again, his bullets ripping flesh, bone and fabric, smashing glass and gouging
plaster.  One of his opponents got a shot off, then another, but the rounds
went high and wide as the gunners were cut down in their tracks.

     When it was done, the smell of cordite sharp in Katzenelenbogen's
nostrils, he reloaded and began a cursory examination of his enemies.  Three
of the nine were breathing, but one of those was so badly wounded that he
would inevitably bleed to death before an ambulance arrived.  As for the other
two ...

     Katz made the call himself, the French equivalent of 911, and told the
operator what had happened more or less.  She asked his name, and for the hell
of it Katz said, "Franqois Dupin."

     It wouldn't stick, of course, and that was fine.  He didn't want Dupin
arrested, locked away beyond the line of fire.  It was enough that questions
should be raised, suspicion cultivated.  In the short run, which was all that
mattered, Toh Lim would be looking for a scapegoat, grasping at the most
convenient and most logical of enemies.



     Toh Lim slammed down the telephone with force enough to make his fingers
ache.  Bad news and more bad news was all he heard this day.  At least this
time there was a chance his soldiers hadn't died in vain.  One babbled to
police as they were hauling him away for surgery, and while delirium had left
the message garbled, Lim was crystal clear about the name.  Dupin.

     The Corsican had to be insane to pull a stunt like this.  What was he
thinking?  Was he thinking?  Could it be that he was using some of the
narcotics he had smuggled for so long?  Drugs killed the brain or left it
twisted, next to useless.

     How else to explain a man who would betray his business partners and
provoke a shooting war for no good reason?

     It wasn't as if Dupin could hope to seize the Triad family for himself.
By waging war against the 14K, he barred himself from dealing China white in
any worthwhile quantity, and guaranteed that Lim would take the necessary
steps to have him killed.  Of course, Dupin had troops, but they were spread
across the country, many of them in Marseilles, where the narcotics labs were
refining heroin from opium and cutting it for resale on the streets.  In Paris
he would have perhaps 150 soldiers--still a solid number, but it placed his
edge at roughly two-to-one, instead of several times that number.

     Even through the anger, Lim was still confused and curious about the
earlier attacks Dupin and Leon Heuse had suffered in the city.  What did that
mean?  Was there some connection to the Corsican assault upon the Jiang-you
Club?  It made no sense.

     Forget it!

     Who could understand barbarians?  Their minds weren't the same as those
of civilized Chinese.  Impulsive, stupid actions were their stock-in-trade,
and when they suffered from a bout of rowdy negligence, they looked for
scapegoats, someone who could take the blame while they took on a pose of
injured innocence.  Duplicity was second nature to the round-eyes, but they
weren't much good at laying out conspiracies.  Too busy thinking with their
genitals and putting faith in muscle over mind.

     For all that, Lim was still embarrassed that the Corsicans had managed to
surprise him.  He should have prepared himself, anticipated treachery, and cut
them off before his losses started mounting up.  Already he had lost
sufficient men that it would jeopardize his chances of a victory.  The odds
weren't yet impossible, but he would have to go on the offensive, strike back
swiftly and with force enough to crush the Corsicans before they could inflict
more damage on his army.

     Lim hesitated, thinking of the past week's violence in London, Amsterdam
and North America.  He couldn't blame the Corsicans for those attacks, but
what if there was something larger, more insidious afoot?  Suppose the Triads'
several round-eyed allies--from the Mafia and the Camorra, maybe even the
Colombians--were joining ranks in an attempt to seize the Asian pipeline for
themselves?

     It was a fool's game, but the world was full of idiots.  Five minutes
browsing through the newspaper would drive that lesson home.  How many wars
were raging at the moment over childish grudges, simple greed or racial and
religious bigotry?  Who ever went to war believing he would lose?

     It was a subject Lim could take up with his hill chief when they next had
time to speak.  Right now he had his hands full with an enemy who had superb
connections to the justice system, who was fighting on his native soil and who
had never lost a major war.  If you looked back at history, the Corsicans
could even boast of an alliance with the CIA.

     What if ...?

     He wouldn't chase that line of thought or let himself get bogged down in
a search for phantom enemies.  The ones who stood before him were enough to
occupy his mind, and then some.  If he lost his grip, allowed himself to
weaken, they would plow him under, finish him.

     But Toh Lim wasn't finished yet.  He wasn't immortal, granted, but he was
a warrior, skilled at overcoming opposition from his enemies.

     Franqois Dupin had made the worst mistake of his misguided life.

     With any luck at all, it would turn out to be the last.



     Mack Bolan peered through the telescopic sight attached to his Galil
sniping rifle.  Across Rue Cardinet he had a clear view through the spacious
windows of a fifth-floor office.  Half a dozen men in shiny suits were
gesticulating as they argued, jabbing fingers at one another in their
eagerness to make a point.

     He couldn't read their lips, since they were speaking Cantonese, but
Bolan knew roughly what they were saying.  There could be only one main topic
of discussion in the Triad ranks: the losses they had suffered since the sun
came up that morning and the "evidence" suggesting Corsicans had staged those
raids.

     The two sides hadn't started killing one another yet, but it wouldn't be
long if Bolan and his Phoenix Force warriors stirred the pot sufficiently,
then brought it to a rolling boil.  In fact, he had a dash of seasoning for
the hellacious recipe right now.

     The folding-stock Galil fed 7.62 mm NATO rounds from a detachable
20-round box magazine.  It was a semiautomatic weapon, inasmuch as snipers
normally weren't inclined to hose down their targets when they could do a
clean, precision job instead.

     It didn't matter much if he killed every soldier in the office or hit
none at all.  The very fact of the assault would be another thorn in Lim's
flesh, another goad to make him rise and fight the Corsicans.  And while the
predators were eating one another alive, there should be time for Bolan to
step in, find Sheng and sever one more link between the 14K and mainland
China.

     First things first.

     He chose a target, placed the cross hairs on his chosen victim's face and
stroked the trigger.  Death exploded from the muzzle of his weapon at 2,674
feet per second, bridging the hundred-foot gap between sniper and target in a
fraction of a heartbeat.  Bolan was lining up his second shot even as the
office window shivered, sprouting spiderweb designs, and the first Triad went
down in a spray of crimson, missing half his face.

     He barely kept track after that.  Two up, two down, and then he put two
bullets through a globe that stood atop a filing cabinet to his left.  Round
five took down another Triad soldier, nearly ripping off his arm.

     The Executioner kept firing, choosing marks without regard to whether
they were animate or bits of furniture.  He raked the full length of the room
twice over, left four bodies stretched out on the floor and two more huddled
under cover, praying for a lucky break.

     They got it when his magazine ran empty, and he backed off from the ledge
to stow his weapon out of sight, prepared to take his leave.

     It wouldn't be much longer now, the way he was turning up the heat in
Paris.  Bolan only hoped he would be ready when the lid blew off.  Too many
chefs, he realized, could spoil the broth.

     And one of them could wind up getting scalded in the bargain, if he
didn't watch his ass.


                                       8


     Leon Heuse was happy to be on the street again.  It had been years since
he was cast in the position of a lowly soldier, riding into battle with the
Milieu's enemies, but this was personal.  The men he was looking for had
shamed him in the public eye, killed four men while he stood and watched, then
chased him from the street outside his own apartment building like some
frightened child.  A debt like that had to be repaid in kind.

     Heuse occupied the front seat of a Citroen sedan beside the driver, with
three men behind him in the back seat.  Five more gunners occupied a second
car, all of them armed with pistols and MAT 49 submachine guns, the 9 mm
weapons designed for colonial service after the Second World War but still
functional and deadly on an urban battlefield.  Eight men, not counting
drivers, could unload 260 rounds in six or seven seconds flat if necessary,
all without resorting to their side arms.

     It should be enough for the Chinese.

     Dupin had finally climbed down off the fence an hour earlier, when two
young gunmen, obviously 14K, had walked into a barbershop on Rue Lecourbe and
opened fire with sawed-off shotguns at the patron in the center chair.
Antoine Chagal, a childhood crony of Dupin, was nearly cut in two by buckshot,
and the war was on in earnest.

     "Turn left here at the light," Heuse told his driver.

     Their target, first of several, was a Chinese pawnshop on Rue Poncelet.
It fronted for a loan-shark operation, doling out money to Chinese businessmen
or home owners in need, extracting interest on a scale of twenty-five percent
per week.  The penalties for tardy payment were extreme.

     Heuse had no quarrel with loan sharks as a rule; he'd done some sharking
of his own, in fact, and never minded breaking arms or heads when someone fell
behind in paying off their rightful debt.  He hated Asians, though--a fact
related to his father's death in Indochina in the early 1950s.  Heuse was
still an infant at the time, but he had grown up hearing all about the fallen
hero and the men who killed him.  The Vietnamese were not Chinese, of course,
but Leon Heuse wasn't an anthropologist.

     To Heuse, gooks were gooks, and those who tried to blow his head off on
the street outside his own apartment house were asking for the kind of trouble
most men didn't survive.

     "Up there," he told the driver, pointing.  "On the left."

     Heuse and his soldiers stepped from their cars, each brandishing a
submachine gun, while the drivers kept their engines running, with a sharp eye
on the rearview mirror, watching out for police.  They crossed the pavement to
the sidewalk, lining up no more than ten or twelve feet from the plate glass
window of the shop.

     Inside, the elderly proprietor saw trouble coming, ducked behind his
counter and lay facedown on the floor.  He didn't know these men, but
understood what had been happening in Chinatown the past few hours, and the
guns they carried ruled out any brief thought of heroics.

     "Fire!"

     Eight guns went off in unison, staccato thunder echoing from shop fronts
on the other side, behind the firing squad.  They trashed the pawnshop and a
major portion of its inventory in the time it took to wind a watch, 9 mm
bullets streaming through the door and window, drilling abstract patterns in
the walls, exploding glass showcases, toppling merchandise displays.  Spent
cartridges lay all around the gunners when they finished, pale sunlight
glinting on the brass.

     Heuse would have liked to go inside and see if there was anyone still
living in the shop, but he had other stops to make, and someone would have
called the police by now.  If they stood still for any length of time, arrests
were probable, and Heuse would miss most of the targets on his hit list.

     That would never do.

     He turned back toward the waiting cars, barking orders at his men.  They
followed him, some of them smiling, loving it.

     Why not?

     Man was a hunter by his very nature.  Anything that "civilized" him
dulled that edge, resulted in a corresponding lack of strength and energy.

     It was good to be hunting again, Heuse thought.  It felt right.



     The small apartment building on Rue de Prony wasn't much to look at:
solid, well maintained but nothing fancy, nothing to suggest the tenants were
a breed apart.  In fact, Bolan thought, most of them were doubtless ordinary
citizens who held down jobs, went on vacation in the summertime and kept their
indiscretions out of public view.

     One tenant didn't fit the mold, however, and it was the maverick Bolan
came to see.

     Marcel Bouchet had told him where to find Tu Sheng, and only pressing
need had kept the Executioner from making it the first stop on his list.  Now
it was pushing noon, and Bolan felt like having Sheng for lunch.  A little
Chinese appetizer, leading to the main course later on.

     He entered through the lobby, paused to check the mailbox for 5C, but
there was no card in the slot provided to display a tenant's name.  Sheng
liked his privacy, and that was fine.  The traveling ambassador of the
People's Revolution couldn't be too careful these days, in a world where
die-hard Communists were posted to a spot on the endangered-species list.

     He took the stairs, considering the risk of soldiers waiting for him up
on the fifth floor.  He was prepared for anything, in theory, and he wouldn't
mind if some of Lim's people had to fall before he reached Sheng.  It was a
long time coming, this appointment with the fixer from Beijing, and anyone who
tried to stop him now was asking for a one-way trip to hell.

     The access door on the fifth floor was blind, no window, and he barged
through as if he owned the place, his Uzi cocked and ready.  There was no one
in the hall, no noise to speak of emanating from behind the eight numbered
doors, four on each side of the hall.

     He held the submachine gun ready as he walked to 5C and spent a moment
listening.  No sound at all seeped from the apartment, and he felt his stomach
knotting with a sudden pang of deja vu.  The silence didn't mean that Sheng
was gone.  He could be resting, reading, staring out the window--anything at
all.  If he was on his own, so much the better.

     A swift kick snapped the lock, and Bolan charged across the threshold,
covering the vacant living room and kitchen, sweeping on from there to check
the bedrooms, double back and hit the bathroom just in case.

     Goddammit!

     There were no convenient notes this time, but Sheng hadn't packed up his
belongings, either.  There were clothes in the closet, with an empty suitcase;
socks and underwear in dresser drawers; a toothbrush and assorted other items
in the bathroom.  If Sheng was running this time, he had set some kind of
record for traveling light.

     Bolan thought of waiting, just to see if Sheng came back, but ruled it
out at once.  He had already caused too much commotion, booting in the door,
and Sheng could be away from home for hours.

     Bolan couldn't spare the time to sit around and wait for him.  At best he
would be wasting precious hours, dumping too much work on his comrades from
Phoenix Force.  At worst he would be sitting there when the police arrived to
haul him in, and that would be the end of everything.

     His second thought, as he was moving toward the open door, involved a
thermite canister, but Sheng could always get new clothes and toiletries,
while the potential damage to his neighbors would be catastrophic.

     Scratch Plan B.

     That brought him back to Toh Lim, the godfather of Chinatown.  If he
couldn't find Sheng, at least there was no shortage of alternate targets in
Paris.  His plan was working like a charm so far, with the Corsicans and
Triads snapping at each other's throats.  But Bolan didn't want to let his
enemies do all the work while he stood idly by and watched them from the
sidelines.

     Exiting the flat, he heard a muffled gasp behind him and turned to find a
gray-haired woman gaping at him from the doorway of her own apartment.

     "No one home," he told her, noting that her gaze was focused on the SMG.
He didn't know if she could understand a word he said, but there was no harm
trying.

     "If you see my old friend Mr. Sheng," he said, "feel free to tell him
I'll be back."



     Marcel Bouchet was seated in his tiny sixth-floor office on the Quai
d'Orsay, a scanner whispering the calls that had continued almost without
letup since the crack of dawn.  Bouchet had lost track of the dead, had no
more energy for keeping track of shooting calls, explosions, new reports of
speeding cars and bodies scattered on the street.

     He should be out there doing something, but he couldn't think of anything
to do.  The violence was as much his fault as anyone's, considering the
information he had passed to the American, but it was hard for him to work up
any sense of guilt.  There were no innocents among the dead so far, which
helped, but he was not so sure it would have changed his mind in any case.

     His bitterness had been a long time building, watching as the men he was
supposed to put away ran roughshod over everyone and everything in sight.  The
Corsicans at first, and then the Chinese.  Colombians had started turning up
the past two years or so, and while the Serete removed some dealers from the
street, there was no shortage of replacements waiting in the wings, no lasting
injury inflicted on the syndicate.

     Until today.

     It shouldn't be like this, he told himself.  It shouldn't have to be.

     But there it was.

     Unfortunately syndicated crime had reached the point where leaders of the
network were effectively untouchable by lawful means.  There was no widespread
history of vigilantism in France--not since the Reign of Terror, at least--but
maybe it was time to throw the rules away.

     No, that was wrong, but they could take a brief vacation from
procedure--just a day or two--to clean the streets of human garbage.  Start
fresh in the morning, with a brand-new, level playing field.

     What would the Yankees say?  Fat chance.

     It seemed that the advantage always lay with Bouchet's enemies.  They had
more money, to begin with, and there were no rules or regulations for the
other side.  They could do anything that came to mind: bribe cops and judges,
murder witnesses, you name it.

     There would never be a level playing field as long as those who fought
for law and order were compelled to dot their i's and cross their t's, while
their opponents couldn't even spell.  And it felt good to watch them scramble
for their lives, these animals who preyed on other members of the human race
like ruthless cannibals.  Today was their turn on the menu, and Bouchet could
only hope fear ate them up alive.

     Those who survived.

     He hardly thought about himself, having already worked through the
initial moments of concern as to his fate if anyone found out that he had
helped Belasko set this chain of grim events in motion.  There were worse
things than disgrace, the loss of a position where he managed to accomplish
nothing on the average day.

     The office suddenly felt stifling, almost claustrophobic.  Rather than a
place to hide from trouble and responsibility, as it had been in recent
months, his cubicle felt like a cage.

     Bouchet wished he could be out on the street, with Belasko and the
others--whoever they were--carrying the battle to their common enemy, and
never mind the cost.

     Bouchet thought that he should have been a soldier, and smiled at that.
He had been once, but that was long ago, before the rules and regulations beat
him down and broke his will to strive.  Too many years of watching as the bad
guys won and laughed at justice had reduced him to the status of a simple
bookkeeper, what the Americans would call a bean counter.  Except Bouchet was
busy counting other things: narcotics shipments, brothels, teenage addicts,
lifeless bodies in the gutter.

     It was time to turn the game around and let the heavies take a beating
for a change.  But did he have the nerve to play that game?

     Damned right!

     He checked his pistol, made sure it was ready and returned it to the
holster on his belt.  The scanner in his car would tell him where to go once
he was rolling.  There was action all around him on this afternoon of blood
and thunder.  All he had to do was make himself available, be in the right
place at the proper time.



     It was his last, best chance to slip away, Sheng realized while Toh Lim
was playing soldier with his troops.  Sheng couldn't fathom why a man like Lim
would rush away to lead the next raid by himself, but the most recent Corsican
attacks had stung his "host" like bitter nettles.  Lim had gone off muttering
about his honor, speaking in a voice so soft that Sheng gave up on
understanding him before Lim reached the door.

     Whatever happened on the streets in the next few hours, Sheng recognized
a chance to save himself, and he wasn't about to let it slip away.  He had his
passport in his pocket, credit cards and cash, nothing to pack before he fled
Lim's house.

     Assuming that the guards would let him leave.

     Sheng had no way of knowing what their orders were, whether they had been
instructed to protect him or make sure that he didn't escape.  The only way to
find out, he decided, was to try.

     He left Lim's study, wandered through the kitchen, dining room and living
room before he found the houseman, just returning from a tour of the grounds.

     "I'm ready," Sheng informed him.  "Where's the car?"

     The houseman blinked at him, confused.  "What car?" he asked.

     Sheng rolled his eyes, a man exasperated by incompetence.  "I'm going to
the airport," he replied.  "Were you not told?"

     "The airport?"

     "I've been ordered back to Hong Kong," he informed the man.  There was no
point telling anyone where he was really going, for a while.  "I leave now, at
once, or I will miss my flight."

     "No one said anything to me," the houseman said.  "I'll have to ask."

     "By all means ask."  Sheng's voice dripped venom.  "I'm sure your master
won't mind being interrupted in the middle of a war to have his orders
questioned.  He will certainly congratulate you for your diligence."

     The houseman obviously didn't think so, mulling that one over for a
moment, frowning at the effort generated by decision making.

     "I don't need to call him," the man said after due reflection.  "He has
more-important things to think about.  I'll fetch the driver."

     Sheng would much rather have acted as his own chauffeur, but that would
raise suspicion in the houseman's mind, perhaps convince him that he should
call Lim, after all.  It would be simple to dismiss the driver once they
reached the airport.  In the midst of so much action and intrigue, no soldier
of the 14K would care to waste his time in the departure lounge at Orly when
he could be angling for a chance to hit the street.

     Five minutes later Sheng was on his way ... but not to Hong Kong.  Not
just yet.

     Sheng didn't think the Dragon would be pleased to see him on a day like
this, with so much trouble in the air.  He needed someplace to cool off, relax
awhile and clear his head.

     He knew the perfect place, and it wasn't so very far away.



     Francois Dupin was ready when his enemies arrived.  It startled him a bit
that they would dare attack his home on Rue Henri Barbusse, in Clichy, but the
leader of the Corsican Milieu hadn't survived this long by being unprepared.
His guards were posted when the Chinese started to arrive--six carloads of
them, he was told--and there were ample guns on hand to give them all the
action they were looking for.

     That was what he got, the French-born mobster told himself, for dealing
with a gang of slant-eyed savages as if they were normal men.

     His bigotry was automatic, a conditioned reflex, but it didn't cloud his
thinking on strategic matters.  Whether they were Asian, black or native born,
Dupin would never underestimate his enemies.  The quickest way to die, aside
from trusting so-called friends, was to persuade yourself that enemies were
weak and stupid, easily defeated on the basis of their class, race, dialect,
religion--anything, in fact, except their proved willingness to kill.  The
aristocracy had made that grave mistake in France two hundred years earlier,
and thousands of them wound up on the guillotine as a result.  "Let them eat
cake," the lady had said, and then her head was lying in a wicker basket, like
a melon fresh from harvest.

     The Chinese were proved killers, and Dupin respected that.  He hated them
no less for their abilities, of course, but he wouldn't permit his soldiers to
get cocky and deceive themselves with fantasies of easy victory.

     In fact, Dupin decided, as the first shots echoed from the general
direction of his wrought-iron gates, it would be best if he went out to lead
the troops himself, set an example for the men who were prepared to kill--or
die--on his behalf.

     "Armand!" he snapped, and waited for his houseman to report.

     "Yes, sir?"

     "Find me a weapon quickly!  And tell the men I'm coming out to join
them."

     "Sir?"

     "Right now!"

     "Yes, sir!"

     Dupin felt better as he recognized the old familiar thrill of battle
radiating from his groin to light a fire inside him.  He felt ten years
younger, standing there.  His enemies were waiting for him, issuing their
challenge, like the good old days.

     The leader of the Corsican Milieu didn't intend to keep them waiting
long.



     The radio alert came as Bouchet was driving south on Avenue George V. He
made a screeching U-turn in the middle of the street, almost colliding with a
taxi in the process.  But he had the blue light flashing on his dashboard by
the time he started north, reversing his direction toward suburban Clichy.

     It could only be Dupin's estate; there were no other likely targets on
the high-priced residential street of Rue Henri Barbusse.  And if Dupin's
estate was under fire, then it could only mean his enemies were out in force.

     That, in its turn, could only mean the Triads had gone looking for
revenge.  Belasko's crazy plot was working, maybe better than the tall
American had dared to hope.  Would he--or the police--be able to control the
conflagration that was raging through the streets of Paris?  Would the city be
forever scarred by what took place this day?

     Or would it be swept clean?

     The drive to Clichy took nearly fifteen minutes, even with the light and
siren clearing traffic from his path.  French drivers were a stubborn lot, as
well as reckless, some of them preferring to show insolence in any face-off
with authority.  A couple of patrol cars reached the scene before Bouchet
arrived.  The officers in uniform were pinned down by automatic-weapons fire,
one of them stretched out on the street as Bouchet skidded to a halt and
bailed out of his vehicle, the Walther P-5 automatic ready in his hand.

     The wrought-iron gates were open.  A luxury sedan was stalled between
them, bullet scarred and empty, three doors standing open with their windows
shattered, and a dead man was lying on the ground beside the car.  Some other
vehicles had obviously made their way inside, and a Mercedes-Benz had been cut
off when the preceding vehicle was ambushed and disabled.  It, too, was
abandoned, doors wide open where the soldiers had evacuated, rushing in to
face Dupin's reserves on foot.

