BODY ARMOR [066-066-5.0]

By: Don Pendleton

Synopsis:

Mack Bolan has had plenty of enemies in the past, but none
more formidable than the Juggernauts.  Special helmets, body armor
and superior hardware make these warriors impervious to bullets and
steel.  Their tactics are simple, direct and violent.  They are
well trained and highly motivated.  And, so far, unstoppable.
While the identity and agenda of these state-of-the-art storm
troopers remain uncertain, they are an indestructible force,
crushing everyone in their path--cops, criminals and civilians.
And America knows that only one man stands a chance against the
Juggernauts.  The Executioner.  Violence.  225th novel in the
"Executioner" series, 1997.

                             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) 1997 by
                             Worldwide Library


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

First edition September 1997

ISBN 0-373-64225-3

(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
#212 Ride the Beast
#213 Blood Harvest
#214 Fission Fury
#215 Fire Hammer
#216 Death Force
#217 Fight or Die
#218 End Game
#219 Terror Intent
#220 Tiger Stalk
#221 Blood and Fire
#222 Patriot Gambit
#223 Hour of Conflict
#224 Call to Arms
#225 Body Armor


                              ACKNOWLEDGMENT


Special thanks and acknowledgment to William Fieldhouse for his
contribution to this work.



Nought can deform the human race
Like to the armor's iron brace.
-William Blake, 1757-1827

Putting a man in armor does not make him a soldier.  War should not be
about power, but rather the triumph of good over evil.  We cannot afford to
forget that. -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


     Robbing banks just wasn't what it used to be, Mack Bolan thought as he
listened to the criminals' conversation.  He stood by the Pontiac Sunfire
he'd parked in the dark alley, his laser microphone positioned on the metal
lid of a trash container and aimed at a window of the Gossier Metal
Products company.

     The high-tech device cast a concentrated beam of laser light onto the
glass pane, which was bounced off the surface to the receiver section of
the unit.  Sounds and voices were transmitted via vibrations, which Bolan
caught by means of an earplug.  A small recorder taped the conversation, as
well.

     Standing in a damp alley in a run-down section of Pittsburgh,
Pennsylvania, to spy on a gang of bank robbers, wasn't the sort of mission
the Executioner or those at Stony Man Farm usually handled.  They
specialized in taking on the most serious threats to the United States of
America and the lives of the nation's citizens.  Bank robbery didn't fit
into that category.  However, on the advice of some of his staff, the
President had asked for Hal Brognola's help.  The gang called themselves
the Anarchists, and one of their leaders was a man named Joseph Hussein.
There was the concern that the Anarchists might be a terrorist outfit, but
that particular fear had been unfounded.  It seemed that the gang had
adopted their title more to frighten the public than with any genuine
intention to overthrow the United States.

     The Anarchists might not have been terrorists, but they had displayed
considerable ruthlessness and brutality during the series of bank robberies
that extended across four states.  Half a dozen people had been killed by
the hoodlums and twice that number injured.  Bolan had been motivated by
concern for future potential victims to take the mission: The Anarchists
needed to be stopped, and so far local police and federal agencies had
failed to do so.

     Locating the gang's lair hadn't been difficult.  Hussein had gotten a
lot of attention due to his Arab background, but he appeared to be
second-in-command to Red Stone, the outfit's actual leader.  Born Rodney
Stowallson, Stone had worked at the Gossier factory before the recession
put the company out of business.  He had turned to self-employment that
landed him two years for armed robbery in Ohio.

     The gang had already hit banks in Kentucky, Maryland, Ohio and West
Virginia.  Now Pennsylvania was their target, the abandoned metal products
building their hideout.

     Through the laser mike, Bolan caught the robbers arguing about money
and where they should pull their next job.  The Anarchists had already
managed to collect an impressive total from the combined robberies--more
than a million and a half dollars--but that was apparently not enough to
satisfy their greed.

     Different voices came over the mike, expressing concern about the
risks they were running, wanting to leave the country before they were all
killed or captured.  Their fears were valid; there had been eleven original
members of the gang, but two had been killed in shoot-outs with guards and
the police.  Bolan wasn't sure of the identities of all the surviving
members, but two of them were young women, apparently thrill-junky friends
of the hoods.

     The Executioner was well prepared to teach them how high a price their
actions carried.  A Beretta 93-R pistol was holstered under his arm and an
Uzi submachine gun waited on the front seat of the Pontiac.  He also had a
Ka-bar fighting knife attached to his belt, a wire garrote in a pocket of
his black field jacket and plenty of extra magazines for his firearms.
More weapons and supplies were stored in the trunk of the car.

     Nine against one were serious odds, even for a combat veteran with
Bolan's expertise and deadly hardware.  The Anarchists had already shown
that they were more than willing to use deadly force.  The gang favored
shotguns, as lethal as any automatic weapon at close range.  The
Executioner intended to do as much as possible to even the odds.

     Detaching himself from the microphone, he moved to the trunk of the
car and selected three grenades: two CS tear gas canisters and an M-26
fragmentation grenade.  He also took a canvas case containing an M-17 mask
to protect him from the effects of the tear gas.  Finally he picked up the
Uzi from the front seat, slinging it, the pistol grip readily available.

     The Executioner emerged from the alley and headed for the factory, his
blacksuit blending in with the shadows.  There were no lights around the
abandoned property, but his eyes had adjusted well to the darkness, and it
provided plenty of concealment for his covert approach.

     The factory gate was padlocked, but Bolan gained entry by simply
slithering under a torn section of fence.

     No sentry had been posted outside the building.  The gang seemed
extraordinarily careless to the soldier.  Light flickered from a window on
the second floor, and when he came upon two parked vehicles, he recognized
the two-toned sedan that matched the description of the getaway car used in
their last bank heist.  They hadn't ditched the vehicle or even bothered to
spray paint it.

     He found a jimmied side door, its frame ravaged by a crowbar.  With
the Uzi leading, Bolan stepped over the threshold.  He cat-footed across
the concrete floor toward a flight of metal stairs, his combat senses alert
for any sign of the enemy, an alarm or trip wire.

     Suddenly a voice bellowed from outside.  "This is the police!  We've
got the place surrounded.  Throw out your weapons and surrender!"

     Bolan clenched his teeth and silently cursed.  Stony Man had a link to
the police computer mainframe, and there had been nothing to suggest that
the Pittsburgh PD suspected the gang was using the factory for its hideout.
They had to have been tipped off somehow, throwing together a strike unit
on short notice.

     Voices shouted and swore from the top of the stairs.  Feet pounded the
floor above Bolan's position, and he heard the metallic sound of
pump-action shotguns being primed.  The gang didn't sound as if it intended
to surrender.  Then two men appeared at the top of the stairs, shotguns in
hand, flashlights bound to the barrels with duct tape.  They snarled
obscenities as they began to charge down the stairs.

     The Executioner didn't wait for them to reach his position.  Before
their flashlight beams could detect him, he raised the Uzi and squeezed the
trigger.  The subgun's muzzle-flash filled the staircase with bright yellow
light, and the leading Anarchist was hurled backward into his partner, his
body slammed by 9 mm Parabellum rounds.

     The second gunner pulled his shotgun's trigger, firing a burst of
buckshot in Bolan's direction.  The soldier hit the man with another salvo
of rounds, splitting the guy's head.  He tumbled down the stairs to form a
graceless heap at the bottom.

     Bolan removed a tear-gas canister from his belt, yanked the pin and
hurled the explosive up the stairs at the remaining gang members.  He then
moved clear of the stairs, taking cover by a concrete pillar.  He expected
the enemy to respond to the Uzi fire, and they didn't disappoint him.
Shotguns roared and buckshot rained down the stairwell, tearing into the
corpses of their cohorts on the stairs.

     The Executioner quickly donned his M-17 mask, as fumes of gas began to
drift down the staircase.  The furious gunfire ceased, replaced by coughing
and wheezing from the enemy.

     Before the Anarchists could recover, Bolan pulled the pin from the
M-26 frag grenade, broke cover and hurled the bomb toward the enemy's nest.
The M-26 exploded, and fragments of plaster and concrete showered down the
stairs, along with the remains of another terminated member of the gang.

     The Executioner charged up the steps.  He had seized the advantage and
intended to make the most of it.  He reached the top of the stairs,
triggering the Uzi even before he had a target.  There were no innocent
bystanders or hostages to worry about; anything that moved could be taken
down.

     Two figures moved.  Both appeared to be seriously wounded by shrapnel,
and Bolan took them both out with a 9 mm mercy round.

     The soldier scanned the area.  A number of sleeping bags lay scattered
on the floor, and an overturned kerosene lamp leaked fuel.

     Five members of the gang had been put down.  The sound of gunshots
alerted Bolan to the probability that the four survivors had found an
escape route and were engaged in battle with the police outside.