     Bouchet ducked as another swarm of bullets rattled overhead.  He didn't
need to check the fallen officer for vital signs; the young man's face was
gone, and blood had pooled beneath his body, spreading like a crimson inkblot
on the pavement.  The surviving officers looked to Bouchet with mingled fear
and hope, prepared to let him take control and save them if he could.

     "How many guns inside?" he asked of no one in particular.

     "At least four cars besides these two," the nearest uniform responded.
"There were five or six men in each car.  Chinese, I think."

     "You know whose house this is?"

     The three survivors nodded Jerkily.  They knew Franqois Dupin by
reputation, never dreaming that his path would cross their own, much less in
such a way as this.

     "We have to get inside," Bouchet informed them.  "Have you called for
help?"

     "First thing.  You're all that's come so far."

     "We can't wait any longer," Bouchet said.  "There are people getting
killed in there.  We have to try and stop it."  Or, he thought, at least help
with the killing.

     "Will you follow me?"

     They hesitated, finally gave the jerky nods a second time.  Bouchet crept
forward, peered around the fender of the car that sheltered him and glimpsed a
Triad soldier with a submachine gun stepping out to get a better shot at the
police.  Bouchet was ready for him, squeezing off two rounds that struck his
target in the upper chest and slammed him over backward, sprawling on the
close-cut grass.

     "Let's go!"

     He didn't wait to see if anyone would follow him, but started sprinting
toward the open gates, his pistol held in front of him.  A second Chinese
gunner popped out on his right, prepared to fire, then went down squirming on
the deck as Bouchet shot him in the face.

     Six rounds remained in his pistol, plus the two spare magazines he
carried, which made twenty-four in all.  On impulse, he swerved to his left
and grabbed the fallen hardman's submachine gun, noting that it was the short
Beretta Model 12S with a folding metal stock.  An extra magazine protruded
from the dead man's belt, and Bouchet claimed it for himself.

     "Come on," he told the uniforms, already moving up the driveway.  "We
don't want to miss the show."



     It was a gamble, going in when the police were surely on their way, if
not already on the scene, but Bolan was prepared to take the risk--.  He left
his car behind Dupin's estate, on a smaller residential street, and went in
from the rear, scaling the retaining wall and homing in on the sounds of
combat.

     One benefit of arriving late was obvious at once: Dupin's sentries had
been drawn from their posts to meet the raiders at the gate.  It left the rear
wide open, and he met no opposition on his long run toward the house.

     All hell had broken loose out front, with automatic weapons hammering,
their long bursts punctuated by the sound of shotgun blasts and pistol fire.
As Bolan worked his way around the east side of the house, he heard male
voices, scared or angry, shouting in Chinese and French.  He didn't have to
guess what they were saying, having been in combat countless times himself,
where men he knew as friends were cursing, shouting questions, giving orders,
challenging their enemies or asking help from a long-forgotten God.  Few who
survived this day would harbor any clear-cut memories of what they said or did
while they were fighting for their lives, and it would make no difference to
the ones who died.

     He cleared the final corner, scanned the field and saw perhaps a dozen
Corsicans spread out in front of Dupin's house, some crouched behind a pair of
limousines parked in the drive, while others found their shelter behind marble
pillars on the porch.  Fifteen or twenty Chinese gunmen were returning fire,
split up in squads of four or five men each that hid behind their own disabled
vehicles a few yards farther out.  The raiding force had closed to point-blank
range before they stalled, and they were matching the defenders burst for
burst, unable and unwilling to retreat.

     Was that Toh Lim behind the nearest Triad vehicle?  It seemed unlikely
that the red pole would turn out to lead a raid himself, but stranger things
had happened in the Executioner's experience.  That crouching figure on the
far side of the porch was certainly Francois Dupin, come out to join his
soldiers in a last-ditch stand against his enemies.  As Bolan watched, the
leader of the Corsican Milieu squeezed off a burst of submachine gun fire and
knocked a Chinese gunner sprawling on the blacktop drive.

     Bolan removed a frag grenade from his belt and yanked the pin, then
side-armed the bomb toward the broad front porch.  One of the Corsicans
glimpsed movement from the corner of his eye, squeezed off a burst at Bolan
without aiming, but the rounds were off by six or seven feet.  Before the
shooter could correct his aim, the grenade went off and swept the porch with
shrapnel, leaving bodies sprawled on blood-streaked marble as the shock wave
passed.

     One of the Chinese gave a shout, and several of them rose from cover
firing, as if Bolan's blast had been a signal to attack.  The Corsicans behind
the two black limousines were torn between surprise at the explosion and
determination to annihilate their enemies.  Most of them started firing at the
Triad gunners, but a pair of Corsican hardmen ran back toward the porch, as if
to find out what had happened and see if they could help.

     The Executioner was waiting for them, stepping over dead and wounded,
firing with his Uzi from the hip.  He tagged one on the steps and cut the
other's legs from under him just as he reached the landing, dropping him
facedown on the porch.

     A second frag grenade sailed high across the few surviving Corsicans,
bounced once atop the car where Toh Lim or his look-alike was hiding and
rolled out of sight before it blew.  This time a cheer went up in French, and
Bolan watched the handful of defenders break from cover, charging toward their
adversaries, closing in a rush as they poured automatic fire into the Chinese
ranks.

     It was a massacre as the last few soldiers grappled hand to hand.  Three
or four Chinese broke ranks and raced back toward the gates, but they were cut
down on the run.  The man who shot them likewise fell, a bullet smashing
through his skull.  The firing sputtered out and was replaced by sirens
wailing in the distance, closing in from all points of the compass.

     Bolan saw Francois Dupin, a broken mannequin, his face and torso ripped
by shrapnel from the first grenade.  He turned away, glanced back across the
battlefield and froze at sight of a familiar face.

     Marcel Bouchet was slumped against the second Triad car in line, one hand
clasped to his bloody side, a submachine gun dangling from the other.  A
younger uniformed man beside him saw Bolan watching from the porch and raised
a pistol, but Bouchet reached out to strike the weapon down.  He spoke in
French, and Bolan watched the uniform retreat, move back along the line of
cars until he reached another pair of men in blue, sprawled facedown on the
pavement.

     "So, you made it," Bouchet said as he approached.

     "You, too."

     "I think so.  There's more blood than pain so far.  A flesh wound, I
suspect."

     "Good luck."

     "The same to you," Bouchet replied.  "You'll need it if you linger here
much longer."

     "I'm already gone."

     "One thing.  There is a man you seek?"

     "You know there is."

     "I checked before I left the office," Bouchet said.  "He was with Lim
before all this, but now he's running.  Flying, I should say.  You'll find him
in Marseilles if you are quick enough."

     "I owe you one."

     "Next time you're in Paris, you can buy the wine."

     Bouchet was smiling as he spoke.  "We'll find some women, drink too much
and lie about heroic deeds."

     "Sounds good to me.  I'll see you."

     "All revoir," the Frenchman said before he closed his eyes.


                                       9


                                  Marseilles

     Marseilles had always been a major port of entry for heroin and other
contraband making its way into France.  The nation's second-largest city, with
a population of eight hundred thousand full-time residents, Marseilles was
also France's largest port on the Mediterranean Sea, an easy run from Corsica,
Sardinia or Sicily.  The uncut opium that came in through Marseilles had
traditionally been Turkish, supplemented by a steady flow of hashish from
Morocco and Algiers, but changing times brought a taste of China white to
southern France, along with South American cocaine.  The Triads were
entrenched around Marseilles these days, and their alliance with the Corsican
Milieu allowed them to survive without a major shooting war.

     At least, it had before the Executioner and company arrived.

     The warehouse was a 1950s-vintage structure, dating from the era of the
Marshall Plan, when the United States was pouring money into Western Europe in
a bid to dam the tide of postwar communism and revolt against established
governments that had been weakened by the Nazi occupation.  Touch-ups with a
paintbrush didn't hide the fact that it was aging badly, like a tired old
sailor who still craved the rolling sea but couldn't quite keep his wits about
him on dry land.

     Some thermite, Bolan calculated, and the whole damned place would burn as
if it were made of cardboard soaked in gasoline.  The drugs inside, delivered
yesterday and waiting on a transfer to the local cutting plant, would be a
total loss.

     A short flight of steps painted green brought Bolan to the loading dock.
He tried the first door that he came to, felt it open at his touch and stepped
inside.  He was greeted by cool darkness, with a bare bulb several yards in
front of him, its dim light barely adequate to cut the murk.  He followed
voices speaking in Cantonese, and was about to turn the corner on the
warehouse proper when a young Chinese approaching from the opposite direction
blundered into him, rebounding with a startled gasp.

     The Uzi stuttered, delivering three quick rounds, and Bolan had no time
to watch his target fold.  He went around the corner in a rush, found three
more Chinese gaping at him, frozen for a heartbeat by the shocking sounds of
gunfire.

     It was all he needed.

     Bolan wasn't taking any prisoners today.  He stitched the trio with a
burst of parabellum manglers and dropped them where they stood.  He remained
in place another moment, waiting, just in case there might be someone he had
missed among the stacked-up crates of merchandise downrange.  When no one
surfaced after fifteen seconds, Bolan tucked away his SMG and took the first
of several thermite canisters out of his raincoat's sagging pockets.

     There was no great trick to burning down a structure, regardless of its
composition or construction standards, if you had the right materials on hand.
White phosphorus, exposed to air, burned with a searing heat that water
wouldn't quench; it ate through concrete, granite, tempered steel and human
flesh with fine impartiality, requiring special chemicals to douse the blaze.
It was the perfect choice for military applications, and it did a fair job on
civilian targets, too.

     The thermite fire would leave no evidence to speak of, nothing that would
point to any single arsonist, and that was fine.  The shock waves spreading
out from Paris would convince both sides--the Corsicans and Triads--that the
war clouds had blown southward to Marseilles.

     It didn't put him on the track of Tu Sheng--not yet, at least--but he was
in the right vicinity.  Sheng would be running, maybe stopping only long
enough to grab some cash and hit the road again, but it was worth a shot.
With an assist from Phoenix Force, he still might have a chance to pin down
the ChiCom operator.

     And if he missed Sheng in Marseilles, there was a whole wide world in
which to track him down.  Eventually the agent would be forced to run for
home, and that was Bolan's final destination anyway.

     The Executioner was riding this train to the end of the line.



     The Corsican glanced up as Katz entered the lobby of the new apartment
building, visibly relaxing as he saw the new arrival was Caucasian rather than
Chinese.  He didn't smile--it would have gone against the soldier's
character--but he allowed himself a nod and went back to the nudie magazine he
had been scrutinizing, tucked inside a newspaper to make it more politically
correct in public.

     "Shame on you," Katz said in French, the shooter glancing up with some
confusion on his face as Katz produced his Browning autoloader with the
silencer attached and punched a bullet through the lookout's forehead.

     Simple.

     There was no time to remove the body, but it hardly mattered.  Even if a
witness wandered in within the next few seconds, found the body and ran out to
call police, Katz should be finished by the time the uniforms began converging
on his target site.  If not, well, he would deal with that problem in its
turn.

     He rode the elevator up, glancing at his watch to confirm that he was on
time.  Precision counted with his chosen target; Louis Beltran was known for
leaving home to head for the office every weekday on the stroke of half past
eight.  It was a failing no top-ranking mobster should cultivate if he wanted
to survive, but years of peace and quiet in the neighborhood had deadened
Beltran's built-in sense of paranoia that had kept him on the streets this
long.

     The capo of Marseilles was past due for a change.

     Katz rode the elevator to the seventh floor, had the MP-5 K submachine
gun cocked and ready as he left the elevator, reaching back to punch a button
that would freeze the car in place until he finished with his business and was
ready to evacuate the floor.  He saw no lookouts, and moved toward number 721
with brisk, determined strides.  The neighbors might be used to Beltran's
hard-faced visitors by now, but they wouldn't be ready for this morning's
call.

     He found the door he wanted and took up station slightly to the left, out
of view from anyone who checked the peephole before venturing out.  He held
the MP-5 K braced against his hip and prayed that Beltran would be punctual
this morning, no delays to let a neighbor spot the ambush and run screaming
for police before Katz had a chance to do his job.

     It was 8:31 by Katzenelenbogen's watch when the door opened and a pair of
burly gunners stepped into the hallway, one behind the other.  Louis Beltran,
smaller than his bodyguards and better dressed, was right behind them, while a
fourth man came along behind to lock the door and double-check it with a
jiggle of the knob.  One of the leading soldiers had Katz spotted by that
time.  French curses poured from his lips, and he reached for his pistol,
hidden in a shoulder rig somewhere underneath his trench coat and suit jacket.
Too late.

     Katz held down the MP-5 K's trigger, unloading parabellum shockers at a
cyclic rate of eight hundred rounds per minute.  With a 30-round box magazine,
that meant that he could fire nonstop for 2.3 seconds before his clip ran dry.
A heartbeat, in the scheme of things, but it was all Katz needed this time
out.

     The storm of hollowpoints ripped through his four targets, slamming them
against the door and wall, explosive impact pinning them upright until his
ammunition was exhausted.

     Katz fed the little SMG a brand-new magazine as he headed back toward the
elevator, hot brass crunching underneath his soles.  A sudden thought stopped
him before he reached the waiting car, and he retreated, stood above the
bodies long enough to palm a death card from the I Ching tarot deck and drop
it face-up on the crimson ruin of Louis Beltran's chest.

     A little something from the Triads once removed, to keep the pot boiling
in Marseilles.  It wouldn't qualify as subtle, but the Corsicans weren't deep
thinkers for the most part, and events in Paris would dispose them to expect
the worst of their purported Chinese allies.

     Perfect.

     Katz walked back to the elevator, whistling to himself.  It had the
makings of a grim yet productive day.



     McCarter knew a problem when he saw one.  The underground parking garage
offered plenty of cover, but its murky light and crowded parking aisles
reduced his field of fire and made precision work essential.  If he blew it
this time, thought the former SAS commando, the defense would smother him.

     So he would simply have to get it right.

     His target--or the vehicle his target drove, to be exact--was a charcoal
gray Mercedes-Benz four-door sedan, with deeply tinted windows.  There was no
one in the car yet, or the engine would have been running, but he had a
lookout spotted from the time he entered the garage--Chinese, mid-twenties
from the look of him.  No hardware showed, but McCarter knew he would be
armed, with everything that had gone down in Paris recently.  In fact, his
very presence in the cavernous garage meant his employer had to be taking
extraordinary care to keep himself alive.

     Not that it would do him any good.

     McCarter was positioned above the Mercedes and twenty feet away, taking
advantage of the split-level garage's construction.  Crouching between two
mid-size sedans, he had a clear view of the Benz through a long triangular gap
between his own floor and the ramp in front of him, which carried traffic to
another level overhead.  The field of fire was clear, the elevators just
beyond his line of vision on the left.  The Uzi submachine gun balanced on his
knee was fitted with a silencer and loaded with a 32-round magazine.

     He waited, starting to perspire, his armpits itching.  Any time, McCarter
thought.  Let's get it done, boys.

     The Briton hadn't bothered to memorize the target's name.  The men who
came out of the elevator and approached the Benz were marked to die, as long
as they were Triad members.  If he missed the big man somehow, it would all
come out the same.  Another flash of paranoia, turning up the heat on their
opponents, bringing Marseilles to a rolling boil.

     He heard the elevator now, a whining to his left, the soft clash as it
settled into place.  He didn't hear the door hiss open, but McCarter caught
the sharp sound of approaching footsteps loud and clear.  He knelt between the
cars that gave him shelter, raised the Uzi, aiming over open sights.

     The lookout straightened to a rough approximation of attention, waiting
for the others to approach.  Two gunners had the lead, immediately followed by
an older, shorter man, with one more soldier bringing up the rear to make it
five in all.  The Triad lookout who had been on station from the first
produced a set of keys and turned to pull the back door open for his boss.

     McCarter saw his chance and seized it, squeezing off a burst that ripped
the would-be driver's spine in two and dumped him forward on his face.  He
went down like a sack of groceries, spilling when he hit the pavement, going
limp, with no attempt to rise or crawl away.

     Scratch one.

     The others were reacting like a team of trained professionals.  One gave
the boss a shove that took him out of sight behind the Benz, while his
companions spun to face the calculated source of gunfire, reaching for the
weapons stashed beneath their coats.  McCarter gave them credit for a
well-rehearsed attempt, but it wasn't enough to save their lives.

     A whisper from the Uzi may have reached their ears, but the acoustics in
the underground garage distorted even normal sounds, and they were working
blind.  Before they had a chance to spot him, the Briton unleashed another
burst, his weapon tracking right to left, stitching them both with parabellum
manglers.  The taller of the two went over backward, triggering a pistol shot
before he hit the deck, while his companion tottered toward the Benz,
collapsed against its grille.  He slid to his knees, one hand still clutching
hardware, while the other tried to stanch the flow of blood from ragged
stomach wounds.

     Too late.

     Another short burst caught him in the face and snapped his head back,
blood and brains fanning out across the hood of the Mercedes like some kind of
abstract paint job.  He was inching to the floor as the surviving bodyguard
reared up and fired two shots across the fender, scoring hits on glass and
steel off to McCarter's right.

     Another burst of parabellum shockers drove him under cover, but
McCarter's time was running out.  The Triad weapons had no silencers, and
their reports rang out in the garage like cannon fire.  Someone was bound to
hear the firing, and they would surely telephone for the police.  Unless
McCarter finished soon, he would be cornered, cut off from the street.

     He reached inside the right-hand pocket of his raincoat, palmed a frag
grenade and yanked the safety pin.  It was a rather awkward pitch, despite the
relatively easy range, but he could only try.  The various alternatives--sit
still and use up his ammo or try to flank the Benz on foot--were clearly
unacceptable.

     He lobbed the frag grenade, cursing roundly as it fell short and wobbled
underneath the front end of the Benz.  He had been trying for a clean bounce
off the hood to put it in their laps.

     When it blew, the charcoal gray Mercedes seemed to rear back like a
prancing stallion, rising on a cloud of smoke and flame.  Somebody screamed
behind the vehicle, barely audible as it crashed back to earth, and though
McCarter waited several seconds longer, hoping for a target he could sight on,
there was nothing.

     And he was out of time.

     If people were still alive down there, they had to be wounded at the very
least.  Survivors might turn out to be a bonus, if they carried tales to keep
the Corsican and Triad families at each other's throats.

     He backed away, found the stairs and climbed four flights to reach the
streets before he heard the first faint sound of sirens closing in the
distance.  It was part of the police experience that they habitually arrived
too late to be of any help in crisis situations, short of picking up the
bodies and reporting back to headquarters.

     McCarter wished them well.  Before the day was out, Marseilles police
would have their hands full keeping track of corpses.  And with any luck at
all, McCarter's Wouldn't be among them.  On the other hand ...

     He shrugged the morbid thought away and walked back to his car with long,
swift strides.  He had a job to do, and he was running out of time.



     The Marseils safe-deposit box was one of several kept by Tu Sheng in
European cities as diverse as London, Paris, Rome, Madrid and Amsterdam.
There were thirteen in all, a number many Westerners would shun as an ill
omen, but the agent from Beijing wasn't a slave to superstition.  He believed,
instead, that most bad luck was actually the product of poor planning,
negligence or treachery.  Preparedness meant standing ready to evacuate a
given territory on a moment's notice, fleeing empty-handed if the situation
called for desperate measures, taking whatever might be convenient if he had
the time to pack.

     Each safe-deposit box contained a passport, credit cards to match the
given passport name, a loaded pocket pistol with an extra magazine and an
ample amount of the local currency in large denominations.  Sheng used
different names at each and every bank, no correlation to the passport names,
and had them memorized for use in an emergency.

     Like now.

     The teller was a young brunette who smelled like stale tobacco smoke.  It
was a fragrance Sheng expected of the French, competing with perfume, cologne
and after-shave in this, a nation dedicated to its cigarettes.  Her smile was
charming, all the same, and Sheng replied in kind.  She found the card he
hadn't used since opening the box some thirteen months earlier, and watched
him sign a false name on the proper line, beside her X. Sheng used his normal
handwriting.  He didn't plan to be in Marseilles long enough for anyone to
check the many banks with a graphologist in tow.

     She checked the signature, smiled once again and led him to the vault,
where Sheng produced a key to match her own.

     The box was fifteen inches deep, six inches square and weighed perhaps
six pounds.  The teller led him to a booth, much like a rest room stall,
except that it contained a chair and table rather than a toilet.  He waited
while she closed the door behind her, checked the booth for spying cameras and
finally opened up the box.

     The passport was valid for another six years, and he would need it for
only another week or so.  The credit cards hadn't been used, although the fees
were paid on time.  The pistol was a four-inch Makarov, .380 caliber, inside a
plastic sandwich bag.  The crisp new francs were bundled with rubber bands,
four thousand to a stack.

     Sheng filled his pockets with the passport, credit cards, spare pistol
magazine and cash.  The Makarov was tucked inside his waistband at the back,
where it was hidden by the full cut of his jacket.  The plastic bag went back
inside his safe-deposit box, a bit of mystery for anyone who followed him this
far.

     To hell with fingerprints.

     Sheng's contact with the local Triad representatives had been minimal so
far.  He wasn't sure how much they knew about the mess in Paris, or the
violence that had followed him from London, on through Amsterdam.  There was a
chance they would detain him if they blamed him for the death of Toh Lim, and
Sheng wasn't prepared to let that happen--not when the elusive enemy was
drawing closer all the time.

     Already there were echoes of the battle in Marseilles.  Sheng knew that
he should call the Dragon, seek advice, but he was more concerned with
personal survival at the moment.  There would be enough time to consult with
his superiors when he was safely out of France and on his way to... where?

     The whole idea of safety had become a joke for Sheng in the past three
days.  He was becoming paranoid, and that wasn't the worst of it.  Sheng knew
his life was still in jeopardy, would be until he managed to identify his
enemies and help the Triads--or the Dragon--strike a killing blow against the
round-eyes who had hunted him across three countries in as many days.

     There was no time for that now, however.  Sheng was still in danger.  He
could almost smell the battle smoke from where he stood, and instinct told him
it wouldn't be long before his faceless adversaries found him in Marseilles.
They were already in the city, if his judgment was correct.  The shooting war
between the Triads and Corsicans had been concocted as a ruse to spoil the
Dragon's plans.

     But why?  By whom?

     The answers still eluded Sheng, and he could only sort them out if he was
still alive to think the problem through.  Which meant that it was time for
him to flee.  Again.

     A destination struck him as he stood there, waiting for the teller to
return and lock away his safe-deposit box.  There was a place where he might
be secure.  If he was wrong this time, at least his enemies would have their
hands full with the locals while they tried to find Tu Sheng.

     It would be worth a try.

     The muscles of his face were cramped from so much scowling.  It felt
strange to smile again, but Sheng hung on to the expression as he left the
bank and walked back to his waiting taxicab.

     "The airport, driver."

     Settling back to watch the traffic flow around him, Sheng decided it felt
good to smile.  He would remember that when all his enemies were dead and he
was pissing on their graves.



     The Triad's chief enforcer in Marseilles maintained an office on the
sixth floor of a downtown building, with a long view of the waterfront through
windows facing south.  When guests stopped by to visit, Chin Sun was apt to
offer wine and gourmet appetizers, fine cigars--perhaps a woman, if the
visitor was male and had some extra time to kill in town.

     Indeed, his hospitality was legendary in the province where he made his
home these days, and he had been described on more than one occasion as an
honorary Frenchman by his local friends.

     This afternoon, though, Sun wasn't expecting guests.  Instead, he was
preparing to defend Marseilles and his investments on the 14K's behalf against
the Corsicans who were supposed to be his allies.  War had broken out between
the criminal fraternities, and even though he didn't understand the reasons
why, Sun wasn't prepared to play the loser's role.

     Three of his chief lieutenants were assembled in the sixth-floor office
to receive their orders, and he was waiting for the last one to arrive before
he started laying out his plans.  In two more minutes, if the tardy soldier
hadn't shown his face, Sun would begin without him--and begin considering
replacements for a man who kept his master waiting with no good excuse.

     As if in answer to his thoughts, the office door swung open.  Sun glanced
up in time to see one of his bodyguards fly through the door headfirst and
fall prone on the carpet.  Close behind him, filling up the doorway, was a
tall white man with a submachine gun in his hand.

     Sun recoiled from the expression on the stranger's face and barked orders
at his three lieutenants even as he dropped behind the desk to hide.  His men
were shouting, pushing back their chairs and scrambling for their weapons,
taken absolutely by surprise.  Sun heard the automatic weapon stutter, bullets
striking flesh, walls, furniture.  A high-pitched scream, somehow familiar,
rang in Sun's ears, and something shattered on his desk--perhaps the photo of
his wife and son he kept there, in a gilt-edged frame.

     Sun wormed his way beneath the desk and into the knee hole, cringing as a
body slammed against the desk, then slid away.  The firing stopped in seconds
flat, with no answer from his soldiers, and his only hope was that the gunman
would believe he had been killed outright in the initial firing.  Or perhaps
he would be overlooked in the excitement.  How long could a stranger tarry in
the circumstances, when he had to know help was on the way?  From where?

     To come this far, the round-eye had to have dealt with those outside,
perhaps the guards downstairs, as well.  Was he a Corsican?  He hadn't spoken
yet, but Sun assumed A pair of black-clad legs came into view, their owner
crouching, prodding Sun with the Uzi.  "Get out of there," he ordered.

     When Sun made no move to comply, strong fingers gripped his ankle,
dragging him into the light as if he were a child.  The gunman towered over
him, a giant, peering down the barrel of his SMG.  "Speak English?"

     Sun considered lying to him, but preferred to live a little longer if he
could.  "I do."

     "You know a man named Tu Sheng?"

     Sun blinked.  "What do you want with him?"

     "I'll ask the questions, guy.  Where is he?"

     "in Marseilles."

     The Uzi's muzzle pressed against his forehead, still uncomfortably warm.

     "Let's try that one more time."

     "He did not come to see me."  Sun was trembling as he spoke.  "I don't
know why he came here, and he did not say how long he planned to stay."

     "Where does he stay when he's in town?"

     "Hotels," Sun answered.  "Sheng has no apartment here."

     "And you don't know where I can find him?"

     "No."

     "You're positive?"

     "I swear."

     "I guess we're finished, then."

     Sun was starting to relax when those strong fingers grabbed his jacket,
hoisted him as if he were a weightless straw man and dragged him toward the
picture window.  He was screaming when he hit the glass and felt it shatter,
ripping at his flesh, and then he had no breath to scream with as he reached
out with desperate hands to stop the street and sidewalk rushing toward his
face.


                                      10


                                 Milan, Italy

     Pietro Abandando lit his first cigar of the morning, drawing the rich
smoke deep into his lungs.  He didn't cough as he savored the aroma and the
rush of nicotine.  He had a young man's constitution, even at the age of
sixty-one, and there was no reason why he shouldn't live to be a hundred.  If
he wasn't murdered first, of course.

     It was a rough-and-tumble business Abandando had selected for himself
when he was barely eighteen years of age.  The Mafia had no retirement plan,
and a majority of its initiated members died before they reached that golden
age, in any case.  Some fell to natural causes, but most ran out of time and
luck when they encountered bullets, bombs, garrotes, stilettos or the devilish
lupara, firing jagged chunks of lead that left a man in tatters, like a side
of beef the dogs had worried raw.  Abandando had survived because a
combination of intelligence and animal ferocity allowed him to defeat his
enemies, detect potential traitors and eliminate the competition in his rise
to stand as capo of Milan.  He was a man of respect, feared and honored by his
neighbors in roughly equal proportions, though he suspected that fear would
win out in the end.  And that was fine.

     Times changed, and it had turned into a new world from the one Abandando
knew when he was growing up, an urchin on the street, whose dark Sicilian
blood set him apart from mainlanders.  These days, aside from the historic
rivalry with the Camorra, there were Chinese to contend with, cruel
Colombians--even Russians, as if Abandando didn't have enough to deal with in
his golden years.  The Chinese Triads were accommodating, for a price.  As for
the rest ...

     His car was waiting at the curb, one of Abandando's soldiers nodding at
him and opening the back door, while his driver sat behind the wheel.  Good
boys, these young ones, though he sometimes wished they had the lean and
hungry look of his own generation, greater motivation to excel and grind the
enemy to dust beneath their feet.  Some grew up thinking it would be a world
of milk and honey all their lives, no need to fight for what they wanted--or
to keep what they already had.  Abandando knew the truth, and he was still a
soldier, after all these years.  The belly, double chin and waddling gait
disguised a tiger who was merely resting, still quite capable of killing if
the need arose.

     This day, though, there should be no need for killing.  Skies were blue
above him, the cigar was sweet, and he was looking forward to a leisurely day
at his favorite cafe, sipping wine through the long afternoon, consulting
those who stopped with hats in hand to cut a deal, ask favors or repay some
kindness Abandando had bestowed on them in days gone by.

     It was a good life, all in all.

     He rarely had to murder anyone these days.

     "Good morning, Don Pietro."  Young Luigi smiled at him with the proper
deference as he spoke, head tilted in the bare suggestion of a bow.

     "Luigi.  You look-"

     The first shot struck Luigi from behind, a clean hit to the head--though
clean wasn't the best word to describe it, as the young man's skull exploded,
spraying Abandando with a mist of blood and brains.  He blinked the gore away,
recoiling as the almost headless body toppled forward, sprawling at his feet.
The echo of the shot came back at him belatedly from somewhere on the far side
of Viale Monza.

     Abandando staggered, instinct taking over as he threw himself on the
pavement, crawling toward the cover of some nearby shrubbery.  It wouldn't
stop a rifle bullet, but at least it might confuse the sniper's aim.

     The next shot was directed at his car.  Abandando heard a crash of glass,
but didn't look back to see if young Alfonso was alive or dead behind the
wheel.  No matter.  Abandando meant to save himself at any cost.  Young
soldiers could be purchased cheaply.  It was the capo's job to stay alive and
lead his men to victory against the enemy.

     Whoever they were.

     Abandando tasted dirt, felt prickly bushes scratching at his face and
neck.  Worming backward, he soon put a stucco wall between himself and the
assassin, cool shade masking his retreat.

     Now all he had to do was wait for the police.

     And think how sweet revenge would be, when it was his turn to retaliate.



     Marcel Bouchet had pitched in with the pointer to Milan.  Surveillance
cameras at the Marseilles airport, operated by the Serete to watch for
fugitives and smugglers, had detected Tu Sheng as he lined up to board the
flight from France to northern Italy.  The choice was logical when Bolan
thought about it: a short flight to friendly territory, where the 14K and
Mafia had forged a grim alliance, working hand in hand to keep the drugs and
lira flowing, minimize potential bloodshed and advance Beijing's political
agenda on the side.

     The ruling capo wouldn't understand that part of it, thought Bolan.  They
were die-hard capitalists, as devoted to free enterprise as any staunch
Republican in Washington, D.C.  The Mafia had gone to war against the fascists
in the 1930s, and then local Communists a decade later, taking money from the
OSS and CIA in turn to help keep Italy allied with the United States and NATO
while the cold war heated up in Europe.  If the authorities were kind enough
to turn a blind eye to narcotics traffic, rank extortion and the like in
payment for services rendered, so much the better.  Politics made strange
bedfellows indeed, and the homegrown Mafia had been sleeping well for
generations in its native soil.

     The present boss of bosses, based on information drawn from Interpol, was
a sixty-four-year-old convicted murderer named Giuseppe Andolini, who divided
his time between Rome and Milan.  His Triad counterpart and ally, for the past
two years or so, was Mao Hahn, a forty-two-year-old import from Hong Kong,
operating on a long-term visa that identified him as a scout for restaurants
and hotels.  The only scouting Hahn had done to date had been on
transportation routes for China white, but no one seemed to mind.  The fix was
in, and it was business as usual in Milan.

     Until the Executioner hit town.

     He still had hopes of finding Tu Sheng, but there was more at stake in
Italy than nailing down one agent of the ChiCom network.  Each new stop along
the trail, from San Francisco to Milan, convinced Mack Bolan that his
adversary's grand design meant more than simply moving drugs or smuggling
Chinese aliens from one point to another, raking in the cash that came from
contraband in any form.  Beijing cared nothing for narcotics, even less for
fugitives--unless the two outlawed commodities were harnessed in some way to
serve the People's Revolution.  In that case ...

     The picture was emerging piece by piece, and he could guess at much of
what had yet to be revealed.  The trade in China white was highly lucrative,
allowing ChiCom plotters to reduce their own expense accounts and maybe turn a
profit on subversion, while the traffic undermined morale and morals in the
West.  Illegal aliens were flocking out of China all the time; why not include
some spies or saboteurs among the frightened refugees and let them burrow deep
in their adopted homelands, ready to emerge and strike on order when the time
was ripe?  While they were at it, it was no great trick to funnel Chinese
weapons and explosives through the Triad pipeline, arming "revolutionaries"
from the urban battlefields of Western Europe to the jungles of Peru,
Colombia, Thailand and the Philippines.

     There were some pieces missing from the puzzle yet, but Bolan saw enough
to let him know that he was dealing with an international conspiracy that made
the Medellin cartel look like a bunch of juvenile delinquents stealing hubcaps
on a Sunday afternoon.  Since Russia and her Eastern European satellites had
fallen into disarray, Red China was the bloody, beating heart of global
communism, as committed to repression of her people and the export of her
brutal revolution as she ever had been under Mao Tse-tung or Chou En-lai.

     The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

     It could be said of Bolan, too, those words of wisdom from another time
and place.  His stern commitment to eradicating human predators was carved in
stone, a debt he owed himself and those who had already sacrificed themselves
on his behalf to stem the dark, malignant tide before it swept humanity away.
He cherished no illusions that one man could do the job alone, but someone had
to try, and Bolan did the best he could.

     Getting by with a little help from his friends.

     This day Milan was on the hit list, and the games had just begun.  Before
the sun went down, this peaceful city in the heart of Lombardy would see a
very different side of life--and death.  The Executioner was ready.



     Katzenelenbogen didn't speak Italian, but he had the look to carry off
the next phase of his mission in Milan.  His gray hair, weathered skin, even
the two-inch knife scar on the left side of his neck would help him pass for
Mafia when he came up against the Triad in Milan, as long as none of them
invited him to stick around and have a friendly chat.

     No problem there, with the Beretta Model 12S submachine gun tucked
beneath his raincoat, Katzenelenbogen thought.  He had selected an Italian
weapon, just in case survivors noticed or he had to leave it near the scene.
It was a small thing, window dressing, but he always strove for accuracy.  The
Beretta semiautomatic holstered under his right armpit made it unanimous,
along with the Italian clothes and shoes he wore.

     The Chinese restaurant was two blocks west of Milan's Palazzo di Brera.
Katz couldn't read the sign in Italian or Cantonese, but it made no
difference.  He knew exactly where he was, and who was waiting for him once he
made his way inside.

     The restaurant was one of several businesses controlled by Mao Hahn, the
Triad red pole in Milan.  He kept an office there, though it wasn't his
central headquarters, and Katz didn't expect to find Hahn on the premises this
morning.  It would be enough to meet with his lieutenants, shake them up a bit
and point a guilty finger at the local Mafia.

     The sun was warm on Katz's shoulders as he crossed the street, avoiding
traffic, but a cool breeze dried the perspiration on his forehead.  He was
sweating like a rookie, Katz acknowledged, angry at the notion that a simple
hit-and-run would put his nerves on edge.  It happened to the best of them, of
course, but Katz had always felt immortal, even when he lost his arm in action
in the Sinai.

     A survivor.  Lately, though ...

     He shrugged away the brooding train of thought and concentrated on his
mission.  Almost to the front doors of the restaurant, he took a firm grip on
the compact SMG, making sure the safety switch was off before he walked
inside.

     It wasn't open for business yet, but a custodian was sweeping up the
dining room, while waiters dressed in white shirts over pressed black trousers
set the tables, laying out the silverware and napkins.  Katz wondered idly if
they did a decent business in a city like Milan, but it was simply mental
small talk.  By the time he finished with the restaurant, it would require
extensive renovation and repairs.

     One of the waiters moved to intercept him, speaking in Italian, but the
gruff Israeli silenced him with graveyard eyes, brushed past him and headed
toward the private off ice in the rear.  He didn't know the floor plan, but
the business part of any restaurant was always tucked away somewhere, kept out
of sight.  It was a firm, unwritten rule, immutable as any law of physics in
the universe.

     He passed the kitchen, felt his mouth begin to water at the smell of
chicken, pork and vegetables in preparation for the lunchtime crowd.  Katz
tried to picture dozens of Italians sitting down to Chinese food and quickly
gave it up.  In front of him, a red door marked Privato held his full
attention.

     He didn't try the knob, as his hand and metal claw were already filled
with hardware.  Rearing back to give the door a solid kick, he slammed it
open, swinging hard against the wall on the Israeli's left.  In front of him,
a chubby, balding Chinese with gold-rimmed spectacles was gaping at him.

     Two younger men were standing by the desk on either side, and while their
faces also registered surprise, they didn't let the sight of Katz's gun
immobilize them.  Instead, they broke in opposite directions, reaching for the
pistols worn beneath their stylish jackets, trying to defend themselves and
maybe save the older man behind the desk.

     The shooter on his left was closer, quicker, hence more dangerous, and
Katz dealt with him first, a short burst to his chest, the last word in their
grim, one-sided argument.  Explosive impact hurled the Chinese gunman back
against a nearby file cabinet, toppling books and papers to the floor, where
he came down on top of them and smeared them with his blood.

     On Katz's right the second gunner had his pistol out, but he was slow to
find his target, fumbling with the safety catch before he got it right.  Too
late.  The short Beretta SMG spit half a dozen rounds and nailed him to the
wall, arms splayed to simulate a crucifixion, sliding to the floor and leaving
crimson tracks behind him as he went.

     And that left one.

     The man behind the desk had given up on breathing.  He was turning
colors, scarlet darkening to purple, and his eyes bugged out behind the
glasses as if pressure from within were on the point of detonation.  Katz
helped out with four rounds from his SMG, deflating him, the tall chair and
its occupant punched backward in a clumsy sprawl that took the dead man out of
sight.

     Back through the dining room, he half expected opposition, but the way
was clear.  The waiters made a point of keeping eyes averted as he passed,
like statues frozen where they stood.  Katz tucked his weapon out of sight
before he hit the street and barged into traffic, dodging cars and listening
to horns bleat wordless insults as he crossed the boulevard.

     He was fumbling in his pocket for the car keys when he realized his hand
was shaking.  Damn!  A simple job, and he was trembling like a novice on his
first time out.

     Nerves were part of living, Katz told himself, and any soldier without
feelings was a man just waiting for the ax to fall.  Still, he had done this
kind of work at least a hundred times before, and he couldn't remember
trembling this way since his teens, the first time he went into battle.

     Shake it off!

     Indeed, he had no other choice.  The battle had been joined, and there
was no place for him on the sidelines.  It was do-or-die, and Katzenelenbogen
only knew one way to go.

     Straight down the middle, all the way to the end of the line.

                                     Macao

     The situation had gone from bad to worse, and there was still no end in
sight for Cheung Kuo.  His operation had been shattered by the unnamed enemy
in France; police and Corsican thugs were mopping up the survivors, leaving no
stone unturned, while Tu Sheng took off for Italy to save himself.  And now,
as if on cue, the violence had begun once more, this time around Milan.

     Coincidence?  Was someone stalking Sheng, or could there be another
explanation for the long string of disasters they had suffered in the past
eight days?  It was without a doubt the longest, most depressing week of Kuo's
adult life, and he was desperate for a scapegoat, someone who would take the
blame, absorb some savage punishment and thereby put his roiling mind at ease.

     The trouble was, he trusted Sheng--or had until his agent demonstrated
something close to supernatural success in cheating death, while those around
him fell like stalks of grain before the reaper's scythe.  Was it dumb luck, a
show of skill ... or something more?

     Before the past week's violence, Kuo wouldn't have believed that Sheng
possessed the raw imagination necessary to present a risk of treachery.  Most
any man could stab you in the back, of course, but the rewards involved were
often petty--what the crass Americans called "peanuts."  It required a fair
degree of intelligence, plus certain training to devise a scheme that
threatened countries and empires, and the Dragon had been scrupulous in
choosing agents for the field who lacked those qualities.

     Or so he thought.

     It wouldn't hurt to take a closer look at Sheng, but time was of the
essence now.  The violent setbacks they had suffered in America and Europe
could be fatal to the program if the Dragon didn't seize control, assert
himself and do what he did best--whip his subordinates and lackeys into line,
make sure they understood the penalty for failure in an unforgiving world.

     Sheng would thank him for the stern reminder if he was a loyal agent of
the cause.  If not, well, it was late to look for a replacement, but removal
of a traitor always ranked among the top priorities of any plan.  It would be
awkward, trying to replace the man who represented Cheung Kuo's apparat in all
of Western Europe, but it could be done.  No man was indispensable.

     Except, perhaps, the Dragon.

     He was still no closer to discovering the names and number of his
enemies, though Kuo had nearly convinced himself the men had to be
American--their leadership, at any rate.  The Yanks had ample reason to
despise him--those who knew of his existence, anyway--but would they move
against him so aggressively in these times, when their watchdog Congress made
a show of counting pennies and avoiding hasty foreign entanglements?

     It seemed unlikely.  Still ...

     Someone was stepping on his plans, and Kuo was furious that they had
managed to survive this long, harassing him across two continents, five
separate countries.

     Make that six, with Italy.

     His eyes were chips of flint as he reached out to grab the telephone.
Invading Italy had been a grave mistake for his unknown opponents, Kuo
decided.  While they didn't know it yet, the move would cost them everything.
Beginning with their lives.

                                     Milan

     McCarter's weapon was the Beretta SC70 rifle with a folding metal stock,
the butt extended now and cool against his cheek.  The gun measured
thirty-seven inches overall, including its built-in grenade launcher, and it
weighed a fraction over nine pounds fully loaded with a 30-round box magazine
of 5.56 mm rounds.  Its cyclic rate of fire approached 650 rounds per minute
in full-auto mode, but it was set for semiauto firing, to save on ammunition
and provide for greater accuracy at his chosen range of sixty yards.

     The trucks were lined up like a herd of fat, domesticated dinosaurs, all
waiting for the master to arrive and fill their feeding trough.  In fact,
McCarter knew, these beasts of burden had been fed already, diesel tanks
topped off, and while he couldn't see the fumes escaping from their tall
exhaust pipes, he could hear the engines rumbling even from a distance, seven
giant hearts that never missed a beat.

     Fanducci's trucking company was known to specialize in contraband, all
kinds, no load too dirty or too hot.  In years gone by, the big green trucks
had carried everything from uncut opium and stolen cigarettes to women,
drugged and shackled, headed for the docks in Rome or Naples, where they would
be shipped to brothels in the Middle East and Africa.

     No human cargo was on board today, according to McCarter's information.
He wasn't required to pull his punches out of fear that he would kill or
injure any innocent bystanders at the scene.  The drivers, for their part,
were hard-core Mafia, armed to the teeth against the chance that some demented
idiot would try to rob Don Giuseppe Andolini's trucks.

     They had to have laughed at that sometimes, the very notion of a
hijacking.  Don Andolini was the strongest capo on the mainland, his control
of sundry rackets guaranteed by fear and favors.  No one had the nerve to
trifle with his operations, but it helped to make a show of force regardless.
Andolini had a fearsome reputation to preserve, and it was only wise to
maintain strong defenses, even in a time of peace.

     McCarter took one of the 40 mm MECAR rifle grenades from his satchel,
fitting it carefully over the SC70's muzzle.  The range was perfect, as were
the targets.  Even if he missed one truck, with seven lined up in a row, it
should be no great challenge to produce a killing hit.  And once the fireworks
started, he was on his way.

     He counted sixteen men around the trucks.  Assuming they used two-man
crews, that left a couple for the chores of maintenance and fueling.  Some of
them were bound to spot him, even with broad daylight helping to hide his
muzzle-flashes, but it didn't matter.  By the time they managed to coordinate
an armed response, he would be raining death upon their heads; there would be
no realistic chance for them to save themselves.

     McCarter chose his target, starting in the middle of the line, where an
explosion would produce the best results.  He took his time and aimed for the
windshield, knowing his grenade would drop a bit before it reached the target.
That should place it more or less dead center on the big truck's grille, and
it would detonate with force enough to crack the engine block, spill burning
fuel, perhaps touch off the diesel tanks.

     From there it should be easy: take advantage of the first confusion,
laying down a screen of killing fire and leaving havoc in his wake when he
pulled back, a phantom who spread death and paranoia in the opposition's
ranks.

     He sighted down the barrel, took a breath and held it, then squeezed the
trigger gently with his index finger.  The grenade took off downrange, struck
home on target with a smoky thunderclap.  Within a heartbeat red-and-yellow
flames were pooled beneath the stricken vehicle and spreading to its
neighbors, while the mafiosi on the ground began to scramble, trying to
discover what was going on.

     He mounted a second grenade, winged it toward the end of the line on his
left and watched another truck go up in flames.  The Briton let fly with one
to his right, boxing them in with burning hulks, flames spreading rapidly to
reach the other trucks.

     The crews were scrambling in a hectic bid to salvage something from the
holocaust, men leaping through the smoke and flames to mount their lofty cabs,
throw engines into gear and put the still-undamaged trucks in motion.
Starting on his left, McCarter shot one driver through the windshield of his
cab, two 5.56 mm bullets in the face and chest that killed him where he sat
and left him slumped across the steering wheel.  A third round stalled the
engine, and his truck was going nowhere fast.