     The Executioner sprinted out of the building, gaining the alley.
Movement by the garbage container drew his attention, and he swung his Uzi
toward a dark figure.  A heavily muscled man, his head dwarfed by a huge
set of shoulders, shuffled forward.  A shaggy mane of carrot-colored hair
confirmed his identity.  Red Stone had survived the grenade blast, but he
hadn't escaped unscathed.  Blood oozed down his bull neck, most likely from
a ruptured eardrum.  He gripped a Remington shotgun by the barrel, using
the butt-stock as a support.  The two 12-gauge shells he held in his other
hand suggested he'd been about to reload the weapon when the grenade had
gone off.

     Stone shook his head, still dazed, then his eyes widened when he saw
Bolan, clad in black, wearing a gas mask, a fearsome subgun in hand.

     "You're finished," Bolan said.  "Drop your weapon and face the wall."

     Realizing Stone might have been deafened by the explosion, the
Executioner shifted the Uzi to one hand, using his other to point to the
ground.  Stone glared at him, then cast down the shotgun shells.  Suddenly
he swung his other arm, hurling the Remington at Bolan.  The weapon's heavy
barrel crashed across the frame of the Uzi, striking the submachine gun
from the soldier's grasp.

     Stone's lips drew back in a snarl, and he charged before Bolan could
reach for his other weapon.  The Executioner had read the guy's file and
knew Stone had held a championship title on a prison boxing team while an
inmate at Ohio State Penitentiary.  The burly ex-con obviously intended to
beat Bolan to death.

     The thug closed in fast, swinging a left hook at Bolan's head.  The
Executioner dodged his fist, slamming his right palm into Stone's forearm.
Knocking his adversary off balance, Bolan hooked his left fist under
Stone's extended arm, driving his knuckles into the man's solar plexus.
Stone grunted with surprise and pain.  Bolan quickly followed with a right
elbow smash, landing a punishing blow to the side of his opponent's jaw.
The big man staggered, and the Executioner drove his boot into Stone's
knee.

     Cartilage crunched in the joint, and the hardman stumbled.  He
steadied himself, his hand going to his belt.  He whirled, lashing out with
a large steel knife.  The Executioner sprang back, just avoiding the
vicious swipe of the blade.

     "I'm gonna cut out your heart and spit on it!" Stone hissed through
clenched teeth.

     He tried to move in to accomplish his goal, but his dislocated kneecap
hampered him, giving Bolan a split second to reach for the Beretta 93-R.
But before he could unleather it, Stone swung his blade at the
Executioner's arm.  Bolan jerked his limb clear of the flashing steel,
turning his body to the right.  Stone's knife sliced air as the soldier
managed to pull the Ka-bar from the belt sheath with his left hand.  He
thrust the knife in a jab-punch motion, striking the blade across Stone's
forearm.  The thug cried out as blood welled from the cut.

     The Executioner's right hand quickly snared Stone's knife wrist,
yanked him off balance and swung his left fist in a short, sideways stroke,
driving the point of the Ka-bar under Stone's chin.  The blade pierced the
soft tissue at the hollow of the man's throat, then sank deep to puncture
his windpipe.

     Blood spurted, and Stone's eyes began to cloud over.  Bolan released
the man's wrist, and he crumpled to the ground.

     The Executioner picked up his Uzi.  "That leaves three," he said,
moving on.



     A trio of police cars, their headlights blazing, formed a horseshoe
pattern in front of the factory.  Uniformed cops knelt by the vehicles,
using them for cover as they exchanged gunfire with the remaining members
of the Anarchists, who had taken shelter behind their own vehicles.

     Mack Bolan emerged from the building to discover the battle in
progress.  The police clearly hadn't called for adequate backup, and they
appeared to be armed with only handguns and shotguns.  Since the gang
members had the same type of weapons, neither side had the advantage of
distance or accuracy.

     The Executioner sized up the situation.  He still had a canister of CS
gas that he could lob at the enemy, then fire a few rounds at their
position, letting the police know he was on their side.  He would have to
explain to them that he was working for the Justice Department, or some
other federal outfit, get Stony Man Farm to back his story, then slip away
before the lawmen could question him about using methods contrary to those
generally employed by the Feds.

     Suddenly, a vehicle charged onto the factory premises from the street.
The bulky, box-shaped gray van hadn't slowed when it approached the
perimeter fence, but had crashed into the metal barrier, bursting the
hinges and hurling the gate aside.