     It was the same with drivers two and three, small deviations in the
script, but none of them was bulletproof, none of their vehicles impervious to
armor-piercing rounds.  McCarter did his job efficiently, without a thought to
his assailants as a group of human beings.  They were targets, plain and
simple, predators who made their living by inflicting misery on others,
shipping pain and heartache to the world at large.

     And it was time for them to pay.

     A handful of survivors, still on foot, had found McCarter--or thought
they had.  Most of the men had pistols, though one had a compact subgun, and
they were returning fire with more enthusiasm than precision.  Given time,
they might succeed in trapping him until police or reinforcements could
arrive, but he wasn't prepared to let them have that time.

     McCarter switched his rifle to full-auto and strafed his adversaries with
a long burst, tracking right to left along their ragged line.  They made good
targets, with the leaping flames behind them, and he watched them stagger,
topple and go down.  It was impossible to say which ones were wounded, dead or
simply trying to avoid a bullet, and he didn't care.  As long as they were
down and out, McCarter had a chance to slip away.

     It was a short jog to his waiting car, close by the railroad tracks that
formed the northern boundary of the warehouse district.  By the time he got
there, he had tucked the SC-70 beneath his coat, stock folded, and was ready
to secure it in the duffel bag behind the driver's seat.  The two remaining
MECAR grenades joined the rifle, safely out of sight, and he was rolling in
another moment, checking out the pall of smoke that filled his rearview
mirror, rising from Fanducci's trucking yard.

     Take that, he thought, and smiled.  They might as well get used to it.

     Because the battle in Milan was just beginning, and the Mafia was on the
losing side.



     Don Giuseppe andolini felt the warm sun on his face and knew that life
was good.  The villa outside Corsico, southwest of Milan, was his pride and
joy, the olive groves providing shade and income all wrapped up in one.  The
house was custom-tailored to his needs, with marble floors and furnishings no
peasant could have purchased if he saved his wages for a lifetime.

     Andolini was a "man with a belly," both in literal and figurative terms.
He measured five foot six in elevator heels and tipped the scales at three
hundred pounds, but the expression was intended to describe a man whose
reputation went before him, earning him respect--or fear--from those he dealt
with on a daily basis.  Andolini was a man whose bloody hands had crushed the
life from individuals and small communities alike; manipulated politicians,
judges and policemen; smuggled everything from guns and gold to heroin and
human flesh at one time or another in his long career of crime.  He was a
married man who kept a string of mistresses between Milan and Naples, filling
in the odd days of the month with any number of the nubile prostitutes who
recognized him as their lord and master.  Andolini was a connoisseur of wine,
as well as women, and his favorites came from vineyards that he owned around
Salerno and Calabria.  The one-time owners of those vineyards had been
stubborn men, but one had died at thirty-seven, when his car exploded on a
rural highway, and the other saw the wisdom of accommodating Andolini's urge
to dabble in the business of producing wine.

     So life was good, but there were setbacks all the same.  Most recently
the violence in Milan had challenged him to keep his wits about him, not go
rushing off in fury to declare war on the enemy who seemed most obvious.
There would be time enough for that once Andolini had the necessary facts in
hand.  He had learned something, after all, from years of crushing
competition, watching out for traitors at his back.

     The lesson was a simple one: be sure of who your adversaries were before
you sent them off to hell.

     The butler cleared his throat and spoke to Andolini in a soft, respectful
tone, informing him the Chinese had arrived.  Andolini heaved his bulk out of
the chair and went to greet his guests.  Two men, the butler said, and while
he had expected Mao Hahn to come alone, the capo had nothing to fear from two
men as opposed to one.  His soldiers would have searched them at the door, and
anyone who tried to harm him here at home would be confronted with a dozen
guns before the men had a chance to blink.

     Andolini didn't know that much about the Chinese.  Most of them looked
the same to him, and these were no exception: yellow men of less than average
height, dressed in expensive suits, their straight black hair slicked down
with oil.  The one on Andolini's left was Mao Hahn, a forty-something shark
whose glowing smile concealed a heart as black as anthracite.  Andolini knew
Hahn was a big-time killer in his homeland, and respected him for that, but
this was Italy, and the Chinese could not forget who was in charge.

     Hahn's companion was a slightly younger man whose predatory features had
been polished with a certain superficial charm.  Hahn introduced the man as Tu
Sheng, a colleague from Macao, and Andolini shook his flaccid hand.  They sat
and waited for the butler to pour wine and made small talk for the first few
minutes.  Andolini finally came to the point.

     "I don't like all this trouble in Milan," he told his visitors.  "My men
are getting killed.  Some think your people are responsible."

     "My soldiers have been killed, as well," Hahn said.

     "I know this.  It's why you're sipping wine and talking to me now,
instead of lying in a hole with fresh dirt on your face."

     Hahn kept his plastic smile in place and said, "I'm grateful for your
understanding, Don Giuseppe."

     Andolini waved the thanks away as if it were a buzzing fly.  "What reason
could you have for making war against my family?" he asked.  "We have a
contract, no?  We all make money while the truce is in effect.  It would be
foolish for a man in your position to throw everything away, and I am told
that idiots are rare among your people."

     "They are nonexistent in my family," Hahn told him, smiling still.

     "Our problem, then, is to discover those responsible for the disruptive
acts and punish them before they cost our families more money we cannot
afford."

     "My friend can shed some light on that, I think."  Hahn turned to his
companion, nodding as a signal for the other man to speak.

     Andolini listened while the other told his tale in halting words, nerves
threatening to choke him up from time to time.  The past four days had seen
outbreaks of violence aimed at the Chinese and their associates in London, in
Amsterdam and France.  Around Marseilles and Paris, someone had apparently
provoked a shooting war between the Corsicans and Triads, with the end result
that both sides had been seriously damaged.  Andolini was familiar with the
recent events in France, though he had logically suspected the Chinese of
treachery.  Sheng had managed to escape each time, unharmed, and while that
smacked of a suspicious circumstance, Andolini was prepared to hold off
judgment for a time, until he heard what else the Chinese had to say.

     "And they were white men?" he inquired when Sheng had finished.  "You
believe they were Americans?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "That's very interesting."

     "What shall we do?" Hahn asked.

     "The first thing we must do," Andolini told him, putting on a mirthless
smile, "is mobilize for total war."


                                      11


     The small cafe was located two blocks south of Milan's Catholic
University of the Sacred Heart.  Bolan felt a bit out of place, surrounded by
students and tourists, but they passed him by without a second glance,
mistaking him for a native resident, or--at worst--a well-dressed visitor who
seemed to know his way around.

     In fact, it wasn't Bolan's first trip to Milan, but he had never visited
the city on a pleasure trip, and wondered what it would be like to roam around
the streets with camera and guidebook, no guns underneath his coat and no one
out to kill him any hour of the day or night if he let his guard down for a
moment.  It would be strange, he thought, to just relax, go with the flow and
act as if he didn't have a worry in the world.

     It was a price of living on the edge, that loss of humdrum, "rational"
perspective on the world.  When a man was braced to die at any time, the world
took on a whole new set of colors, smells and sounds: more vibrant and intense
than he remembered from his younger days, before he donned a uniform.  Was it
better?  Worse?  He couldn't say with any certainty these days.

     But it was all he knew, and there could be no turning back.

     The man he was about to meet at the cafe was a senior officer with the
Italian security service, a unit created in the 1970s to cope with left-wing
terrorism, later expanded to take the heat from neo-fascists and to spearhead
an investigation of the Mafia, when the police and prosecutors started running
out of guts.  A sort of cross between the FBI and Delta Force, the unit
carried out surveillance, gathered facts, then moved against its targets with
the kind of force most commonly reserved for hostage situations in the West.
It worked, to some extent, but they were years away from ending terrorism in
the country, much less stamping out the syndicates that had been growing,
planting deep roots in Italian soil for over seven hundred years.

     But maybe, if he played his cards right, they would lend a helping hand
... or stand aside, at least, and let him do his job without the added burden
of police pursuit.

     It was a lot to ask, he realized, and the Italians had their pride to
think of.  They were serious about their war against the Mafia--some of them,
anyway--and he would have to walk on eggs, watch out for any inadvertent
insults when he made his pitch.

     It was late morning, and the cafe was a shady refuge from the sun
outside.  The raincoat and the Uzi had been left behind in Bolan's rental car
two blocks away.  He wore a sleek Beretta Model 92 below his left armpit, in a
fast-draw rig, and that would have to do if anything went wrong in the cafe.

     His contact was supposed to have a white carnation in his buttonhole.  It
was an ancient trick, the ultimate cliche, but it had seemed to fit a sunny
morning in Milan.  He took two steps across the threshold, then spent a moment
checking out the room, while an attractive hostess hovered at his elbow,
asking him if she could help.

     "Un attimo," he told her.  "Cerco un amico."

     There, to Bolan's left.  The man was still a few years short of middle
age, hunched forward with his elbows on the checkered tablecloth and sipping
coffee, trying not to stare at Bolan.  The carnation pinned to his lapel had
wilted somewhat since he left the office, but it was the only one in sight.

     Bolan nodded toward the table, left the hostess at her post as he moved
off to greet his "friend."  The stranger watched him, one hand slipping
underneath the table, probably to find a weapon just in case the meet turned
out to be a trap.

     Smart thinking.  Bolan gave him credit.  It was always wise to be
prepared when you were dealing with a total stranger and the stakes were life
or death.

     He stopped two paces from the table, risked a smile and asked, "Paria
inglese?"

     His contact raised an eyebrow and replied, "It wouldn't make much sense
for me to be here if I couldn't speak the language."  When he got around to
smiling, it was calm, reserved.  "Why don't you have a seat and tell me what
you need?"



     Katz had suggested that they dog the meet to cover Bolan's back, but the
Executioner insisted there was too much work to do around Milan before they
moved on to another killing ground.  Katz wanted to believe that they were
making progress, knew the enemy was hurting, but the odds against them were so
long that the Israeli found it best to concentrate on the here and now instead
of looking too far down the road.

     Which brought him to the cluttered alley behind a health club near the
Castello Sporzesco.  It was a Triad hangout these days, taken over by the
Chinese mob a year earlier, when they were branching out with their
"legitimate" investments in Milan.

     They kept the back door locked, but it was old and could have used some
maintenance.  Katz used his metal claw and sheared off the doorknob, hearing
metal clatter on the floor inside.  No dead bolt obstructed his entry.  He
went in with the short Beretta 12-S leading, just in case someone had heard
the racket and was coming to investigate.

     In fact, he had the dingy hallway to himself.  The clanking sound of
metal from a room somewhere ahead told Katz the men he sought were working out
to keep themselves in shape.  Some of the Triad soldiers practiced martial
arts, he knew, and many of the younger ones were fitness buffs, but muscles
wouldn't save them when he had them in his sights.

     Katz moved along the corridor, passed by a shower room with water running
in an empty stall, no one in evidence.  He kept on going, trailed a reek of
perspiration to the gym, where he found half a dozen young Chinese at work on
weight machines and stationary bicycles.  Two others stood against one wall,
towels draped across their shoulders, taking five.  Several handguns were in
evidence, deposited where the young men could reach them in a hurry, should
the need arise.

     Like now.

     Katz didn't bother calling out to them.  There was no point in giving up
his edge, with odds of eight to one.  He started on his far left, milking
short bursts from the submachine gun, three men down before the others started
to react and scramble for their weapons.

     One shooter vaulted from the stationary bike where he was working up a
sweat, sprawling facedown on the floor in his attempt to reach the pistol
lying on a nearby chair.  Katz didn't let him get there.  He squeezed off a
burst that met him as he rose and flipped him over on his back, blood spurting
from a ring of tightly clustered chest wounds.

     That made four, the enemy reduced by half, and Katzenelenbogen kept on
firing, sweeping the gymnasium with noise and sudden death.  His fifth
opponent lobbed a barbell at him, but the projectile fell short, and Katz put
three rounds in his adversary's back as he was pivoting to grab a pistol lying
on the floor.  Five down and counting.

     Two of the remaining three had reached their weapons while the third
appeared to be unarmed.  Katz left him for the moment, concentrating on the
two with pistols in their hands.  They were firing at him, hasty rounds flung
high and wide, but he couldn't afford to let them try again, when they would
certainly improve their aim.  The SMG laid down a string of parabellum
manglers, and the two went down together in a tangled snarl of bloody arms and
legs.

     The bolt on Katz's gun locked open, signaling an empty magazine, and he
was grappling with a fresh replacement when the lone surviving Triad gunner
bolted for an exit on his left.  Katz snarled a curse and started after him,
reloading as he closed the gap.  He heard the creaking of a locker door and
the rustling sounds of fabric as the shooter scrambled for his weapon, rooting
clothes aside.

     Katz barged in behind him and found the young man turning back to face
him, a shiny autoloader held before him in a firm two-handed grip.  The guns
went off together, and a bullet whispered past the gruff Israeli's left cheek,
nearly close enough to graze him, as he cut the young man down.  Another half
inch to the left, Katz thought, and it would be his body twitching on the
concrete floor, blood pooling underneath his shattered skull.

     Dumb luck.

     He gave the locker room another hasty check, found no one prepared to
spring upon him when his back was turned.  The Triad soldiers seemed to have a
free run of the gym, as no staff was in evidence, and it was just as well.
Employees with the fear of Mao Hahn behind them might have felt compelled to
make some suicidal gesture, throw their lives away on behalf of men who
wouldn't cross the street to spit on them if they were doused with gasoline
and set afire.  This way was better, cleaner.

     No loose ends.

     The message would get back to Hahn in any case.  Katz went out through
the front door, hesitating long enough to let a number of pedestrians examine
him before he hiked back to his waiting rental car and drove away.  There
would be nothing for police to go on, but an Asian mobster might have reason
to suspect his round-eyed "allies" if he thought about it long and hard
enough.

     There had been nothing on the radio so far about a falling-out between
the Triads and the Mafia.  Not that he followed everything he heard, by any
means, but there should still have been some bulletins by now, announcing
incidents that weren't linked to Bolan or the men of Phoenix Force.  If their
design had backfired somehow ...

     He'd have to take it easy, wait and see.  There was no point in worrying
before he knew if there was trouble in the wind.  If they were forced to
change the plan for any reason, they would change it.

     Simple.

     All Katz had to do, meanwhile, was stay alive and keep the heat on his
appointed targets.  There was nothing to it, really.  It would be as simple,
for a man of his abilities, as falling off a cliff.



     "Vito Forlani."

     Bolan stuck out his hand, a firm, no-nonsense grip.

     "Mike Belasko."

     "You're American?"

     "Is that important?"

     "Not to me," Forlani answered, shrugging off the question.  "I was told
to meet you and I'm here.  Do we have business to discuss?"

     "I wouldn't be surprised," Bolan replied.  "You know Don Giuseppe
Andolini?"

     "Who does not?"  Forlani's smile was almost mocking now.  "He's a
celebrity of sorts, you know.  Six times indicted, but he never comes to
trial.  The witnesses against him have a way of disappearing or winding up in
shallow graves."

     "Sounds typical.  I guess you know a Chinese named Mao Hahn?"

     Forlani lost his smile at the mention of the red pole's name.  "We have
not met," he said, "but I'm familiar with the gentleman's accomplishments."

     "Including his political agenda?"

     "Oh, that.  You mean his friendship with Beijing?"

     "The very same."

     "He has a lap-dog by the name of Tu Sheng, a Communist who poses as some
minor secretary for the Chinese government.  In fact, we think he's been
supplying arms and money to the Red Brigades for some time now, to help them
stay alive."

     "You haven't caught him at it, I suppose?"

     Forlani shook his head.  "He would have been deported if we had.  There
are suspicions, passing contacts that are easily explained when we ask
questions.  Still, the Chinese weapons find their way into Italian hands."

     "Who's leading the Brigades these days?" Bolan asked.

     "Marco Scialfa, twenty-nine years old, a native of Pescara.  He's been
hiding underground the past three years.  We have him charged with half a
dozen murders, several bombings, kidnappings--feel free to take your pick.  He
executed a policeman in Cosenza seven months ago.  We almost had him then, but
he was lucky.  Left his girlfriend and a couple of his comrades to delay us
while he slipped away."

     "What happened to the others?"

     "Oh, they died."

     "The last I heard, Don Andolini was no fan of the Brigades."

     Forlani laughed out loud at that.  "I should say not.  Four years ago
they tried to raise some money by the normal methods--kidnapping, extortion,
robbery.  Some of their people from Salerno grabbed Don Giuseppe's
granddaughter and asked for fifty million lira.  She was six years old."

     "What happened?"

     "No one really knows.  Myself, I think the kidnappers got nervous,
worried what the Mafia would do when they were finally identified.  In any
case, they shot the girl and left her in a ditch outside Sorrento.  There was
evidence that she had been ... abused."

     "So Andolini's on the warpath for the Red Brigades?"

     "He was," Forlani said.  "We counted thirteen dead before year's end, all
murdered execution-style with a lupara, but his anger must have passed.  These
days he takes no notice of the Red Brigades, and they are wise enough to keep
their distance from his family."

     "Suppose they weren't?"

     "Pardon?"

     "I mean to say, suppose Don Giuseppe got the notion they were after him
again.  Suppose he found out the Chinese were handing guns and money to the
men who killed his granddaughter?  The men who want him dead?"

     Forlani shook his head.  "There would be--how you say?--a hot time in our
town this night."

     "That's what I'm counting on," Bolan said.  "What's your position if a
shooting war breaks out?"

     "Officially we're sworn to stop it.  Public safety is our first concern,
of course."

     "And unofficially?"

     Forlani thought about it for a moment--Triads, mafiosi and the Red
Brigades, all at one another's throats.  If there was only some way to control
the action, keep it from involving innocent civilians ...

     Was it possible?  Could this man pull it off?

     Forlani thought about the recent news from France, from Amsterdam, from
London.  Something--someone--had been set loose on the Chinese Triads with a
vengeance, and their allies in the nations where they put down roots were also
getting burned.  It was the closest thing to justice he had seen in years.

     Vito Forlani smiled and asked, "What is it that you need from me?"



     McCarter reckoned they would have guards posted at the villa, north of
town.  You didn't leave a capo unprotected when the Family was under fire, and
Roman Palmintieri was the second-in-command of Giuseppe Andolini's far-flung
Family, identified as heir apparent to the throne when Andolini went to his
reward.  It stood to reason, therefore, that the Family's number two would
take care to prevent himself from being gunned down in his own backyard.

     And that was fine.

     McCarter didn't really care if he got close to Palmintieri at the moment.
Sound and fury were his watchwords, heat the pot to a rolling boil and keep it
there, do anything within his power to persuade the local mafiosi they were
under siege by the Chinese.

     To that end, he had brought a helper with him, even though the man was in
no shape to lend a hand in aid of what McCarter planned to do.  He was--had
been--a lowly runner for the 14K, the kind of gofer they sent out with
messages when they were feeling paranoid about the telephone.  McCarter had
been waiting when he stepped out through the back door of a brothel on Viale
Monza, and it was a relatively simple task to stun him with the first punch,
snap his neck and dump him in the back seat of McCarter's rented car.  They
were together now, some eighty yards from the home of Roman Paimintieri, with
McCarter peering through the telescopic sight of a Beretta sniper rifle while
his mute companion lay beside him, waiting for a chance to play his part.

     The Zeiss Divan six-power scope had zoom capability.  It put McCarter
close enough to count the hairs that sprouted from his target's ears or read
the label on the pack of cigarettes protruding from his pocket.  Eighty yards
wasn't much for the Beretta, with its adjustable bipod and heavy,
free-floating barrel designed to reduce vibration in the interest of better
accuracy.  No space-age model, this one, but a solid bolt-action piece,
chambered in 7.62 mm, with five rounds in the magazine.  You couldn't kill off
an army with the Beretta sniper, but McCarter would get their attention and
then some.

     He lifted off the scope and finalized his preparations, lifting the Triad
gofer and dragging him into a seated position, with his back against the tree
a few feet to McCarter's left.  It would be close enough, all things
considered.  By the time the mafiosi finished pumping bullets into him, they
wouldn't know if he was standing on his head or swinging from a chandelier
when they arrived.

     McCarter went back to his rifle, found the sentries on their beat and
sighted on the taller of them, counting down the doomsday numbers in his mind.
On one, he stroked the trigger and watched his man go down as if a giant fist
had smashed him in the face, blood spattering the man still on his feet.

     But not for long.

     His second round ripped into the survivor and knocked him sprawling, just
as someone shouted from the house to find out what was going on.  A third man
showed himself, then ducked back as McCarter made a point of missing him by
several inches.

     He was standing clearly visible against the skyline by the time four
gunners spilled into the yard.  He dropped the lead pair, then ducked as their
companions opened fire without much hope of scoring at the given range.
McCarter dropped his empty rifle and sprinted for the car, well out of sight
from Palmintieri's villa, running for his life.

     The Briton had the driver's window down, and he sat listening for several
seconds, the ignition key in hand.  They took no chances, coming up the hill
and opening up with everything they had.  He didn't bother counting, but
guessed a hundred rounds had been unloaded before the shooting tapered off.

     McCarter let the compact coast downhill a hundred yards or so before he
switched on the engine.  It caught immediately, and he aimed the rental back
toward town.

     So far so good, but he had work to do.  It was too early to relax and
hope the players would continue on their own.  They needed help, and it would
be McCarter's job--along with Katz--to see that they had every opportunity to
screw themselves.

     An autopsy would indicate the Triad soldier's cause of death, assuming no
one shot his head completely off, but in the circumstances, it didn't seem
likely that Don Andolini and his troops would be consulting with the local
coroner.  Their marriage of convenience with the Triads had been tenuous at
best, the merger of disparate cultures aggravated by the fact that all
concerned were ruthless predators and masters of deception.  Trust didn't
enter into the arrangement, and with any luck at all, the treaty was about to
blow sky-high.

     In which case, McCarter thought, he, Katz and Bolan would be standing by
to put on the final touches, mop up the ones who tried to get away.  And after
that?  McCarter frowned and concentrated on his driving.  Telling fortunes was
a skill for gypsies, not for former SAS commandos.  Tomorrow would have to
take care of itself.


                                      12


     The Palazzo Cristallo was Don Giuseppe Andolini's pride and joy.  One of
the most exclusive nightclubs in Milan, it catered to the kind of wealthy
businessmen and socialites whose ranks would normally be closed to one of
Andolini's reputed background.  It gave him access to the upper crust, both as
their host and as a kind of grudging equal--where his income was concerned, if
nothing else.  The Crystal Palace let Andolini crack a social barrier that had
infuriated him from childhood, seemingly impervious to his achievements as a
leader of the omnipotent Honored Society.

     Too bad for Giuseppe, Bolan thought, that the Palazzo would be going out
of business in the next few minutes.  If it didn't break the capo's heart, at
least the move was bound to anger him.

     And Bolan had it calculated for the Red Brigades to catch the blame.

     The pamphlets Bolan carried in the inside pocket of his light-weight
overcoat were genuine Red Brigade handouts, with the clenched-fist logo,
printed in red and black ink on the cheapest paper available.  Vito Forlani
had supplied the props, along with several names and addresses for allies of
the revolutionary cadre, but his personal involvement would be limited to
sideline operations, doing what he could to keep the troops at bay while Bolan
and the men of Phoenix Force whipped up a firestorm in Milan.