     Both the police and the Anarchists began to yell.  Shotguns roared
from the gang's position, buckshot ricocheting off the gray rig as it spun
in a semicircle to come to a halt in front of them.

     The van's rear door opened, and two figures stepped out.

     The new arrivals moved away from the van, black helmets with
dark-tinted visors concealing their faces.  Their bodies were encased in
dull gray suits of armor, with extra triangles of metal attached to the
knee and elbow joints.  Heavy black boots covered their feet, while their
black gloves were studded with metal spikes on the knuckles and around the
wrists.  Side arms in flap holsters hung from their hips, and the belts
held ammunition pouches.  From their shoulder straps hung a weapon that
resembled an old M-3 A-1 submachine gun, but the frame and barrel appeared
thicker.  An extra pistol grip had been mounted under the reinforced
barrel.

     Bolan flicked his gaze from the extraordinary pair to the police.
They stood dumbfounded, as surprised as Bolan and the gang members.  If the
men from the van belonged to some sort of elite Pittsburgh SWAT force, the
policemen didn't seem to know about it.  The Executioner decided to stay
behind cover, his Uzi held ready.

     A female Anarchist braced her pump-action shotgun across the hood of
the two-toned sedan and fired at the nearer armored figure.  Her weapon
roared, spitting fire.  Pellets smashed into the center of the man's chest,
yet he barely took a step back from the 12-gauge punch.

     The startled gunner was working the action to her weapon when a short
man appeared beside her.  Bolan recognized Joseph Hussein.  The Anarchist
co-leader aimed a pistol at the armored pair.  The .45-caliber Colt was a
powerful, accurate weapon and a reliable man-stopper.  Hussein triggered
three rounds at the gray figures, hitting both of them, but the armored men
barely reacted.

     Bolan was surprised.  He was familiar with Kevlar and other types of
body armor, but he had never seen anything like this--armor that turned
people into human tanks.

     The woman shotgunner aimed her weapon and unleashed another burst of
buckshot, with no more success than before.

     The men in gray raised their weapons in unison.  Arms extended, fists
clenched on the pistol grips by the trigger and barrel support, they opened
fire, loosing a volley of shots.  The woman was hurled backward, her long
hair flying in all directions as her head was blown open.

     The armored figures closed in on the Anarchists' vehicles in a
determined, unhurried stride.  Hussein desperately fired his .45 pistol.
The pair responded with their subguns, and the robber dropped from view
behind the sedan.

     "Don't shoot!" a woman screamed.

     The second female Anarchist, and the last member of the gang, stood
slowly, her hands held above her head.  She trembled, her face visibly pale
in the available light as she stared at the armored gunmen.

     "I give up."

     One of the men in gray pointed his weapon at the woman, hitting her
with a burst that almost decapitated her.  The armored figures barely
glanced at the corpses as they turned their attention to the sedan.  One
man opened the car's back door and climbed inside, while the other stood
by, his weapon held ready.

     "Jesus!" a police officer exclaimed as he advanced from his patrol
car.  "What the hell do you guys think you're-"

     He stopped in mid-sentence as two more men clad in gray body armor and
black helmets emerged from the back of the van, both pointing their subguns
at him.  His fellow officers thrust their riot guns and service revolvers
over and around their vehicles, ready to back up their sergeant against the
gunmen.

     "Who are you?" the sergeant demanded.  "Identify yourselves!"

     The men in gray opened fire.  A blast of bullets slammed into the
sergeant, lifting him off his feet to land in a bloodied heap on the
ground.  The lawmen triggered their weapons in response.  The rounds
drilled into the armored shapes but didn't bring down either man.  The
helmeted foes sprayed the patrol cars with rounds, and Bolan saw a cop's
head jerk violently before he fell.

     The Executioner knew he couldn't stand by and watch the officers get
slaughtered.  Raising his Uzi, he took aim and scored a 3-round hit to the
back of an opponent who was preoccupied with trying to kill more policemen.
The guy lurched forward as if he'd been shoved, but he didn't go down.
Bolan quickly switched targets, firing another burst at the second cop
killer.  He went for a head shot, slamming the enemy's helmet with a 9 mm
Parabellum round.  The man's head jerked to the side, and he spun from the
impact, but it didn't take him down.

     Movement by the sedan warned Bolan that the first two men were still
in play.  Both figures now stood by the vehicle, their visor-covered faces
turned toward Bolan.  Then one of them raised his subgun while the other
attempted to get into the front seat of the car.  The first gunman
triggered a salvo of full-auto rounds at the Executioner, just as Bolan
ducked, throwing himself behind the factory's stone doorframe.  A bullet
chipped stone from the corner of the frame, dislodging a chunk that hit the
floor next to Bolan.  He heard something punch through stone above his head
and glanced up to see a dime-sized bullet-hole in the wall.  The wall was
at least eight inches thick, which should have been more than enough to
stop bullets from penetrating.

     The Executioner stayed low as he carefully peered around the corner.
The armored gunman who had selected him for termination was marching
forward, headed for the soldier's position.

     Bolan knelt, and, using the doorframe for support, opened fire.  He
exhausted the last of the Uzi's magazine, nailing his adversary with at
least five 9 mm rounds, from mid-torso to the visor of his black helmet.
The man jerked and staggered back a couple of steps, but then he came on,
triggering a volley of autofire in response.  Bullets hammered the
doorframe around Bolan, while some rounds sizzled over his head.

     Suddenly, the killer's subgun clicked on empty.  He let it hang from
the shoulder strap and clawed with his gloved hand at the holster on his
hips.

     Bolan also opted for his pistol rather than using valuable time to
reload the Uzi.  He drew the Beretta 93-R from shoulder leather with the
speed and efficiency born of years of practice.  The Beretta lacked the
ammunition capacity of the Uzi, but Bolan knew he could fire the handgun
with greater accuracy.  That was of little comfort, since he hadn't been
able to find an area of weakness in the enemy's suit of armor.

     The gray assassin pulled a stainless-steel pistol from the hip
holster.  Bolan aimed the Beretta, trying to pick a target that would take
out the enemy.  He settled on his opponent's kneecap.  The soldier had used
that part of Red Stone's anatomy earlier, and it had helped him take out
the burly Anarchist.  Maybe a 9 mm stomp to the armored killer would do
likewise.

     Bolan targeted the sights on a triangle guard on his opponent's right
knee, pushed the fire selector to 3-round-burst mode and squeezed the
trigger.  A trio of Parabellum bullets smashed into the target, sparking
off the armor to confirm the hit.  The hardman's leg swung out from under
him, and he crashed to the ground.  A sense of satisfaction rushed through
the soldier when he saw his opponent finally go down, but that feeling was
short-lived.  Bolan realized that the killer had been hurt, not taken out
of the game, as he fired his pistol from a prone position.  Two bullets
struck the wall by the doorframe, but neither round came close to the
Executioner.  The killer hauled himself to his feet, his free hand
clutching his damaged knee as he fired the pistol again.

     At that moment, the sedan tore over from the truck area, coming to a
halt alongside the frustrated assassin.  A helmeted figure sat behind the
wheel.  The gunman triggered another poorly aimed shot in Bolan's general
direction before yanking open the vehicle's passenger-side door.

     "You got lucky!" he bellowed, his voice distorted by the thick visor.
"I'll get you next time!"

     He climbed inside the car and it raced for the smashed front gate,
followed by the gray van.  As the rig approached the police vehicles, a
grenade was hurled from its window.  Policemen dashed from the projectile
seconds before the bomb exploded.  The blast tore apart one car, knocking
another on its side.  Gasoline ignited, sending flaming debris over the
area.  Both vehicles raced from the scene, leaving the police to fire a few
useless rounds at the escaping rigs.

     Bolan took advantage of the distraction to head for the gap in the
fence.  He would give chase in his own vehicle, try to catch up with the
armored killers and try to figure out a way to take them out when he did.


                                     2


     Hal Brognola leaned back in his chair in Stony Man Farm's War Room.
He chewed on his cigar as he listened to Bolan report on the incident in
Pittsburgh.  The big Fed's gaze narrowed more than once, and he nodded
occasionally.

     "I drove through the streets for a while," Bolan said, "but I didn't
see either vehicle.  There were a lot of police all over the place.  I
listened to the scanner and heard when they found the abandoned van and the
sedan, but there was no sign of the armored men from the factory
shoot-out."

     "It sounds like a truck load of cyborgs arrived at the factory."

     "They were human," Bolan assured him.  "I was able to hurt one of
them."

     "You emptied an entire Uzi magazine into these guys, pulled the
Beretta and fired more rounds, and all you managed to do was wound one of
them?"

     "Not exactly wound," Bolan replied.  "The bullets didn't seem to
pierce the metal knee guard.  I might have broken his kneecap or maybe
dislocated the joint."

     "And they'd also been shot numerous times by both the police and the
Anarchists?"