     It might not work, but they could only try.  It was their best shot at
dividing the Mafia and the Triads, now that the direct approach had failed to
bring immediate results.

     He had to give Don Andolini credit, likewise Mao Hahn, for holding it
together in adversity.  They had agreed somehow to wait and see what happened
in Milan, and it had worked... at first.  McCarter's razzle-dazzle with the
Chinese sniper would have Andolini thinking twice by now, and once the Red
Brigades jumped in--or seemed to--it would take one very stable capo mafioso
to restrain himself from waging all-out war against the 14K.

     The club wouldn't be open for a few more hours, but the day shift had
arrived to clean, set up the tables, get things started in the kitchen.  Bolan
came in off the street as if he owned the place, not waiting for an
invitation, brushing past the first custodian who asked if he could be of some
assistance.  When the second moved to intercept him, Bolan asked to see the
manager, his hit-and-miss Italian serving well enough so far.

     The office door stood open, half a dozen men in shiny suits collected in
the hallway, smoking cigarettes and laughing at some private joke.  One of
them glimpsed the new arrival just as Bolan drew the Uzi from underneath his
coat, a warning cry alerting his companions.

     A couple of them dodged back toward the office and slammed the door
behind them, leaving four to face the Executioner as he cut loose from twenty
feet away.  They died without a chance to reach their pistols, going down
together in a heap, blood spattered on the stucco walls and pooling on the
floor.

     He stepped around them, stood to one side of the bullet-punctured office
door and prepared to kick it in.  A pistol shot rang out, immediately followed
by two more, the bullets missing Bolan by a yard as they punched through the
door around chest level.

     He responded with a burst that nearly sawed the door in two, reloaded
swiftly and went through the doorway in a diving shoulder roll.  He came up
firing, caught one mafioso as he tried to duck below the Uzi's line of fire,
and stitched a line of gushing holes across his chest.

     The lone survivor dropped his pistol, raised both hands and started
babbling pleas for mercy.  Bolan stroked the Uzi's trigger and cut the
whiner's legs from under him, leaving him sprawling in his own blood, head and
shoulders braced against the wall.  He would survive if someone called the
paramedics soon enough, and in the meantime Bolan left a little something for
his reading pleasure to distract him from his shattered knees.

     The revolutionary pamphlets made a trail behind him as he stalked out of
the club.  It was so obvious, a child could spot the ruse, but that was one
advantage when it came to working with political extremists of the left or
right.  They favored melodrama, sweeping gestures to impress their public, and
they mouthed the kind of simple-minded nonsense normally reserved for comic
books and TV situation comedies.  Above all else, they loved to sign their
acts of violence with a flourish, taking credit for atrocities as if the very
act of spilling blood would somehow validate their empty lives.

     Don Giuseppe Andolini would believe, because it was the kind of mindless
stunt the Red Brigades would pull, had pulled on numerous occasions in the
past.

     And with a bit of luck, it just might be the spark required to light the
powder keg.



     Don Giuseppe Andolini slammed the telephone receiver into its cradle,
leaned back in his chair, then reached out with a meaty fist and struck the
silent instrument once more.  In olden times it had been customary for a
nobleman to kill the messenger who brought bad news, but Andolini didn't have
that option in the present day.  His men were dying fast enough already.

     The Red Brigades, dammit!  After all this time, the pain they had
inflicted on his family once before--and the grim punishment they had received
as a result--would they be fools enough to start another war that they were
bound to lose?

     Why not?

     Where zealots were concerned, common sense went out the window.  Men
abandoned all pretense of rationality and sacrificed themselves, their loved
ones, total strangers for the cause.  It made no difference if their gesture
was a waste of time; the main thing was to keep your name and cause before the
public eye, exciting anger, sympathy, disgust--for as long as possible.

     The worst thing, though, was knowing that his age-old enemies were armed
and financed by his so-called friends, the same Chinese who swore they had no
part in the attacks on Andolini's soldiers in Milan throughout the morning.
He had wanted to believe the words of Mao Hahn, maintain the truce to mutual
advantage, but the truth was coming home to Andolini now: a Chinese sniper
killed while taking shots at Roman Palmintieri's villa; pamphlets from the Red
Brigades--a group that claimed an estimated two-thirds of its funding from
Beijing--found at the Crystal Palace, where another five of Andolini's people
had been killed.  The sole survivor vowed that his attacker was Italian--not
Chinese, at any rate--but Andolini didn't care whose finger pulled the
trigger.

     He was looking for the man who gave the orders.

     Mao Hahn.

     The Red Brigades would have to suffer, too, of course.  He had been
generous the last time, stopping after thirteen of the so-called
revolutionaries had been executed to avenge his grandchild's murder.  Anyone
with common sense would certainly have learned his lesson, but a zealot was
incapable of logic.  And if the zealots nursed some grudge against Don
Andolini from their last encounter, brooding over his reaction to the violence
they themselves had foolishly initiated, well, he had no doubt that they would
bide their time, consult their Chinese sponsors and derive a plan of action
tailored to serve both at once.

     The Triads were insane if they believed they could replace the Mafia in
Italy, or even operate on equal terms.  Their reputation for ferocity meant
nothing to a man like Giuseppe Andolini, who had cut his teeth on murder and
extortion from the time he was an adolescent.

     If Mao Hahn was looking for a war, he'd get one.  All his talk of unity
and friendship came to nothing, when the bullets started flying and his
lackeys, bought and paid for, were the men behind the guns.

     Andolini had restrained himself so far, with difficulty, but the time for
self-restraint was past.  He would retaliate at once, in strength, against the
Triads and the Red Brigades.  He'd teach them both a lesson this time, a
lesson that Would linger in the minds of the survivors and their children's
children if they ever thought of making such a stupid move again.

     His treaty with the 14K had been a money-maker, granted, but he saw it
now for what it really was: a kind of Trojan horse, persuading him to let the
Chinese set up shop in territory they couldn't have hoped to seize by force.
Once they were well established in Milan and elsewhere, Hahn had seen his
chance to strike from ambush, stab his "good friends" in the back and claim an
empire for himself.

     But he had failed.

     Perhaps if he had executed Giuseppe Andolini at the start, there would
have been some hope for victory.  But the Chinese had missed their chance, and
they would pay for that mistake.

     In blood.

     The small apartment on Viale Tomba had been fingered as a hangout for the
Red Brigades.  Not quite a safehouse, it was known to the police, and
therefore shunned by active fugitives from justice.  But the revolutionaries
kept a mimeograph machine and other office hardware on the premises, hacked
out their ranting broadsides there and watched the place in shifts against the
day when "fascist pigs" would try to round them up and send them to
concentration camps in Sicily.

     The paranoid delusion gave them focus, but it didn't help to prepare them
for the stark reality of Yakov Katzenelenbogen in the flesh.

     He rode up in the elevator, clutching his Beretta SMG and wondering how
many soldiers would be waiting for him when he disembarked on four.  Scratch
that.  They might be killers, but they weren't soldiers, any of them.
Soldiering meant discipline, and there was nothing in the background of the
Red Brigades to demonstrate that they possessed that quality to any degree.
They were prepared to kill and maim, of course; some of them were undoubtedly
prepared to die.  But they had been seduced by a romantic fantasy revolution,
dating from the sixties, when it was enough to grab a gun or hand grenade and
learn a catchy slogan.

     Power to the people!

     Freedom now!

     They were naive and immature, but no less dangerous for all of that.
With backing from the Red Chinese, they could fight on for years, perhaps for
decades.  Crushing some of them before they killed again would be a public
service.

     Katz stepped out of the elevator and turned left, moving toward the door
marked 413.  Someone's unlucky number, but the revolutionary ethos of the Red
Brigades had no more truck with superstition than it did with the
Judeo-Christian value system.

     There were no guards posted in the hallway, so he had a clear shot at the
door.  Katz took a short step backward, brought his right foot up and put his
weight behind the kick, his heel impacting just beside the doorknob.  The lock
snapped off, opening the way for what became a headlong rush.  Young, startled
faces--one of them a woman's--were turned in his direction as he entered, the
Beretta Model 12-S held in front of him and seeking targets as he crossed the
threshold.

     Part of Katz's mind was counting heads and logging four--no, there was
number five, emerging from a bedroom at the rear--before he started firing.
Short bursts from the SMG conserved ammunition as his targets scrambled to
reach weapons they had stashed at various strategic points around the flat.

     A tall young man with hair that fell to his shoulders grabbed a pistol
from its place beside the mimeograph machine, then turned back to face his
adversary as a burst of parabellum manglers opened up his chest.  He took the
printer with him when he toppled over backward, man and his machine dashed
into ruin on the threadbare carpeting.

     The terrorist emerging from the bedroom had a pistol in his hand.  He
pegged a shot at Katz, but he was hasty and forgot to aim.  The bullet passed
a foot or so above the Israeli's head, and Katz's aim was better with the
submachine gun, stitching holes across the revolutionary's naked chest.  He
staggered backward, reeling, and collapsed across the threshold of the
bedroom, motionless.

     The woman attacked while Katz was lining up his next shot at her male
companions, coming at him with a pair of scissors in her fist, held
dagger-like and slashing toward his face.  The claw that was his right hand
caught her wrist, clamped tightly, and he heard bones snapping as he twisted,
shook the scissors free and thrust her from him.

     Three men remained, and one of them was diving toward a doorway on the
right.  Katz helped the runner reach his destination with a short burst in the
back, his target levitating with the force of impact, slamming head-on into a
collision with the door frame.

     That left two, and both of them were holding pistols as Katz confronted
them.  The nearer gunner fired a shot that stung his shoulder, but the
fleeting pain told Katz it was a flesh wound.  He replied with half a dozen
parabellum rounds at point-blank range, a disemboweling burst that spun his
target like a cut-out figure in a sideshow shooting gallery before it left him
draped across the sofa.

     Katz dropped to a crouch as the surviving terrorist cut loose, shots
echoing in the cramped apartment.  He was running low on ammunition, but there
was still enough to drop one adversary if he did it right.

     There had to be.

     He felt a bullet tug at his sleeve, another whisper past his ear.  Katz
zeroed in on target and held down the submachine gun's trigger, the last
rounds of the magazine dropping the young man in his tracks.

     The small apartment smelled of blood and cordite.  Katz was backing
toward the open door, about to reload the Beretta, when the young woman he had
disarmed a moment earlier returned to the attack.  She shrieked and cursed him
in Italian, clawing at his face with her good hand.  She had no weapon this
time, but her rage almost made up for the deficiency.

     Katz swung the SMG with everything he had, connected on the right side of
her skull and dropped her senseless at his feet.  He reckoned the police would
have some pointed questions for her, and she might wind up in jail, but it had
been her choice from the beginning.  Personal responsibility was part of
growing up, and it applied to revolutionaries just the same as anybody else.

     He walked back to the elevator, feeding the Beretta as he went.  There
was no need to leave a message for the leaders of the Red Brigades.  They
would assume the worst, and when the net began to close about them, Bolan and
McCarter hauling in loose ends, the logical conclusion would be an assault by
soldiers from the Andolini Family.  And it was all downhill from there.  Like
sliding on a laundry chute to hell.



     Marco Scialfa had been twelve years in the revolution game, most of that
time in various positions with the Red Brigades.  He knew the way things
worked, how old mistakes sometimes came back to haunt you at the worst of
times.  He hadn't been involved in the abduction of Don Giuseppe Andolini's
grandchild some years earlier, but he wasn't above such tactics if they helped
promote the cause.  He recognized the old-line Mafia as one more tool of
fascist domination in his homeland, and he preached to his disciples of the
day when every trace of capitalism and slavery would be swept away.

     So far, regrettably, the revolution had been faltering.  In fact, it had
come close to a complete collapse two years earlier, between insistent
pressure from the Mafia and apathy among the generation that he counted on for
new recruits.  Momentum from the seventies and early eighties had begun to
peter out, attrition thinning out the ranks.  Scialfa's personality alone had
saved the movement from extinction, breathing new life into tired ideals and
prompting fresh new faces to enlist.  The numbers still weren't great, but
they were getting better, and he had a whole campaign mapped out, complete
with incidents that would ensure fresh headlines, thereby drawing in more
recruits.

     In the scenarios he planned, however, it was always men and women of the
Red Brigades who did the killing--either gloriously, in broad daylight, or by
stealth--to rid Italy of fascist hangers-on who should have been eliminated
years earlier.  Not one of his ideas included unknown gunmen shooting up their
safehouse on the Viale Tomba, leaving four men dead, and one woman in the
hospital with a concussion and a fractured wrist.

     What did it mean?

     Scialfa didn't have to ponder that for long.  From Lena's brief
description of the shooter, smuggled to Scialfa by a sympathetic nurse while
the police were on a coffee break, he guessed that Don Giuseppe Andolini was
responsible for the attack.  The old man would be carrying a mortal grudge
against the Red Brigades until he died, and now it seemed that he was having
trouble with the Chinese in Milan, some of the very men who kept Scialfa's
operation solvent with their cash donations and a steady flow of military
hardware.

     It was the wrong time for a showdown with the Mafia, but there appeared
to be no choice.  Scialfa couldn't hide and pray for peace while Andolini's
soldiers ran amok and killed his men.  Such a response would be interpreted as
cowardice by his disciples, jeopardizing his control of the Brigades, perhaps
his very life.

     No, he would have to fight, and hope for some assistance from the Chinese
who had put him in this grim position to begin with.  It was their fault, more
than anyone's, that Andolini had renewed his blood vendetta with the Red
Brigades.  Why else would he let three years pass before he struck again?

     It still wasn't too late, Scialfa thought.  Andolini would be on his
guard, but there were ways to make the old man drop his guard, get close
enough to strike a killing blow and settle this once and for all.  The secret
lay in stealth and misdirection, drawing Andolini's eye away from the approach
his killer would adopt.  No problem, with the wealth of targets that Scialfa
had to choose from in Milan.

     But he would have to start at once, while he had men enough to pull it
off.  Any delay at this point could be fatal to his plans.

     Scialfa was prepared to sacrifice himself in the pursuit of revolution,
but he hoped to choose the time and place, if that was possible.  A bullet in
the back from some old Mustache Pete wasn't his notion of a proper
revolutionary's death.

     When that day came, he meant to have a giant captive audience.  It would
be glorious.

     And he would be remembered until the end of time.



     David McCarter lay prone on the sun-baked rooftop, sweating through his
clothes and watching shadow figures move inside a fifth-floor apartment across
the street.  Below him traffic flowed along Viale Morbillo, pedestrians thick
on the sidewalks.  They would have to watch themselves, McCarter thought, but
if he played his cards right, there should be no major injuries below.  Unless
something went wrong.

     He shouldered the Beretta SC-70, the built-in launcher fitted with a long
MECAR grenade.  It ought to be an easy shot, no more than fifty feet, the kind
of shot you made in training without a hitch.

     The apartment was yet another bolt-hole for the Red Brigades.  He wasn't
sure how many of the half-baked revolutionaries were inside; there had been no
time for a census while he was preparing for the strike.  Some women,
possibly, but that wouldn't dissuade McCarter from proceeding with his plan.
Each member of the left-wing cadre took an oath to kill and terrorize his or
her fellow citizens in the pursuit of "revolutionary justice," and the ones
who hadn't pulled a trigger yet were still responsible for hiding fugitives,
transporting weapons and explosives to the front-line killers, helping keep
the terroristic juggernaut in motion.

     Sympathy was the last thing on McCarter's mind.

     The small apartment had a balcony, perhaps twelve feet across and six or
seven deep, with access from the living room through tall glass doors.  That
made it easy for a sniper on the far side of the street, and with the MECAR
rounds, McCarter didn't even have to scope specific targets.  All he had to do
was sight and squeeze.

     Beginning now.

     The tall glass doors were perfect.  Even closed, they offered no
significant resistance to the 40 mm round.  It should explode well back,
inside the living room.  The second round would have no obstacle at all, and
anything beyond that would be mopping up before he fled the scene.

     It would be more than enough to let the self-styled urban warriors know
someone was thinking of them, keeping them in mind.

     He watched another man-size shadow move across his field of fire, from
left to right, and disappear into the tiny kitchen cubicle.  Tightening his
finger on the rifle's trigger, he inhaled, released a portion of the breath
and held the rest.

     The first grenade went in on target, shattering the glass door near its
center, detonating three-quarters of a second later, smoke and thunder rolling
out across the patio.  McCarter slipped a second MECAR round onto the
launcher, found his mark and fired again into the churning smoke cloud.

     McCarter hesitated, on the verge of pouring 5.56 mm rounds into the
shattered flat, then let it go.  If someone managed to survive the
conflagration, he or she would carry word back to the leaders of their
cadre--and the word would spread, regardless, even if nobody walked away.

     He closed the rifle's folding stock and slid the weapon back inside its
olive drab duffel bag.  The service elevator took him to the street, and there
was nothing to it, mingling with the awed pedestrians who stood and pointed,
gaping at the cloud of smoke emerging from the gutted apartment above.  No one
took any notice of McCarter as he turned away and walked back to the nearby
parking lot, where he had left his car.

     Experience had taught him that your average urban revolutionary had a
personality combining equal parts of egomania and paranoia.  A direct assault
of this sort punched the panic buttons on both fronts, outraging any targets
who survived, inflaming their desire for swift revenge, while heightening the
sense that everyone was out to get them, traitors lurking everywhere with
daggers poised to strike at unprotected backs.

     Around Milan, if Bolan's theory was correct, the Red Brigades would
instantly suspect Don Giuseppe Andolini of initiating the attacks, and once
that link was made, they would feel honor-bound to pay him back in kind.

     More fireworks, then, and he would be around, with Katz and Bolan, to mop
up on the survivors.

     It was dirty work but someone had to do it before the savages had time to
mount a winning play.



     The airwaves told the story, Bolan's scanner picking up police calls as
the action heated up.  He didn't follow everything they said, but there were
names, addresses, details he could pick out of the cross talk, telling him
that the campaign was still on schedule, moving toward what he hoped would be
a final detonation in the next few hours.  By the time the sun came up the
following morning, there would be some fundamental changes in Milan.

     With any luck at all, the good guys would come out on top.

     Vito Forlani had provided more than simple pointers to the Red Brigades.
He knew, for instance, that the wily Tu Sheng was hiding out with Mao Hahn at
the red pole's estate near Sesto San Giovanni, in the northern suburbs of
Milan.  Surveillance placed the two men together when they called on Giuseppe
Andolini earlier that day, and they had gone back home, lying low from that
point on.

     It gave the Executioner a target, and his car was pointed northward on
Viale Monza while he listened to the scanner and kept track of flare-ups on
the urban battlefield that was Milan: a clash between suspected Red Brigades
commandos and a carload of hardmen from the Andolini team; a drive-by shooting
at a Chinese gambling club that wasn't on the target list for Phoenix Force; a
car bomb detonated in the alley behind a bar where Andolini's soldiers liked
to hang around between engagements, drinking wine and talking tough to make
themselves feel more like heroes than the human scum they were.

     He listened to the numbers, made it twenty-seven dead or wounded in the
action he and his colleagues had instigated, nudging one side into conflict
with another, turning up the heat.  Divide and conquer was a tactic he had
used on other battlefields, an opportunity to take advantage of the paranoia
that was part of every outlaw's personality.

     No matter how often they killed, how many victims they had terrorized,
the men who lived on the blood and sweat of others were always watching for
the knife thrust from behind, a friend's false smile, the hidden trap.
Duplicity was such a part of life that mobsters, terrorists and such suspected
there was no one they could trust.

     And they were right.

     They stayed alive, on top, by using fear against their fellow
men--including friends, subordinates and enemies alike.  A man who lied,
killed and cheated to attain his status knew from the beginning that those
waiting in the wings to take his place would use the same techniques, perhaps
more ruthlessly than he, if he wasn't on guard against their treachery.  The
law was out to get him, too, regardless of the bribes he paid and witnesses he
silenced in an endless quest for personal security.  The only true peace he
would ever know was in the grave--assuming hellfire wasn't waiting for him on
the other side.

     That insecurity, the mental isolation that it fostered in most predatory
individuals, could be a lethal weapon in the proper hands.  Mack Bolan was a
master when it came to the manipulation of appearances, stage-managing
disasters for his enemies.  Before they knew it, he could have them hip deep
in piranhas, fighting for their lives and wondering exactly how they'd gotten
there.  If it helped disrupt the very operations he was sworn to interdict, so
much the better.

     All was fair in love and war, they said, and Bolan's war was dirtier than
most.

     With any luck he would be finished in Milan within the next few hours.
He already had a fair idea of where he would be going next, and by the time he
finished mopping up in Italy, the final choice would have been made.

     The Executioner reckoned they were somewhere past the halfway point of
his campaign against the 14K's unholy merger with Beijing.  He had no handle
on the men in charge as yet, but he was getting there.  The point of no return
was well behind him, with Bolan and his allies locked in for a wild ride that
would carry them to the end of the line.

     The terminal.

     But terminal for whom?

     He concentrated on his driving, pictured Tu Sheng, and felt his fingers
tighten on the steering wheel.

     There would be time enough to think about what happened at the finish
line when he was closer.  Right now he had to focus on the enemy's offensive
team and do his best to knock them down.

     And this time, if he did it right, Sheng would have no chance to slip
away.


                                      13


     Marco Scialfa racked the slide on his Beretta semiautomatic pistol,
chambering a live round as his driver pushed the Fiat to its limit, weaving in
and out of traffic, leaning on his horn.  It was the normal style of driving
for Milan, and Scialfa wasn't worried by the prospect of police attempting to
detain him.  Any officer who tried was in for a surprise.  Three of his
soldiers were crowded in the back with automatic weapons.

     Behind him, keeping up as best they could, were three more cars, with
five guns each.  If Scialfa lost them momentarily in traffic, it would make no
difference.  The drivers knew where they were going; each of them had driven
past Don Andolini's villa and knew exactly where to find him when he was at
home.

     It wouldn't have been Scialfa's choice to fight the Mafia, but Andolini
had removed all options with his vicious sneak attacks.  Retaliation was
demanded, and the more he thought about it, he had convinced himself that
taking out the capo would do wonders for morale.  Andolini was a symbol of the
stinking, rotten system, after all, a parasite who sucked the blood and dreams
from working men and women every day.  The Red Brigades would have to deal
with him sometime, so why not now?  Why not, indeed.

     It was an easy run to Corsico, southwest of town, despite the traffic.
By the time they reached Andolini's villa, all four cars were running close
together like a caravan.  There were no gates on the mafioso's private drive,
but guards were always posted, rain or shine, to make sure no one took their
capo by surprise.

     This night Andolini had four soldiers on guard, a small concession to the
violence that had lately rocked Milan.  They saw the headlights coming and
showed no interest until the lead car swerved directly toward them, dirt and
gravel spewing from beneath its tires.  Scialfa had his window down, his
submachine gun poking out.  He held down the trigger and watched one of the
mafiosi skitter through a jerky little dance before he fell.