     "Yeah.  They nailed those guys with plenty of bullets and buckshot,
but their body armor held up better than anything I've ever seen before.
I've been shot when I was wearing a Kevlar vest.  You get hit by a
large-caliber slug or a shotgun blast, and the vest can save your life, but
the impact will still knock you down.  Those guys barely budged when they
got hit.  I even nailed two of them with head shots.  The visor on the
helmet seemed to be as sturdy as the armor."

     Brognola leaned forward, punched a button on the console unit, then
picked up a telephone handset and spoke into it.

     "I'm glad you're still awake, Bear," he said.  "It's about Striker's
trip to Pittsburgh.  We need you to tap into the police computers again.
The district offices of the FBI and Justice as well, and maybe the
Pennsylvania Highway Patrol while you're at it."

     He listened for a moment as Aaron Kurtzman, Stony Man's chief of
computer operations and high-tech Intelligence gathering, said something,
then he went on.

     "Yeah, I know the Anarchists were wiped out.  The police say another
gang took them out?  That's sort of what happened.  No, Striker's not who
the police are looking for.  Plug into those computer systems and you'll
find out.  I also want you to contact Kissinger.  I want the Cowboy here,
pronto.  I'm not sure what's going on yet, Aaron, but we'll all find out
together."

     Brognola hung up.  Bolan rose from his chair and walked to an office
supply cabinet.  He extracted a sketch pad and pencil, then returned to the
table and began to draw the outline of a man.

     "As our weapons' specialist, maybe Cowboy's come across body armor
similar to what you described, Mack," Brognola said.

     Bolan continued to sketch, drawing the helmet, gloves and boots as
precisely as he could.

     "I doubt John's familiar with what I saw in Pittsburgh," he said.
"This is something new.  The weapons they carried also packed some powerful
ammunition.  The bullets went through human flesh like an ice pick through
tissue paper."

     "Okay," Brognola began, "let's assume you're right and these guys wore
superarmor with special hardware unlike anything to appear on the face of
the earth before.  So who are these guys?  They weren't policemen and they
weren't members of the Anarchist gang-"

     Bolan glanced up at the Fed and shrugged as he spoke.  "When they shot
down an unarmed woman who had clearly surrendered, I figured they weren't
good guys.  When they started to kill cops, I decided that officially made
them bad guys."

     "But why were they there in the first place?  I don't think they were
just cruising the area and decided to join a shoot-out because they felt
like killing some people for fun."

     "I wondered about that.  They searched the sedan before they took the
car.  My guess is they found the million and a half dollars stolen by the
Anarchists."

     "That's a nice bundle of cash," Brognola said, "but they went to a lot
of trouble and took on a mighty big risk to get that money."

     "Not as much risk as the bank robbers took to steal it initially.  The
men in the body armor seemed to have total confidence in their protective
gear and weapons.  They had good reason to feel confident, too."

     "Is there a reason why you didn't tell us about this through computer
communications and waited to tell me face-to-face?"

     "Yeah.  I don't know who those guys are, what other sort of high-tech
advantages they might have, or who they might be working for," the
Executioner explained.

     "Do you think they might have computer hacking ability and electronic
devices advanced enough to listen to our satellite-secure transmissions?"
Brognola asked with surprise.  "You know we have state-of-the-art gear here
at the farm.  Even the CIA and the National Security Agency don't have
anything more advanced.  Are you suggesting that they're connected to a
top-secret branch of the government, either an Intelligence agency or
military?"

     "They looked like they'd had military or paramilitary training," Bolan
replied.  "Learning to shoot a powerful automatic weapon takes time, and
it's more difficult to handle a gun while wearing heavy gloves and a helmet
with a visor.  Ask any cop who's ever served on riot-control duty how that
kind of gear reduces mobility and vision.  These guys were familiar with
their weapons and gear.  Their tactics were simple, direct and violent.  Go
in, hit, grab what you want and get out.  They could have done it faster
and more efficiently, but they displayed a considerable arrogance about
their invincible status.  Unfortunately that proved to be justified."

     "If a branch of the government is involved, we'll find out," Brognola
promised.  "I'd also like to know how they knew the Anarchists were holed
up in the factory.  We had access to information about that location, and
the police probably responded to a tip from somebody who saw the gang.  The
armor-plated hardmen were decked out for battle when they arrived, so they
had to have been pretty sure they'd find the Anarchists.

     "Anyway, before we jump through too many hoops, let's remember Stony
Man is an organization that deals with extreme threats to the interests of
the United States and the lives and safety of its citizens.  Killing a
bunch of bank robbers doesn't fit into that category.  Gunning down those
policemen is a serious crime, but it still isn't the sort of thing to
constitute a genuine threat to the U.S."

     "I realize this isn't a new mission and it might not be the sort of
thing the Farm's been established to deal with, but I still think that what
I saw could become a serious threat if it turns out to be more than an
isolated incident."

     Brognola nodded.  "We'll look into this as a possible threat, but you
know we can't put all our resources into a situation that doesn't fit our
agenda.  Stony Man isn't here to settle scores on an individual basis."

     "I admit those body-armored troops shook me up a bit.  Shooting guys
who keep coming at you is pretty unnerving, Hal.  But this isn't personal.
These people are dangerous and ruthless, and I don't think this is the last
we'll hear of them."



     Five minutes later, Aaron Kurtzman rolled into the War Room, drew up
to the conference table and handed Brognola a file.  The big Fed glanced at
the data and saw that it had been acquired from the computer center of the
Pittsburgh PD and an FBI district office in Pennsylvania.

     "It looks like they've got a three-state man-hunt in progress to try
to find the cop killers," he said.

     "It may expand beyond that," Kurtzman replied.  "You might want to
check out a news story that will be on CNN in a few minutes.  I came across
it with a general Intelligence scan on the electronic information highway."

     "How many police officers were killed or injured?" Bolan asked.  "I
saw two down with what looked like fatal wounds."

     "Three are dead and one isn't expected to make it to dawn," Kurtzman
answered.  "Five others are hurt to various degrees.  The police are
baffled about how some of the Anarchists were killed inside the Gossier
building when they didn't see any of the armored men enter the factory.
Was that your handiwork, Striker?"

     Bolan nodded.  "Actually it happened before the armored assassins
arrived."

     "The cops are speculating that Joe Hussein might have been the one who
took out Red Stone," Kurtzman said.  "Everybody is sort of relieved the
Anarchists are history, but they're pretty upset about those bulletproof
guys.  The FBI and some of the police brass suspect the story is an
exaggeration.  It's hard to believe that somebody gets hit by a shotgun
blast at close range and still remains on his feet, regardless of what kind
of body armor he's wearing."

     "It's not hard for me to believe because I saw it," Bolan assured him.
"Did they find the money?"

     "Nope," Kurtzman answered.  "A million and a half bucks still
unaccounted for.  The cops figure the armored guys got it.  Of course, they
don't know what happened to the group after they abandoned the Anarchists'
sedan and the van they'd used for the hit.  That vehicle turned out to be
stolen from a newspaper distribution company less than eight hours prior to
the incident.  Steel plates, a battering ram pipe section under the fender
and an engine shield had been welded onto the vehicle to reinforce the rig.
They also slapped on a paint job and some Ohio license plates that are
probably stolen.  Whatever else can be said about these guys, they aren't
lazy."

     He turned his wheelchair slightly to aim the remote at a wall.  He
pressed a button on the unit, and a panel slid away to expose a wide-screen
television set.  He switched on the set and flicked the channels to CNN.

     "Is the FBI sending a forensic team to investigate?" Brognola asked.

     "I gave you the data sheets," Kurtzman complained.  "Don't you guys
ever read this stuff?  Yeah, the Feds are sending a forensic unit.
Ballistics, microfiber, blood and tissue, all sorts of fancy tests are
supposed to be conducted.  They also wanted to know if any of the police
cars had video cameras installed.  I suppose you want me to answer that
question, too, instead of reading it for yourself?" He went on without
waiting for a response.

     "One of the cop cars did have video.  Guess which one."

     "The car destroyed by the grenade?" Bolan said.

     "That's right.  It got blown to hell and the camera with it."  He
turned to the television.  "The top news stories are coming on, gents."

     A pair of newscasters appeared.  The middle-aged male, his silver hair
carefully groomed, began to report the lead story.

     "In Los Angeles, fourteen people are dead and twelve hospitalized
after a violent incident at a location known to be a major crack house," he
said.  "Police suspect a rival drug gang is responsible for the carnage,
but several eyewitnesses have expressed a different opinion.  We go to Alan
Chapman, reporting live from Los Angeles."

     The scene changed to a man standing in front of a Los Angeles hospital
emergency entrance.  An ambulance stood by, and two orderlies hauled out a
body on a stretcher.