     Then everyone was firing, weapons roaring from the back seat, thunder
deadening his ears.  Scialfa ducked, pure reflex action, as a bullet cracked
the windshield, clipped off the rearview mirror and dropped it on the floor
beside his foot.  He had a brief impression of gunmen rushing forward through
the darkness, firing as they came.  The villa was ablaze with lights, as if
the capo had prepared a welcome party for his uninvited guests.

     Scialfa grinned, more snarl than smile, and clutched his weapon tightly,
finger curled around the trigger.  Gunfire rattled in the night, and bullets
struck the Fiat as they raced along the curving driveway.

     It would be good to kill him: good publicity, good for the movement, good
for Scialfa's soldiers, who could still remember Andolini's massacre of their
loyal comrades years before.  No matter that Scialfa's predecessor was
responsible for that vendetta, picking on the capo's grandchild when he could
have stolen any other girl in Italy.  There was a principle involved, a debt
of blood that had been too long brushed aside.

     Scialfa braced himself as a Mercedes-Benz came out of nowhere, charging
on a hard collision course to intercept the Fiat.  His driver spun the wheel
and managed to avoid the worst of the collision, slamming broadside with the
Benz.

     Behind Scialfa guns were going off, his soldiers laying down a screen of
fire as he bailed out and landed on all fours, the Fiat rocking under
concentrated gunfire as he scrambled clear.

     Keep going!

     But he was having second thoughts, as he glanced back at the
bullet-punctured car and saw one of his soldiers tumble, lifeless, from the
open door in back.  The other cars were drawn up in a ragged skirmish line,
facing the villa, and Scialfa's comrades piled out, firing in all directions
as they found themselves surrounded by the enemy.

     How many guns?  It had to be roughly even, from the muzzle-flashes he
could see.  They had a chance at least.

     And what choice did he have, when there was nowhere he could hide?



     Mack Bolan was about to scale the wall of Mao Hahn's estate when the crew
wagons arrived.  Three black limos advanced on the gates, ignoring sentries
who tried to flag them down, then opened fire with automatic weapons when the
point car failed to brake in time.

     He used the clamor from the gates as a diversion, dropped into a crouch
and struck off toward the house.  The sounds of combat would be drawing every
Triad soldier on the property, while Bolan had a clear shot at Hahn's villa
from the rear.

     Good timing.  The Executioner wished he could have planned it on his own,
but he was satisfied to know that he had set the wheels in motion, whipping up
a war between the erstwhile allies.  Any damage suffered by the two opposing
sides was good news from his point of view.

     He was on his own with Hahn and the elusive houseguest, while
Katzenelenbogen and McCarter covered the play at Andolini's place in Corsico.
Between them, if their luck held out, they should be able to conclude their
business in Milan before another sunrise lit the killing fields.

     He reached the tree line at the rear of Hahn's estate, prepared to cross
thirty yards of open, neatly tended lawn that lay between him and the house.
There was a swimming pool to Bolan's left, a tennis court off to his right.
The patio in front of him included whitewashed wrought-iron furniture and a
new brick barbecue as tall as a fair-size man.  Beyond the patio, glass
sliding doors gave access to the house, the drapery drawn against the night.

     Bolan made his break, was halfway there when movement to his left made
him turn in that direction.  One of Hahn's protectors had appeared, perhaps
attempting to avoid the action that was heating up out front.  The soldier
gaped at Bolan, raised his submachine gun and was squeezing off a burst when
Bolan shot him in the chest.

     The 5.56 mm rounds from his Beretta SC-70 drilled tidy holes on impact,
tumbling after penetrating flesh to open catastrophic wounds and slam the
gunman backward off his feet.  He went down kicking, held his death grip on
the SMG and fired off half a magazine in the direction of the quarter moon
that lit the battleground.

     So much for stealth, but there was still a chance that the Executioner
could reach the house without concerted opposition from the occupants.  Out
front it sounded as if a full-pitched battle was in progress, lacking only
field artillery to make the scene complete.  A few stray shots from the
direction of the patio might pass unnoticed if Bolan was lucky.

     He kept on going, hardly breaking stride, and made the patio in seconds
flat.  The sliding doors were locked, and looking for another means of entry
would waste too much time.  He swung his rifle butt against the glass, reached
through to free the latch and slid the fractured door back, almost in a single
motion.  Curtains whipped around him like a clinging shroud as Bolan charged
into the darkened sitting room, a large-screen television on his right, with
leather-covered chairs and sofas scattered all around.

     He crossed the spacious room in long, swift strides, prepared for any
challenge from the enemy.  Sheng was somewhere in this house, if Bolan's
information was correct, and he had chased the ChiCom agent long enough.  It
would be all or nothing now, no more false starts and missed connections.
Sheng had used up all his luck and then some--but the Executioner still had to
find him before he could make the tag.

     He was three paces from the door when it flew open, almost in his face, a
Triad soldier barging through.  The man was responding to the crash of glass
perhaps, or on some errand for his master.  His mouth dropped open at the
sight of Bolan and the automatic rifle, recovering too late to save himself,
his shotgun swinging up toward target acquisition as a burst of 5.56 mm
tumblers ripped into his chest and throat.

     The guy went down, his body wedged against the door to hold it open, like
some ghoulish doorstop.  Bolan stepped across the corpse and moved along a
spacious hallway, following the sounds of combat as he sought his human prey.



     McCarter had initially resisted Bolan's plan for Katzenelenbogen and
himself to watch Don Andolini's villa while Bolan went to face the Triad
gunners on his own.  There was no point in arguing, and he had done as Bolan
asked.  Now he was in the middle of a firefight that had all the makings of a
battle royal, and he wouldn't have cared to guess the likely winner on a bet.

     The Phoenix Force warrior had the north side of the villa covered, lying
sheltered in a grove of olive trees, the stock of his Beretta sniper rifle
snug against his cheek, the SC-70 beside him, fitted with a 40 mm MECAR round.
He scanned the killing ground through his six-power scope, a momentary pause
as he reviewed the battle lines.

     The Red Brigades assault force had been stopped short of the house, but
they were hanging on, the four cars lending them some cover, like a wagon
train besieged by hostile savages.  From where he lay, McCarter counted three
invaders stretched out lifeless on the ground, but their surviving comrades
were returning fire in lively style, with no apparent fear of running low on
ammunition.  Andolini's troops, meanwhile, were at a disadvantage as they
tried to rush the cars across the open lawn.  He counted seven mafiosi down
and out, a couple of them still alive but obviously fading fast.

     McCarter chose a target--one of Andolini's soldiers, crouching on the
porch--and framed it in his cross hairs, taking up the trigger slack by slow
degrees.  The rifle bucked against his shoulder as the 7.62 mm bullet left the
barrel at a velocity of some 2,838 feet per second.  It lost a bit of steam
before it reached the crouching man, but not enough to matter.  Through the
scope McCarter saw his target lurch, spin like a top and crumple on the deck
like so much dirty laundry.

     Moving on.

     To keep things fair, he chose his next mark from among the Red Brigades
attackers.  It was tricky with the angle, but he had a partial view between
two vehicles and held his sights there, waiting for a likely target to reveal
itself.

     The gunner was a stocky fellow, and a shallow cut above one eye had
smeared the left side of his face with crimson, like a fright mask.

     McCarter took the shot before it slipped away from him.  His bullet
drilled through the young man's chest, a bit off center, but it did the job.
He vaulted backward, kicking as he fell, and went limp as he stretched out on
the grass.

     Three rounds remained in the sniper rifle, and the general confusion of
the war in progress covered his more modest efforts fairly well.  McCarter's
third shot dropped a mafioso on the run as he was trying to approach the young
invaders from their blind side, getting close before the bullet plucked him
off his feet and dropped him in a heap.

     Round four was easy.  One of Andolini's men had started firing from an
upstairs window, altitude allowing him a different angle of attack, his
submachine gun burping 3- and 4-round bursts.  McCarter shot him in the face
and blew him back out of sight, his weapon slipping through the window as he
lost it, clattering across the porch roof and dropping into the yard.

     Picking out another target from the Red Brigades assault force, he lined
up a head shot, stroked the rifle's trigger and watched his adversary's head
explode like a ripe watermelon with a cherry bomb inside.

     McCarter laid down the sniper rifle, picked up the SC-70 and peered
downrange through open sights.  Selection of a target for the 40 mm MECAR
round was no great challenge.  In a heartbeat he was lined up on the nearest
of the vehicles the Red Brigades had used to crash the gate.  The Briton held
his breath and squeezed the trigger, soaking up the recoil with his shoulder,
watching the grenade bore in on target like a guided missile.

     When the Fiat blew, it brought a new dimension to the battle--smoke and
leaping flames, distorted shadows.  The members of the stunned assault force
hastily regrouped, their weapons spitting death in all directions.  They were
scrambling to get clear before the gas tank blew, and most of them would make
it.  By the time that secondary blast lit up the yard, McCarter had another
MECAR rocket mounted on his rifle and was sighting toward the house.

     Fair's fair, he thought.  He squeezed the trigger, slamming his
high-explosive round through one of Andolini's tall front windows, smiling as
it detonated in the house and sent a rolling cloud of smoke across the porch.

     "All right," he said to no one in particular, "it's party time."



     The first reports of gunfire from outside found Tu Sheng relaxing in the
room provided by his host--or trying to, at any rate.  The past few days had
made it difficult for him to eat or sleep, except as he imagined fugitives had
to do: in haste, without enjoyment of the simple acts that were so crucial to
survival.  Liquor helped to take the edge off, but he wouldn't let himself
indulge beyond the point where he experienced a warm glow in his stomach,
since he might be called upon to flee at any moment and would need all his
wits about him in the race for life.  Like now.

     The sounds of automatic-weapons fire could mean only one thing, as far as
Sheng was concerned.  His unknown enemies had found him once again, and it was
time to run or die.  Run where?

     His thoughts had no coherent fix beyond the moment, couldn't focus on
tomorrow or the next day, when he might be killed at any moment.  He would
have to flee the house, go down the back stairs and make his way outside.  If
he could reach a car, find one with keys in the ignition, he could ...

     Sheng was moving toward the closet, homing on his suitcase, when the door
flew open.  Mao Hahn and several of his men intruded on the Communist's
solitude.  Sheng hesitated, standing in the middle of the room, uncertain what
he ought to do or say.

     "The damned Italians," Hahn snarled.  "They try to kill me now, by
treachery."

     Sheng had his doubts, but he could see no point in arguing.  It made no
difference, really, who the gunmen were.  He would be just as dead from an
Italian bullet as from one made in America.

     "What will you do?" Sheng asked his host.  The question sounded foolish
even as he spoke, but Hahn didn't appear to mind.

     "We're getting out," the red pole said.  "You come with me."

     "My clothes..."  He nodded toward the closet.

     "There's no time.  You can replace those things another day.  We have to
leave right now."

     Sheng bit his lip and nodded like a faithful peasant.  "As you say."

     At least he had the pistol, tucked into his belt at the small of his
back.  Its reassuring weight told Sheng that he could still protect himself
whatever happened.  He wasn't compelled to put his faith in Hahn exclusively.
If all else failed--or Hahn tried to betray him somehow--he would use the
weapon as a last resort.

     And if he came close to being captured, Sheng knew, the Dragon would
expect him to reserve one bullet for himself.

     No fear of that, however.  If the past four days had taught him anything,
it was that his persistent enemies didn't take prisoners.  They were
completely, admirably ruthless when it came to wiping out the targets they
selected.  Under different circumstances Sheng might have tried to hire them
as occasional assassins for the People's Revolution, but that option was
beyond him at the present time.

     He had to concentrate on getting out of there alive.

     Hahn led him from the bedroom toward the very stairs that Sheng had
planned to use in making his escape.  Another Triad soldier waited for them on
the landing, covering the stairs.  Out here, it seemed, the sound of gunfire
was much louder, closer.  Sheng could pick out frightened, angry voices
shouting back and forth in Cantonese, Italian, some of them just screaming,
wordless cries of agony or rage.

     Familiar sounds.

     Hahn nodded to his pointman, and the soldier began to lead them down the
stairs.

     They would clear the house in minutes if they weren't intercepted.  Hahn
had to have a car on stand-by, some way to get past the enemy out front.  The
red pole was no idiot; he wouldn't let himself be trapped this easily, with no
means of escape.  Perhaps it was a good thing, after all, that Sheng was in
his care.  A few more yards, and they-

     The shock of the explosion hurled him backward, sprawling on the stairs,
with Hahn on top of him.  A cloud of smoke rolled over Sheng, obscuring his
vision, but he didn't need his eyes to know that they were trapped, cut off,
with nowhere left to run.



     The rush was no surprise to Katz when it began.  He knew the Red Brigades
attack force would be forced to move once the grenade McCarter fired at them
had destroyed a portion of their cover, spewing gasoline and flames around the
tenuous perimeter they had established.  It didn't have to be a safe move
necessarily, but hasty relocation was a must if they intended to survive.

     That left them to select a destination, which was basically no choice at
all.  A run back toward the gate was suicide, a dead-end gauntlet past a score
of automatic weapons, nothing at the other end except for miles of open road
and hostile countryside.  If anyone survived the dash, it would mean being
stranded in a ritzy neighborhood of Corsico, while mafiosi and police fanned
out to comb the streets for stragglers.

     It was the house or nothing, and the odds were terrible in either case.
The strike team had to be having second thoughts by now, but it was too late
to reconsider their position.  Pride and anger had delivered them to this grim
pass, and they would have to make the most of it.

     They made the move, some kind of flying wedge.  Not bad, all things
considered, even taking hits the way they were.  Katz saw one of the runners
stumble, go down on his hands and knees, his weapon lost.  He tried to rise,
but blood was soaking through his sweater in the front.  His strength went
with it, and he finally slumped forward on his face.

     By that time his companions had abandoned him in their rush toward the
villa, firing on the run.  Katz gave them credit as they cleared a handful of
surviving mafiosi from the porch, a couple of them moving toward the broad
front door as it swung open to disgorge Andolini's backup team.

     Too much to hope for, Katz decided, that the don would show himself.
This kind of killing was a young man's work.  The thought made Katzenelenbogen
hesitate, but he was in the middle of it now, no turning back.

     Another of McCarter's MECAR rounds sizzled in to smash a second window,
detonating in the capo's living room.  The blast took out a couple of Mafia
gunmen, just emerging through the door, but otherwise it made no lasting
difference to the battle on the porch.  It wasn't easy, fighting hand to hand
with SMGs and pistols; there was no room to maneuver, and it was a challenge
even aiming when your adversaries were all over you.  A bit like Sinai and the
battle where Katz lost his arm.

     To hell with that.

     He started moving in, no mindless rush, but getting there.  The nearest
mafiosi didn't see him coming, had their first suggestion of a problem when he
opened up with the Beretta 12-S from behind them, almost kissing-close, and
chopped them down like targets on a shooting range.

     He kept on going, spent the last rounds in his magazine on two more
gunners, pivoting to face him on his right.  Katz hosed them with a stream of
parabellum manglers and watched them fall, reloading as he turned back toward
the house.

     McCarter had him covered, firing another 40 mm grenade that blitzed a
Fiat in the middle of the yard, its detonation giving Katz some clearance,
hammering a pair of Andolini's gunmen to the deck.

     The action on the porch was nearly finished when he got there, dead and
dying soldiers sprawled together, some still clutching one another, frozen
where they fell.  The stench of death and cordite made Katz want to vomit, but
he swallowed hard and started breathing through his mouth to beat the old,
familiar smell.

     Somebody struggled upright on his left, blood smeared and wobbly on his
feet.  Katz shot him in the chest, three rounds to finish it, and didn't wait
to watch him fall.  In front of him the door stood open, lazy tentacles of
smoke reaching out to feel their way across the porch.

     Katz glanced back at the trees, where his companion would be covering his
flank.  He glimpsed a muzzle-flash, saw one of Andolini's people stagger and
sprawl on the grass.  The time for hesitation was well behind him now as Katz
turned back to face the doorway, stepped across the threshold, fanning with
his metal claw to dissipate the smoky haze.

     Don Giuseppe Andolini stood before him in the rubble, looking like a
sleepwalker awakened in the middle of a dream.  No injuries were visible,
though Andolini's face was smudged with soot, his gray hair rumpled, standing
out in spikes.  The capo had a shiny automatic pistol in his hand, but it was
pointed at the floor.  He stared at Katzenelenbogen, blinking rapidly, as if
to clear his vision and his thoughts.

     Katz shot him where he stood, the parabellum shockers punching Andolini
over on his back.

     It was that simple at the end, and Katz wasn't inclined to wait around to
find out if Andolini had more soldiers hiding somewhere in the house.  Their
work in Corsico was done, and it was time to leave.

     He flagged McCarter, who was coming through the smoke across the porch,
and started jogging toward the trees.  Behind him somewhere, someone had begun
to holler for Ansielmo, sounding frantic when there was no answer.

     Katzenelenbogen left him to it, thankful for the silent darkness that was
waiting for him in among the trees.  McCarter found him halfway to the car and
fell in step.  "Are you all right?" he asked.

     "I'm fine," Katz said.  And knew that he was lying even as he spoke.



     Bolan's 40 mm Mecar round exploded five steps from the bottom of the
staircase, spewing fire and shrapnel as it detonated, flattening the five men
on the stairs.  It could have been enough, with luck, but thrashing movement
and the sound of angry voices told him that his work wasn't completed.

     He couldn't tell if Andolini's men were gaining ground out front, but
there had been no letup in the sound of automatic weapons blasting from the
villa's porch and yard.  How long before a frightened neighbor summoned the
police?  They could be on their way by now, he realized, and knew that he was
running out of time.

     But he couldn't leave yet, not with the prize in front of him.

     There had been time for him to recognize Tu Sheng and Mao Hahn before he
dropped the bomb on their parade, the pointman swallowed up in smoke and
thunder as he died.  A couple of the others might be wounded, but it didn't
seem to hamper them as they scrambled to their hands and knees, then stood,
bent on finding cover or returning fire.

     Two soldiers brought up the rear with submachine guns, dazed but holding
it together, unloading fire toward the room below them, laying down a screen
of cover fire for Hahn and his companion.  Bolan hit the deck and rolled
behind a large recliner, pulling in his legs to cheat the Triad soldiers of
their target.  They were firing at him, all the same, with the recliner taking
hits.  He heard the bullets ripping into leather and padding, making little
zinging sounds when they found metal springs.

     He had to keep them occupied somehow if he couldn't take them out
immediately.  Pinned behind the chair, he had no chance at Sheng or Hahn.
They could escape, and he would be back where he started, scrounging for a
break.

     Bolan palmed another MECAR round and mounted it, the rifle's muzzle heavy
with the weight of the grenade.  He wasn't able to aim with great precision,
but he took a chance, leaned out around the side of the recliner and let fly
in the direction of the stairs, above where he had placed the first grenade.

     He didn't see the grenade detonate, but its concussion rocked the chair
where he was hiding, and the submachine guns momentarily fell silent.  Bolan
saw his opportunity and didn't hesitate.  He emerged from his meager
sanctuary, tracking with the SC-70 as smoke rolled down the stairs.

     Tu Sheng was kneeling, one arm thrown across the banister to hold himself
upright, his free hand wrapped around some kind of semiautomatic pistol.  Mao
Hahn, beside him, was a pale face peering through the smoke and sifting
plaster dust.  His soldiers were alive but stunned or wounded by the latest
blast, their movements awkward, jerky.

     Bolan rose and took a long stride toward the stairs.  He saw Sheng's
automatic rising and fired a burst that punched the ChiCom agent backward,
flat against the wall.  A second burst satisfied him that it was done.

     Hahn was struggling to his feet, apparently unarmed, but coming
empty-handed to the battle wouldn't save the red pole's life.  Another burst
of 5.56 mm bullets knocked him sprawling, tumbling down the stairs like some
failed acrobat who needed more work on his routine.

     Too late.

     The soldiers were a write-off.  Dead or simply dazed, they were no threat
to Bolan now.  He left them squirming on the stairs and backtracked through
the house, the same way he had come.  A portion of his mind was following the
sounds of outside combat, but they seemed distant and unreal, much like the
sound track of a movie playing in another room.

     He thought of Katzenelenbogen and McCarter, wondered if they would be
waiting for him at the rendezvous.  No problem if he had to hang around awhile
and drink some coffee.  That way he would be alert and wide-awake when they
proceeded to the airport, moving on.

     The battle had been won, but there was still a war ahead of them, with
enemies who weren't aware of his existence.

     The Executioner would have to introduce himself, and soon.

     Despite a measure of fatigue, he found that he was looking forward to it.


                                      14


                                    Rangoon

     The government of Burma discouraged casual tourism.  Perpetual rebellions
by the Shan and Kachin factions, raging for the past three decades, were
embarrassing to the Rangoon administration and a hazard to the uninitiated
wandering through would-be combat zones, a prime consideration in the state's
decision that no casual visitor could remain in the country for more than a
week.

     No problem, McCarter thought as he traveled west on Anawrahta Road,
approaching Chinatown.  If he and his companions were in Burma a week from
now, they would be dead, their mission passed to other hands.

     Despite the march of time and endless civil war, Rangoon still had a
flavor reminiscent of an Asian capital from the 1940s, with beautiful
tree-lined streets fanning out from the center of town, quiet residential
districts interspersed with lakes and half-hidden valleys.  Around the Turf
Club, the World Peace Pagoda, along Embassy Row, the casual observer might
almost imagine he had stumbled through a time warp to a kinder, gentler era,
before rampant crime, terrorism and wars of "national liberation" had emerged
as the scourge of the Third World.

     Forget the history, McCarter told himself.  There was a mission to
complete.

     The 14K had put down roots in Burma fifty years earlier, when leaders of
the clan began to see which way the wind was blowing in their native China,
with the Communist rebellion gaining steam and battering the right-wing
Kuomintang.  Another practical consideration was the proximity of what the
world had learned to call the Golden Triangle, that acreage in Burma, Laos and
Thailand--not to mention China's Yunnan Province--where a clique of feudal
warlords kept their private armies, raising poppies for their opium, refining
it to China white for sale abroad.

     The red pole in Burma was a stone-cold killer known as Chik Fu.  It might
have been the handle he was born with, but at the moment McCarter neither knew
nor cared.  The man would be his target, when it came to that, not the persona
he adopted for his public.

     Fu's contact in the Triangle was Tuan Khoo, described by DEA as number
two among the several warlords operating in the region.  Khoo had at least
three thousand soldiers in his personal militia, theoretically devoted to
eliminating communism from their homeland.  They were more concerned, in fact,
with moving opium and heroin across the border into Thailand, where it found
its way to Bangkok and the thriving markets there.

     Ironically, while Fu was a nominal conservative, and Khoo stood somewhere
to the right of Heinrich Himmler, Fu had also played along in 14K's
collaboration with Beijing.  According to the CIA and other sources, ChiCom
arms and cash provided most of the support for a left-wing guerrilla army in
the northern provinces of Burma, led by one Maung Win, a die-hard "liberation
warrior" from the same school that produced the Vietcong and Khmer Rouge.

     Strange bedfellows, McCarter thought as he arrived outside the Chinese
gambling club on Anawrahta Road.

     A trench coat would have been incongruous in the oppressive heat, with
humidity approaching ninety-five percent.  The lightweight sport coat was a
burden in itself, but necessary to conceal the mini-Uzi slung beneath his
right arm on a swivel mount, the Browning double-action automatic sheathed
below his left.

     He walked in through the double doors, chilled by a rush of welcome
air-conditioning.  The smiling hostess might have been eighteen, but he
wouldn't have cared to bet on it.  McCarter asked to see the manager, and
while she seemed to understand his halting Cantonese, the young woman
hesitated--until he let her see the SMG.

     "Come this way," she said, and turned her back on him.

     He fell in step behind her, keeping one hand on the Uzi underneath his
jacket.



     Audacity drove Bolan to the high-rise office block on Merchant Street.
All things were relative, of course, and "high rise" in Rangoon meant twelve
to fifteen stories, as opposed to some of the impressive skyscrapers in
Bangkok, Hong Kong and Kuala Lumpur.  Still, it was tall enough to make
escaping from the penthouse office suite a problem if Bolan hung around too
long and let the troops assemble below him, cutting off his access to the
street.

     Timing was everything, a fact of life as true in warfare as in stand-up
comedy.  Blow one pursuit, and you were red faced when the audience declined
to laugh; screw up the other, and they needed dental charts to verify who you
had been.

     He rode up in the elevator, wondering if Yuan Chan would be available.
The second-in-command for Chik Fu's Burma family, Chan was a pencil pusher who
had graduated from the ranks of common muscle on the basis of initiative and
brains that went beyond the average.  He still used certified accountants to
maintain the books, but Chan kept tabs on every Triad shipment entering or
leaving Burma, whether it was uncut opium or China white, munitions for the
rebels, children for the Patpong district in Bangkok or women headed for the
brothels of Luzon, Manila, Seoul or Taipei.

     Chan had his manicured fingers in a score of rotten pies, and he wouldn't
be missed by any of the thousands he had victimized.  His passing would be
mourned within the 14K, however; it might even start a panic if the
Executioner got lucky.

     There was no time like the present to find out.

     He had considered silencing the Uzi, but then decided it would be a waste
of effort once the home team started shooting back.  His time on-site was
limited in either case, and he had weighted down his belt with frag grenades
at the last minute, just to help the odds along.

     Two sentries lounged in the hallway as he left the elevator, frowning at
the stranger, straightening to face him with expressions on their faces that
were probably rehearsed, attempting to convey a mix of menace and
determination.  Their leather jackets were unbuttoned so that they could reach
their weapons in a hurry if they had to.

     Bolan didn't give them time, the Uzi blasting even as he brought it into
view.  A stream of parabellum slugs ripped through his targets, dropped them
writhing on the carpet.

     The Executioner passed by them, the sound of startled voices drawing him
toward his targets.  A young woman poked her head out through the first door
on his right, then ducked back at the sight of Bolan's weapon.  But the door
stayed open, and he shouldered through it, sweeping with the SMG, dismissing
the woman as she darted out of sight behind her desk, no weapon in evidence.

     A rough-looking man emerged from the door of a private office on the
right, his thousand-dollar suit and fifty-dollar haircut unable to hide the
legacy of murder in his eyes.  He snapped at Bolan, wasted noise in Cantonese,
and raised the pistol that he carried flush against his thigh.  The Uzi
stuttered, caught him in the chest with a 4-round burst of parabellum tumblers
and put him down before he had a chance to fire.

     The dead man wasn't Chan, but Bolan reckoned he was getting closer to his
man.  The next gunner who showed himself was leveling a shotgun by the time he
cleared the doorway, this one to the left, and Bolan ducked below the blast of
buckshot that didn't have time to spread from fifteen feet away.  He answered
with a short burst from the Uzi, but his target had retreated out of range.

     The frag grenade felt warm and heavy in his palm.  He pulled the pin and
lobbed the bomb with a sidearm motion, bounced it off the jamb and through the
open doorway to the office on his left.  A startled voice cried out before the
blast eclipsed all other sound and filled the corridor with swirling smoke.

     It was the only cover he could count on, and he took advantage of the
moment, moving forward in a crouch, the Uzi leading.  He heard some kind of
scuffling sounds in the last office, dead ahead, but had no way of knowing who
it was or whether Chan was behind that door.

     There was only one way to find out.

     He rushed the door and bulled through it, dropping to the floor inside as
bullets rattled overhead.  He had a glimpse of two men standing and one
hunched behind a massive desk, all three with handguns blasting from a range
of twenty feet or less.

     He held down the Uzi's trigger and swept the room with bullets, watching
the two lean gunners jerking, reeling, going down, while their companion
dropped completely out of sight.  A ringing silence settled on the room, and
Bolan took advantage of the lull to change positions, rolling several paces to
his left.

     And none too soon.

     The man behind the desk--Chan, no doubt about it this time--came erect
with two guns in his hands, unloading toward the spot where Bolan had been
lying prone a moment earlier.  Too late the red pole understood his critical
mistake and tried to swing around and pick up his target, but the SMG caught
him halfway there and punched him backward, stumbling as he fell against his
high-backed swivel chair, then dropped to the floor.

     Chan was alive when Bolan reached him, but the light was fading fast
behind his dull brown eyes.  There seemed to be no point in conversation,
since his time was running short, and there was no good reason to believe the
dying man would understand him anyway.

     He left Chan leaking blood on the floor, watching out for any stray
survivors as he put the suite of offices behind him.  Things were heating up
around Rangoon, but they still wouldn't reach the boiling point for some time
yet.

     They had been lucky so far, blitzing through the Triad capitals of
Europe, but in Asia they were closer to the center of the web, a dark,
malignant spider waiting for them as they homed relentlessly on Hong Kong and
Macao.  Resistance would be more determined here, worse yet as they drew
closer to the hub of the empire, but he saw no other way to do the job.

     The Executioner was blitzing on ... but not without a measure of
assistance from his friends.



     It was difficult to picture any warlord setting up a business office, but
the second-story space on Strand Road was exactly that.  Tuan Khoo was known
to sell the great bulk of his product through the 14K, but he had other
customers, as well.  The Yakuza sent men to parley in Rangoon from time to
time, as did the Filipinos, South Koreans and a certain fat man from Djakarta.
It wasn't unheard-of for Americans to make the journey, but they typically
preferred to deal with Khoo from a distance when they could.

     Such was not the case with Yakov Katzenelenbogen.  He was fond of working
close whenever possible.  There was less chasing after targets that way, if
you had them covered going in.  At his age ...

     What?  Katz caught himself in the middle of a weird, one-sided argument.
What about his age?

     He shrugged it off and stared across the street.  A few blocks north and
west, the vast Bogyoke Market would be teeming with the usual mix of Burmese
residents and foreigners, all bent on finding bargains on a panoply of
merchandise that ranged from native arts and crafts to fruit and vegetables.
He crossed the street against light traffic and approached his target from the
west.

     The name of the establishment was unknown to Katz, but he had the address
memorized.  If there was any doubt, the guard who lounged around out front
dispelled it in a heartbeat as he reached for a pack of cigarettes in the
breast pocket of his shirt, his jacket disarranged enough that Katz could see
a pistol hanging underneath his arm.

     The Israeli tried a friendly smile as he approached the shooter, knowing
it would get him nowhere.  When the lookout challenged him in curt Burmese,
Katz kept the smile turned in place and started fumbling in his jacket pocket
with his left hand, doing his impression of a hapless tourist who'd misplaced
his phrase book.  As the gunman was about to speak again, Katz lashed out with
his right arm, smashed the metal claw into his adversary's larynx.  He
followed the first blow with a shove that drove his man into the recessed
doorway.

     It was over in a flash.  A sharp knee to the groin, then he had a
crushing grip around the shooter's head and a swift twist with weight behind
it finished the job.  The dead man settled on his backside, slumped into a
corner of the alcove with his head thrown back, mouth open, like a sleepy
drunk.

     Katz found the Uzi with his left hand, brought it out and double-checked
the safety.  Satisfied that it would rock and roll upon command, he pushed on
through the door--no windows or surveillance cameras here--and climbed a
flight of dingy stairs to reach the office he was seeking.  He barged through
the door without a knock or invitation, covering the young man at the desk as
he went in.

     It took about three seconds for the frozen scene to fall apart.  The desk
man gave a squawk, shoved backward in his chair and tried to reach some kind
of weapon stashed beneath his coat.  Katz shot him in the chest, four
parabellum rounds at point-blank range, and kept on moving as the lifeless
body slithered to the floor.

     There would be no drugs on the premises, of course.  Khoo wasn't an
idiot.  His people might take orders here, negotiate a price for bulk
deliveries, but they wouldn't risk wearing out their welcome in conservative
Rangoon.  A payoff to Burmese officials only went so far, in terms of nailing
down protection.  Criminals, regardless of their wealth and status, were
expected to obey some basic rules of conduct in the city, and dispensing
heroin from walk-up offices was definitely not included on the short list of
approved activities.

     Katz knew he wouldn't find Khoo around the office, either.  When the
warlord visited Rangoon, no more than once or twice a year, he took the best
suite at the Inya Lake Hotel and stayed for three or four days tops, while
business was completed with his underlings.  Khoo didn't linger in the city,
preferring the security of his established stronghold in the jungle, some two
hundred miles due east of Mandalay.

     For now Katz would be satisfied to send a message back and rock the
warlord's world a bit.

     Two soldiers moved to intercept him, firing on full-auto as they came.
Katz dodged behind a bank of metal file cabinets, reaching out left-handed to
unleash a long burst of his own.  One of the guns was silenced, and he heard a
satisfying thump as someone hit the floor.  The other gunman ducked and
started to retreat, still firing, but his options were limited.

     Katz palmed a frag grenade and pitched it sidearm, dodging back as angry
bullets rattled off the file cabinet, flaying paint.  He started counting down
the seconds, got as far as three when the grenade went off like thunder in the
claustrophobic corridor.

     A glance around the corner showed him one man stretched out on his face,
blood pooled beneath him, the other near the back wall of the smallish office
suite.  The second shooter was alive, but only just.  His shrapnel wounds were
deep and numerous, all bleeding freely, draining him of life.  His weapon had
gone missing in the blast somehow, but Katz was cautious as he closed the gap
between them.

     They were alone, from all appearances.  The doors that yawned on either
side of Katz led into empty office cubicles, with vacant desks and silent
telephones.  There was no toilet, and he guessed that tenants of the floor
were forced to use a public rest room somewhere close at hand.

     In any case he found no cubbyholes where an assassin could conceal
himself.  Katz stood above the dying gunman for another moment, wishing there
was something he could say, aware before the thought took shape that he had no
real message for this man, no wisdom to impart.  Their paths had crossed, and
one of them was on his way to hell.  Case closed.  And yet it didn't seem to
be enough somehow.

     Katz put the killing room behind him and backtracked to the stairs.
Another moment put him on the street, and he was grateful for a breath of air
that smelled like flowers rather than the reek of blood and cordite.  Getting
old, he thought.

     But not done yet.

     Katz had a war to finish, and there was no room for doubt or second
thoughts.  His enemies were evil, and they had to be destroyed.

     The only question in his mind right now was whether he could do the job.



     So far so good, Bolan thought.  They were right on time, and he was
rolling toward a one-on-one with a potential ally in Rangoon.  Not government
this time, but a reformer who had been referred to Hal Brognola and the team
at Stony Man by someone in the CIA.  With any luck at all, the man wouldn't
turn out to be some starry-eyed idealist who spent his free time writing
pamphlets on the advent of Utopia.

     He passed the Shwe Dragon Pagoda, driving north in the direction of the
university.  He had the name and address of a cafe near the university, where
he was told his contact would be waiting for him on the stroke of noon.  If he
was late, the meet was canceled automatically, and there would be no second
chance.

     No sweat.

     He still had half an hour free and clear, and he was almost there.  It
gave him time to think about the risk that he and his companions had assumed
when they left Europe, carrying their battle to the very streets and jungles
where the 14K was strongest, with a long-established history of operating
unopposed.  When wars were fought about the drug trade in the Golden Triangle,
it was one Triad vying with another for control.  Outsiders rarely got this
far, and while the Executioner had been up-country once or twice himself to
teach the drug lords fear, he understood that it was no walk in the park.
Battalions could be lost without a trace in that vast jungle; three men
wouldn't even make a ripple when they disappeared.

     But they were not just any men.  His own experience, from Vietnam and
later wars, might be enough to see them through, and his companions were the
cream of the elite divisions in their native countries, honed to razor
sharpness in a thousand life-or-death collisions with the enemy.  If they were
lost somewhere "out there," it wouldn't be for lack of skill or training, much
less from a shortage of determination to succeed.  None of them was immortal,
granted, but they had survived this long, and he could almost see the finish
line from where he stood.

     Or maybe not.  The Triangle was part of it, of course, but it wasn't the
end.  To shut down the pipeline, they still had three more major stops, and
they would have to find the men responsible for setting up the network in the
first place if they meant to wipe it out once and for all.  His last check-in
with Stony Man had yielded nothing new in that regard, and Bolan wondered what
would happen if they came this far, through all that blood, and still couldn't
locate their enemy.

     What then?

     Forget about it.  He was used to taking one step at a time, allowing the
momentum of a given action to produce results that might be unexpected from
the outset.  Wait and see what wriggled out into the daylight when you flipped
that mossy stone or opened up that basement door.

     Life had a way of dishing up surprises, sure, and while they were
unpleasant sometimes, that was simply ... life.

     And it was better than the grim alternative.


                                      15


     It was embarrassing to call upon his hill chief in regard to matters he
would normally have settled by himself, but Chik Fu felt that he had no
choice.  The sudden violence in Rangoon appeared to fit the pattern seen in
Europe recently, and red poles everywhere had been commanded to report if
anything unusual should happen in their territories, anything that might in
some way jeopardize the 14K's arrangement with Beijing.  There was a
difference between the time zones, but he couldn't help that, either.  If his
master was disturbed, so be it.

     The scrambler on his private telephone was a concession to technology.
The Burmese government had given Fu no major difficulties since he started
paying certain ministers and law enforcement officers to look the other way.
He didn't furnish drugs to Burmese addicts, and the gaming halls he operated
in the heart of Chinatown served only the Chinese.  When it was necessary to
eliminate competitors, Fu was discreet.  He made them disappear, as if their
mothers never gave them birth, and everyone was satisfied--except perhaps the
dead.  And who were they?  He tapped out the number from memory, twelve digits
with the country code, and waited as another telephone began to ring in Hong
Kong.  It was answered on the third ring by a voice he didn't recognize.  It
didn't matter.  When Fu gave his code name, he was put on hold for thirty
seconds while his master was retrieved and summoned to the phone.

     "Wi."

     This time he knew the voice.  There could be no mistaking Edward Wong.

     "Discretion is advised," Fu told his hill chief, and engaged the
scrambler without saying more.  His master would do likewise, and the
conversation--while it sounded normal to Fu--would be incomprehensible to
anyone eavesdropping on the line.

     "You have some information to report?"  Wong wasted no time on amenities.

     "I have."

     "Proceed."

     Fu told him everything, such as it was: the flurry of attacks his men had
suffered in Rangoon, and the raid on Tuan Khoo's office, which was almost
certainly connected to the other incidents, despite a lack of solid evidence.
When he had finished, there was silence for a moment on the other end.  Wong
took his time, considering what he was told.

     At last he said, "You must rely on Tuan Khoo.  He has an army at his beck
and call."

     "Five hundred miles away," Fu told his hill chief, trying not to
contradict or argue.

     "Then your enemy must be encouraged to relocate," Wong replied.

     "I have not yet identified the men responsible," Fu explained.

     "It makes no difference.  They desire your death.  We know this from
events in North America and Europe, do we not?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "Then you must go where they are bound to follow.  Do not fail.  I will
communicate with Tuan Khoo soon.  He will be ready, waiting for you."

     Fu didn't entirely like the sound of that, but it wasn't his place to
disagree.  An order from the hill chief had to be carried out at any cost.
"It shall be done," he said.

     "I knew that we could count on you.  Goodbye."

     The line went dead, his scrambler disconnecting automatically once there
was no one on the other end.  Fu cradled the receiver, frowning as he thought
about what he had to do.

     It meant a trip into the jungle, into peril, with his life in Tuan Khoo's
hands.  The warlord was a friend, of sorts--at least where business was
concerned.  And yet ...

     "It shall be done."

     Speaking to the empty room, Fu had a sudden, helpless feeling that wasn't
at all his style.  Accustomed to control, he felt that he was being swept
along by forces and events he didn't understand.

     The red pole wasn't frightened yet, but he was getting there.



     The contact's name was Sein Salong.  He was an ex-policeman, with a
military background, who had pulled the pin on law enforcement in Rangoon when
he discovered that the Triads had a fix in with the state.

     Or so he said.

     It was the background Stony Man received from Langley and relayed to
Bolan when he asked about potential Burmese allies, but he knew enough to
watch out for himself, taking nothing at face value.  Sein Salong would have
to prove himself before the Executioner was ready to entrust his life--much
less the lives of his two comrades--to a total stranger.

     The only other white man in the small cafe sat in a corner by himself and
kept his head down, studying a newspaper.  The suit he wore looked as though
it doubled for pajamas and hadn't been pressed in several weeks.  The other
patrons, thirty-five or so, were all Burmese, Chinese or Indian.  The hostess
acted as if she was expecting Bolan, flashed him a smile and led him to a
table occupied by a Burmese of thirty-something years.  His smile was
welcoming and cautious all at once.  "I'm Sein Salong," the Burmese said in
English.  "Mike Belasko."

     "Please, sit down."

     He sat and spent another moment checking out the other patrons, watching
out for anyone who showed excessive interest in a new arrival.  "We are safe
here," Salong informed him.

     "If you say so."

     "You don't trust me yet.  Of course, I understand."

     "It's nothing personal."

     "But simply common sense.  Self-preservation, is it not?"

     "You could say that."

     "Indeed.  Allow me to establish--how you say?--my bona fides?"

     "That's what we say."

     "I was a soldier for my country, fought against the rebels in the north
for six long years.  When that was done--for me, at least--I came back home to
work as a policeman in Rangoon.  I thought to help my country one way or
another, yes?"

     "Sounds good to me."

     "And me ... except some people in the government, for all their talk of
morals and preserving our historical traditions, are more interested in
building fortunes for themselves."

     "I've heard we have a few of those in Washington," Bolan said, smiling at
the man who faced him from across the table.

     "These men want no crime in Rangoon's streets--none visible to them, at
least--but they don't seem to care if Burma is used as a way station for
narcotics moving on to Bangkok and the West.  They take bribes from the Triads
and become rich men, uncaring what effect their treason may have on the
country."

     "That's not why I'm here," Bolan said, hoping it was clear that he wasn't
in Burma to attack the state regime.

     "I understand.  You seek to crush the 14K, I think ... and maybe their
connection with Beijing?"

     "You're getting warm."

     "How better to protect my country?" Salong inquired.  "The Triads once
were anti-Communist, at least.  Today their dealings with the Red Chinese
promote rebellion in Burma, with appalling loss of life.  They must be
stopped.  If nothing else, an interruption of their tribute payments to the
government may give some good men time to think about their souls.  As for the
bad men, maybe they will get fed up and find another line of work."

     "You really think so?"

     "At the moment it's my only hope."

     "We'd best get busy, then," Bolan said.  "Yes, indeed.  You've come for
Chik Fu, I understand."

     "He's one name on the list."

     You will not find him in Rangoon.  He's run away.  Perhaps an hour ago,
no more than two."

     "Run where?"

     Salong smiled.  "To hide with Tuan Khoo.  You recognize the name?"

     "It rings a bell."

     "His name is on your list as well, perhaps?"

     "I'd like to meet him," Bolan said.

     "And I can help you."

     "Oh?  How's that?"

     "I know the region," Salong informed him.  "I was stationed there in
military service.  I can guide you."

     Bolan hesitated, checking out the pros and cons.  They clearly needed
help to find Tuan Khoo, but he had met this stranger only moments earlier, and
trust was hard to come by in the hellgrounds.  Even if Salong was all he
claimed to be--unselfish, dedicated to his country--there was the moral
problem of involving a civilian in the action, where he stood a decent chance
of getting killed.

     "If I say yes?"

     "We leave this afternoon," Salong said.  "As soon as we collect the
necessary articles."

     "You understand the stakes?" Bolan asked.

     "Ah, you mean the risks?"

     "Whatever.  There's at least a sixty-forty chance the other side may take
you out if you come with me.  On the flip side, if you try to set me up,
you've got no chance at all."

     "I readily accept your terms," Salong replied.  "If there is nothing else
...?"

     "Not off the top," Bolan said, hesitating for another moment, finally
reaching out across the table for his would-be ally's hand.  "We understand
each other, then."

     "Indeed we do.  Death to our enemies."

     "I have a feeling," Bolan told him, "that there'll be enough to go
around."

                                   Hong Kong

     Whenever Edward Wong approached the Dragon, even with good news, he felt
a certain tightness in his chest, the vague suggestion of anxiety that harked
back to his childhood, when he still felt fleeting pangs of guilt at stealing
from the Hong Kong market stalls.  It wasn't guilt this time, however, but a
hint of fear, and all the more humiliating for that private knowledge.

     Why was he afraid?  The Dragon needed him, his soldiers and his network.
That had been made clear a thousand times, and still Wong felt a nagging sense
of apprehension every time they met.  He knew the Communists, the way they
operated, stabbing one another in the back at every opportunity and calling it
a bold stride forward for the People's Revolution.  Wong could understand that
kind of politics, had lived with much the same conditions in the Triad all his
adult life, but this was different, somehow.  He had cast his lot with
lifelong enemies, accepted their assurance that his empire wouldn't be
endangered--would indeed enjoy vast benefits--if he agreed to help them.  And
it had gone smoothly for a time, no problems...  until last week.

     Within the past nine days, though, nearly half his red poles--all of the
important ones in North America and Europe--had been killed, their forces
decimated, crucial trade routes jeopardized or utterly disrupted by a faceless
enemy.  The situation was intolerable, and the news was only getting worse.

     Which brought Wong to his present, most distasteful chore.

     He had to tell the Dragon what was happening in Burma.  It was even money
Cheung Kuo already knew about the violence in Rangoon from sources of his own,
but Wong was obligated to inform him, and he would lose face--at least--if he
didn't fulfill his duty.  Still, Wong thought that he had dealt with the
situation adequately, all things considered.  When their adversaries clashed
with Tuan Khoo's three thousand soldiers on the warlord's home ground, it
would be very different from a hit-and-run engagement in the city, where
police ran interference for both sides.

     It was another world out in the jungle, hopefully the last one Wong's
elusive enemies would ever see.

     He dialed the Dragon's cutout number and waited while the call was
shunted to another line.  Wong's scrambler was engaged, the switching station
in Macao one more precaution to evade detection by British or Portuguese
authorities.

     "Yes."  The Dragon's voice was soft, low pitched, a cultured tone.  He
could have been a radio announcer if he cared to work, instead of plotting
revolution for a living.

     "I have news," Wong said.

     "I'm listening."

     "There have been several incidents around Rangoon.  Attacks on Chik Fu
primarily.  Tuan Khoo lost several men, as well, in one attack."

     "Is it related to our European problem?" the Dragon asked.

     "I assume so.  It is better to be safe."

     "Indeed."

     "Our dealings with the Yakuza have all been peaceful for the past twelve
months at least.  The other Triads may be jealous, but they would not
challenge us--much less Tuan Khoo--in such a way."

     "I trust your judgment, Wong."

     But did he really?  It was something he could say and change his mind
five minutes later, turn on Wong as if he were an enemy.  You couldn't be too
careful with the Dragon; Edward Wong had seen that for himself, firsthand.

     "I've taken steps to end this foolishness in Burma," Wong informed his
business partner from Beijing.  "I don't want these accursed round-eyes
getting any closer to Hong Kong."

     "What steps?" the Dragon asked.  Was that a trace of dark suspicion in
his tone?  Did Kuo question Wong's ability to handle problems in the field?

     "I'm sending them to meet Khoo," he said almost defiantly.

     "Explain, please."

     "Chik Fu has left Rangoon on my instructions, taking no pains to conceal
his movements.  Anyone who really wants to follow him will find a way.  Tuan
Khoo will have a warm reception waiting for them, if and when the round-eyes
get that far."

     There was dead silence on the line for several moments, while the Dragon
thought about Wong's plan.  At last his mellow voice said, "It's a good plan.
You're to be congratulated."

     If it worked, he meant, Wong thought, but kept it to himself.  If he
succeeded, Kuo would be pleased to share the credit, tell his masters in
Beijing that it was his idea.  Conversely if the plan should fail, it would be
Wong's concept from start to finish; he would take the heat alone and wear the
mark of failure like a crimson blemish on his face.

     Which simply meant that he could not allow the plan to fail.  He had to
impress upon Khoo and Fu the urgency, the absolute necessity of wiping out
their enemies in Burma, where they had at least a fighting chance.

     "I will be keeping close track of events as they transpire," Wong told
the Dragon.

     "I assumed no less," his comrade said, the silky tone almost a physical
caress.  "Keep me advised."

     "Of course."

     The line went dead, a hollow sound in Wong's ear until he cradled the
receiver.  There was much to do, despite his distance from the fighting yet to
come.  And he couldn't afford to fail.


                                      16


                              The Golden Triangle

     The jungle east of Mandalay, along the Salween River, was a steaming
no-man's land.  Two hours and forty minutes from Rangoon, the landing strip
came out of nowhere, hacked from living jungle by the only means
available--which meant machetes, axs, fire and sweat.  A month from now, if no
one came around to keep the land clear, it would be reclaimed by Mother Nature
with a vengeance, but the four men who were dropped there, moments short of
dusk, cared nothing for the distant future.  They were focused absolutely on
the here and now.

     With Sein Salong to guide them, Bolan and his Phoenix Force allies
reckoned they would have a decent chance of finding Tuan Khoo's stronghold in
the Golden Triangle.  Surviving once they got there was a different
proposition altogether, and they still had some misgivings--most of them
expressed by Yakov Katzenelenbogen--that the Burmese guide might lead them
into a trap.  In that event, they were agreed, Salong would be among the first
to die, but they would trust him--cautiously--until he proved himself a
traitor.

     They spent an hour hiking eastward, then pitched camp when it became too
dark to see the trail in front of them or distinguish twisted roots from
cobras stretched across the path.  They camped without a fire, ate candy bars
and cold beans, washed down with water from their own canteens.  Their
breakfast was identical, and they were on the trail again by dawn, determined
to lose no more time than absolutely necessary.

     Tuan Khoo controlled a territory half the size of Delaware.  His word was
law within that jungle kingdom, where he held the undisputed power of life and
death.  His serfs included some three thousand Chinese soldiers, many of them
second-generation warriors in the drug trade, plus an equal number of Chinese,
Burmese and Thai camp followers--the women, children and civilian lackeys who
provided Khoo's army with supplies and services that ranged from food and sex
to hand-washed clothes and the repair of their machines.  Beyond Khoo's base
camp, several dozen villages survived by cultivating poppies, harvesting raw
opium and selling it to Khoo at a fraction of the price he would receive once
it was processed, packaged and exported to the outside world.

     And life went on ... for some.

     By half past noon on Sunday, Bolan's penetration team was well inside the
territory ruled by Khoo.  Their pace had slowed dramatically, as they were
forced to watch for booby traps along the way, as well as Chinese sentries and
patrols.  Nor could they trust the local Burmese villagers, whose livelihood
depended on the drug trade, even as their very lives depended on a show of
loyalty to the warlord.  Anyone they met from that point on might try to kill
them, or at least betray them to the nearest squad of riflemen from Khoo's
camp.

     And since they were depending on surprise for any hope they had of
getting out alive, a premature alarm would spell disaster.

     That they reached the warlord's stronghold without tripping any signal
flares or rousing hostile villagers was due in equal parts to Salong's
methodical approach to stalking and the combat expertise of those he led.
Four soldiers, one of them an almost total stranger to the other three, had
forged themselves into a war machine that would be lethal to the enemy,
despite its tiny size.

     Three thousand guns to four--perhaps as many as five thousand, if a fair
percentage of the hangers-on were armed.  It had to be the worst odds Bolan
had encountered since he launched his one-man war against the Mafia so long
ago, but the statistics only told a partial story.  Once you factored in the
human elements of courage, dedication, training and sheer audacity, the odds
began to change.  Still grim, but Bolan knew that anything could happen once
the dice were tossed and they began to play for keeps.

     The camp was huge, a town carved from the jungle, larger than some
hamlets back in the American Midwest.  Four men could lose themselves in there
... unless three of them happened to be round-eyes wearing camouflage fatigues
and packing arms enough to stop a full battalion in its tracks.

     "This is the place," Salong informed him with a crooked smile.  "I got
you here, as promised.  Now the rest is up to you."

     "We'll wait for dark to make our move," Bolan said.  "In the meantime I
suggest we have a look around."



     The Burmese jungle was a living hell for Chik Fu.  Despite their
elevation in the mountains, it was scorching hot by day, with that same
ninety-five percent humidity that air-conditioning helped him endure back in
Rangoon.  The closest thing to air-conditioning in Tuan Khoo's camp were the
electric fans that operated from a central generator, stirring muggy air with
no real vestige of relief from the oppressive heat.  Sundown reduced the
temperature a bit, to somewhere in the eighties, but it also brought out the
biting, stinging insects in force to feast on human sweat and blood.

     Fu sat in his tent, surrounded by mosquito netting, with his feet
immersed in tepid water, cursing Edward Wong for the enlightened plan that put
him there, among barbarians, where every passing hour was like a week in Hell.
Back in the city, even if his enemies were stalking him, at least Fu could
have waited for them in the comfort of his air-conditioned penthouse, sipping
vintage wine and listening to CDs on his stereo, perhaps with a young lady to
help distract him while he waited for the end.

     To live like this, though, when he wasn't even hiding, rather
waiting--hoping--for the enemy to find him so that Khoo could corner them and
shoot them down like animals ... it made no sense at all.  If he went through
all this for nothing, and the round-eyes killed him anyway ...  Fu's stomach
growled, reminding him that he couldn't eat when he wanted to, but had to wait
for mess call, a description that was wholly accurate in its assessment of the
culinary fare available in camp.  It was amazing that an army could survive on
fruit, rice and stringy beef for years on end, but Fu saw no reason why he
ought to share their voluntary sacrifice.

     It was a form of punishment, he told himself, for letting things get out
of hand around Rangoon--as if he had a choice, the round-eyes coming in from
Europe after ravaging their allies there with absolute impunity.  It wasn't
his fault that this plague had fallen on the 14K, but Wong had chosen him as
an example to the other red poles--those who still survived.  Fu would be
staked out like a goat to draw the tiger into range, and if the plan failed
... well, he would remember these days in the jungle next time anything went
wrong on his home turf, perhaps respond more forcefully next time to nip a
problem in the bud.

     It could be worse, of course.  Wong could have simply had him killed.
Such fates were not unknown for red poles who had fallen out of favor in the
hill chief's eyes.

     The first shot seemed to echo from the far side of the camp.  Off
somewhere to the west, but Fu couldn't be sure.  Sounds were deceptive in the
jungle, more so in the mountains, and it wouldn't be uncommon for a gun to be
discharged around a military base.

     And yet ...

     In seconds flat he heard more firing.  Automatic weapons opened up on the
perimeter, sent brilliant tracers arcing through the night.  The shock of an
explosion rocked the camp, immediately followed by another--and the lights
went out.

     Fu knocked his bucket over as he scrambled from his chair.  He got
tangled up in the mosquito netting for a moment, ripping through it with his
bare hands, moving toward the simple cot and nightstand where his boots and
pistol waited for him.

     It was time.  The enemy had found him.

     But the tethered goat wasn't about to put his trust in strangers, much
less sit and wait until the tiger swallowed him alive.



     The first shot brought McCarter to his feet.  He couldn't tell if it was
Bolan's weapon or a Chinese sentry's, and it made no difference to the plan.
Once anybody started shooting, they had orders to advance, seek out the
targets they had drawn by lots that afternoon and set about the job of
wreaking havoc in the camp.  Survival was considered a priority, but they were
here to kick some ass, with some specific targets on the hit list, and
McCarter hadn't traveled all this way to turn around and go home empty-handed.

     Not when he could teach his enemies a thing or two about the taste and
smell of primal fear.

     McCarter came in from the darkness, dressed from head to toe in jungle
camouflage, his tanned face covered by a commando head net, carrying a Chinese
knock off of the famous AK-47.  His position on the south side of the camp
gave him a fair shot at the motor pool and mess tent, but his first priority
was knocking out the generator hut and cutting power to the camp.

     A roving sentry saw him coming and opened his mouth to shout a warning,
but McCarter got there first.  His rifle butt caved in the sentry's teeth and
slammed his jaw back several inches, cutting off the shout that would have
summoned reinforcements.  He delivered one more stroke when the sentry was
down to keep him there, a limp form in the moonlight.

     It was no trick picking out the generator shed, with cables radiating
outward like the tentacles of an anemic squid, its diesel engine puttering
away to keep the juice on for the camp.  McCarter made it all the way without
another incident, but there was steady firing on the fringes of the camp by
now.  His comrades were catching hell, and he wouldn't pass through the ranks
so easily if he was headed in the opposite direction.

     No one had thought of locking up the generator shed.  McCarter stepped
inside, switched on a naked bulb that dangled overhead and took a block of
plastique from the satchel slung across his shoulder.  He set the detonator
with a short fuse, counting down from twenty at a click per second, and was
back outside in no time.

     It went to hell from there.

     The Chinese soldier nearly stumbled over him, blinked twice and then let
out a whooping war cry as he recognized a hostile stranger in the camp.  His
rifle was a carbon copy of McCarter's, but he couldn't match the former SAS
commando's personal reaction time.  Before the khaki soldier had a chance to
bring up his weapon, McCarter kicked him in the groin, stepped back and
slammed a 3-round burst into his chest.

     How much time was left before the generator blew?  Instead of pondering
the question, he was on his way, a flitting shadow, jostling soldiers and
civilians as he ran, his rifle spitting death when two young sentries moved to
block his path.

     He had to have covered twenty yards before the shock wave of the blast
reached out and lifted him off his feet, tossed him head over heels and
dropped him sprawling on his back.  McCarter barely kept his weapon, but his
lungs gave up their air.  Colored specks of light danced on the inside of his
eyelids as he fought to keep his grip on consciousness.  Hang on, a small
voice cautioned him.

     He struggled to his hands and knees, then somehow made it to his feet,
head swimming, feeling as if he should vomit.

     No time for that, he told himself.  The choices were to fight or die,
with no safe ground between the two extremes.

     McCarter made his choice and came out fighting, wondering if it would be
enough to save his life.



     Tuan Khoo was the self-appointed general of an army recognized by no one
but himself.  He wasn't old enough, at fifty-three, to have seen military
service under Chiang Kaishek before the Communists devoured his native China,
but he had grown up in exile with the men who fought those battles and were
forced at last to run away.  If anything, Khoo's anticommunism was more
radical than theirs, because he knew the enemy by reputation only and was
willing to believe sometimes exaggerated stories, never doubting for a moment
that their evil was immense and all-consuming.

     At the same time, though, the general had a private empire to protect.
His lifelong war to "liberate" Red China had become primarily a war of words,
with rare border raids to make his soldiers think that they were fighting for
some cause beyond the daily price of opium.  In truth, if General Khoo was
forced to choose between remaining in the Golden Triangle, where he made all
the rules, and going "home" to live in an ideal Chinese democracy, he would
have stayed precisely where he was.

     And now the empire he had carved out for himself was being threatened.
Only marginally, it was true--the way a scorpion may threaten a bull
elephant--but even one sting from a scorpion, if left untreated, could cause
disability and death.

     Khoo left his quarters in full uniform, proceeding toward the sound of
gunfire on the camp's perimeter.  That was to say, he chose a compass point at
random, since the whole perimeter was firing now, and moved in that direction
arbitrarily.  He had to start somewhere, try to find out what his men were
shooting at and whether there was anything at all to challenge them outside
the camp.

     That question was answered for him well before he reached the western
border of the camp.  A loud explosion echoed through the sprawling compound,
and the camp went dark.  It didn't take a genius to work out that someone had
deliberately destroyed the generator with an explosive charge.

     Which meant that there were enemies inside the camp.

     Khoo hesitated, thought of turning back to find Chik Fu and shake him
until his eyeteeth rattled, find out what he really had in mind when he and
Edward Wong devised their "master plan" to place an enemy of unknown strength
on Tuan Khoo's very doorstep.  Idiots!

     And he had been a fool to play along.

     It was too late for self-recriminations, though.  Khoo had to bring the
situation under his control and swiftly now, before his men lost every
semblance of the discipline he had been pounding into them for years.  They
drilled regularly, of course, and most of them were fairly decent shots, but
they had never really fought a battle in their lives.  The village raids and
scouting parties certainly didn't prepare them for the kind of action that was
coming to them now.

     They weren't seasoned men of war.  And neither, come to think of it, was
General Tuan Khoo.

     But he could fake it with the best of them, and he wasn't about to let
his men see any sign of weakness in his own demeanor.  He would die before
revealing anything that smacked of indecision to his soldiers.  They depended
on him to be strong, and Khoo depended on himself.

     It seemed impossible that all his men, on every side of the encampment,
could be sighting down on flesh-and-blood enemies.  Someone had started
shooting, and now the rest of them were dueling shadows in the forest, killing
trees and bushes, maybe here and there a rodent or a jungle cat.

     And yet there was an enemy.  Someone had blown the generator hut and left
the camp in darkness.  Running figures jostled Khoo as he stood with a couple
of his aides, uncertain now where he should go.  The only place in camp where
he was certain of a hostile presence was behind him, toward the burned-out
generator shed.

     "This way!"

     Khoo turned on his heel and doubled back in the direction he had come
from.  His aides kept up with difficulty, roughly shoving anyone who blocked
their path.  Khoo had no reason to believe that he would find the bomber
lingering around the site, admiring his own handiwork, but it was still a
starting point.

     And anything was possible.

     In fact, he almost failed to recognize the man who stepped in front of
him, some fifty feet or so from the shattered generator.  That wasn't to say
he knew the man, per se, but rather knew, upon a second glance, that he was
out of place.  He was too tall for one thing, and his uniform was wrong.  The
pale moonlight showed tiger-striped fatigues, when khaki was the normal
uniform.  And what was there about his face?  It was a kind of blur, as if-
Khoo snapped up his rifle, was thumbing off the safety, when his enemy
unleashed a long burst from the hip.  General Khoo staggered as the bullets
ripped into his abdomen, below the rib cage.  Squeezing off a short burst of
his own, he knew that it was wasted as he toppled over backward and fell
across the legs of someone stretched out on the ground.

     One of his aides?

     He couldn't tell and didn't care.

     Khoo tried to rise but couldn't force his legs to follow the commands
that issued from his brain.  Too late he felt the shadow fall across his
upturned face and saw the figure of his enemy blot out the stars.

     "Na shi shen-me yi-si?"

     But General Khoo already knew exactly what it meant, and he didn't expect
an answer as the man-shape turned away from him, with no reply.

     It meant the end.



     Katz dropped the first two Chinese soldiers with a single burst, then
swung around to face their comrade, ducking as the gunner opened fire from
forty feet away.  It was a close thing, with Katzenelenbogen squeezing off
another burst before he was prepared, dumbfounded when it cut the soldier's
legs from under him and brought him down.

     Not dead, but down.

     The gunner tried to rise, but this time Katz was ready for him, squeezing
off another burst that caught him in the chest and flipped him on his back.

     All done.

     The barracks buildings were immediately to his left, and Katz pushed off
in that direction even as he struggled to his feet.  The rifle hung across his
chest, its sling biting into Katz's shoulder while he palmed a frag grenade
and used his claw to yank the pin.

     No time to hesitate now, not with the barracks right in front of him, a
second shift of soldiers grappling with their clothes and weapons, trying to
respond in timely fashion to the roaring chaos just outside their door.

     He lobbed the first grenade through brittle glass, hurled a second
through an open door and was already reaching for a third when the first one
detonated, jagged shrapnel rattling on the inside of the corrugated metal
Quonset hut.  The second blast came close behind the first, and men were
screaming in the barracks, though not as many as were shouting seconds
earlier.

     He left them to it, with another barracks just in front of him.  Katz
dropped his third grenade inside an open window and kept running, clutching
the AK-47 with his good left hand as two young soldiers cleared the doorway
just in front of him.

     Half-dressed and still bleary-eyed from sleep, they scarcely recognized
death coming for them in the night.  Katz shot them both from less than
fifteen feet away, the impact of his bullets spinning the gunners and slamming
them to earth like rag dolls, dead before they hit the ground.

     His third grenade exploded then, the shock wave buckling a portion of the
hut's wall.  Katz staggered, kept his footing and was ready with a fourth
grenade before he reached a window at the far end of the smoky barracks.
Someone's face was pressed against the glass as Katz made his pitch, but face
and frag grenade both disappeared inside the hut, obliterated seconds later by
a fiery thunderclap.

     He still had four grenades left and another barracks coming up, when Sein
Salong's machine gun started spraying tracers in the "wrong" direction,
through the heart of Khoo's camp.  That meant the plan was still on track, for
what it might be worth.  Four men against such overwhelming numbers that Katz
didn't want to think about it anymore.

     The plan wasn't to wipe them out, of course; that would have been
impossible, unless they had been able to acquire a small nuclear missile from
their contacts in Rangoon.  Without that kind of punch, however, they would
have to pick and choose selected targets if they could, go for the hostile
leadership as much as possible and count on chaos to assist them in
withdrawing when their work was done.

     The little two-way radio on Katzenelenbogen's belt erupted into static as
he primed the fifth grenade.  He hesitated, keeping to the shadows, waiting
for a message.  Would it be a voice he recognized, or had the enemy killed one
of his companions?  Were they toying with the radio to see what they could
learn of the attacking force?

     "Scratch General Khoo," McCarter said to anyone with ears on, and the
radio went silent once again.

     Katz smiled and left the shadows, closing on the third hut where soldiers
had been sleeping before their enemies had found them.  He lobbed the frag
grenade through a window and gripped his rifle, waiting for the blast before
he kicked the door in and charged across the threshold.  Muzzle-flashes lit
the startled faces, some of them already smeared with soot and blood.  They
couldn't understand a word he said, but it was all the same to Katz.  The
blood was singing in his ears, and he was shouting at his nameless
adversaries.

     "Rise and shine, you bastards!  Rise and shine!"



     It was neither fluke nor fate that led the Executioner to Chik Fu.  He
had the red pole spotted within twenty minutes of beginning his surveillance
on the jungle camp.  Fu occupied a tent not far from General Khoo's, the
leaders close enough to keep in touch without invading one another's private
space.

     He knew where he was going when the lights went out, determined not to
blow it in the darkness and confusion of a fight on unfamiliar ground.  The
superficial details of the camp were filed away in Bolan's memory, but there
was nothing he could do about the soldiers or civilians who were bound to run
amok once shooting started and the generator blew.  Too bad.

     He had his fix, his mission, and unless a bullet brought him down, he
wouldn't deviate from his appointed course.  When he encountered soldiers on
the way, or armed civilians, Bolan dealt with them and kept on moving, leaving
a trail of bodies in his wake that anyone could follow if the trackers weren't
distracted by the task of fighting for their lives.  It stood to reason that
his target would be moving, too, and he could only keep his fingers crossed
that Fu had been asleep or unprepared for trouble when the shooting started.
A little break was all he needed.

     He saw the tent in front of him, a faint glow from within that had to be
a lamp or flashlight, since the generator was no longer feeding power to the
camp.  A shadow moved between the light and canvas, huge, distorted.  As Bolan
moved closer to the tent, the light went out.

     The radio attached to Bolan's combat harness sputtered into life and he
heard McCarter's voice: "Scratch General Khoo."

     The Executioner rushed the tent in time to see a slender silhouette
emerging from the open flap in front.  Just then, a swarm of tracers passed
between them, making Bolan blink, and two or three burned through the fabric
of the tent.  Flames caught and held, their light revealing Bolan's target as
he raised a pistol, sighting down the slide.

     Fu's first shot would have done the job if Bolan hadn't thrown himself
aside.  His jarring impact with the earth made the warrior hesitate, a brief
delay, but still enough for Fu to try a second shot.  The bullet traced a line
of fire across one thigh, but not deep enough to reach the bone.  Bolan came
up firing with his Chinese rifle, holding down the trigger, stitching Fu from
crotch to throat and blowing him away.

     Bolan's leg protested as he scrambled to his feet, but pain would have to
wait.  He started falling back toward the perimeter and palmed the little
two-way radio, his thumb on the transmitter switch.

     "Scratch Fu," he stated.  "That's a wrap.  We're out of here.  Confirm!"

     McCarter's voice was first to answer: "That's affirmative.  I'm pulling
out."

     "Suits me," Katz added.  "I'll see you soon."  And silence from the final
member of their team.  He tried again.  "Salong!  Confirm instructions!"

     There was no response, and only silence from the dark stretch of
perimeter where Sein Salong had manned a captured .50-caliber submachine gun
short moments earlier.

     Goddammit!

     Bolan turned his back on regret and jogged toward the jungle, dodging
adversaries where he could, eliminating two or three who crossed his path by
sheer bad luck.

     The job was done, but it had cost them dearly.  Bolan was determined that
his new-found friend wouldn't have died in vain.  Beyond the Burmese
mountains, farther east, more enemies were waiting for him, still believing
they were safe.

     The Executioner was on his way to show them they were wrong.