     "It's always busy here," Chapman began, "but tonight is more hectic
than most.  Victims of the violent gun battle at an alleged crack house are
being treated here.  There's no word yet on the condition of the survivors.
Names of the dead and injured are being withheld until the next of kin have
been notified, and all involved identified."

     A run-down building of discolored brick appeared, yellow crime tape
sealing off the area.  Uniformed cops kept onlookers at bay, while body
bags were carried from the building's entrance.

     "This was the scene at the homicide site less than an hour ago," the
reporter went on.  "Apparently a group of heavily armed individuals,
armor-clad and helmeted, appeared and conducted a bold raid.  Authorities
claim this site was well-known as a crack house, supplying crack cocaine to
hundreds of customers every week.  Some people in the neighborhood stated
that the number of people going in and out of the building was higher than
usual tonight.  They also claim that a large group of men, described as
criminal gang enforcers, were present.  This didn't seem to deter the
mysterious helmeted invaders.  We go now to eyewitness reports."

     A middle-aged man appeared on the screen, and he spoke rapidly into a
microphone.

     "It sounded like there was a war in there, man.  They were firing
machine guns.  I was in Nam, and I know what a machine gun sounds like.
Bullets were shooting out windows, and people were screaming.  I saw the
flash of guns firing away inside.  I expected grenades to go off or
somebody to use a rocket launcher next.  I've been in this neighborhood for
years and I've seen a lot of this gang shoot-out stuff, but nothing like
this.  Nothing like this since Nam-"

     He was cut off by a young woman.  She pointed at the building with one
hand as she spoke.

     "They were cops, damn it!  Cops dressed in riot helmets with some kind
of bulletproof vests.  They just marched in there and started shooting
because they wanted to drive out the dealers and the junkies.  Store owners
probably called them in, merchants with friends in city hall wanting to
push out the undesirable element.  Who cares if they kill a bunch of drug
addicts and dealers?  That's what everybody thinks.  So the cops come down
here and make the local businesses happy by killing junkies instead of
helping them get off crack."

     She was replaced by a policeman.  "This was gang related," he
declared.  "I know what some of these people are saying here, that cops did
this.  Maybe the gunmen did wear helmets and some kind of bulletproof
vests, but that doesn't make them police officers.  They were just a bunch
of hoods killing each other over turf and drugs and money."

     "But isn't it true no drugs or money were found in the building?" the
reporter asked.

     "That isn't exactly true.  Some small containers of crack cocaine were
found inside, but the large supply of drugs must have been taken by the
rival gang, along with the cash that probably amounted to thousands of
dollars.  They ripped it off, and when we find them, we'll prove it."

     Once more, Alan Chapman appeared live by the hospital.  His expression
didn't reveal anything as he stared into the camera.

     "Los Angeles has seen more than its share of gang violence associated
with drug trafficking.  Many people will try to convince themselves that
this sort of deadly invasion can only occur in a crack house or a
high-crime neighborhood.  Yet, the citizens of Los Angeles have seen how
violence can spread, and no one can really feel safe when bands of killers
with military assault weapons roam the streets of this city.  This is Alan
Chapman reporting from Los Angeles."

     Aaron Kurtzman turned to the Executioner and asked, "Does this sound
like the guys you encountered in Pittsburgh?"

     Bolan nodded.  "They must have hit that crack house in L.A.  about the
same time as the strike on the Gossier factory," he said.

     As if to confirm his statement, the CNN broadcast went on to discuss
the incident in Pennsylvania.  Although the news report declared that the
Anarchists had apparently been destroyed and both ringleaders killed, no
mention was made of the helmeted attackers.  An unspecified number of
police officers had been killed and others injured.  There was also an
unconfirmed story that some of the gang members, or perhaps a rival gang,
had escaped a police barricade.  Details hadn't been released to the press.

     "They won't be able to sit on this for long," Brognola said.  "News
about identical gunmen in helmets and body armor in both Pittsburgh and Los
Angeles is going to stir up a real hornet's nest.  What the hell is this,
Mack?  Some sort of nationwide vigilante outfit with advanced protective
gear and some kick-ass weapons?"

     "I'm not sure what's going on, Hal," Bolan answered, "but I think we'd
better look into it.  Figure you can spare some Stony Man personnel for a
couple of days?"

     "We've already called in Kissinger.  We'll see about getting him on
the FBI forensics unit as a weapons and ballistic expert.  Leo Turrin can
use his status with the Justice Department to check out L.A.  Maybe you'd
like to go along with him.  We'll have a Justice ID and pistol permit ready
for you tomorrow."

     "Okay," Bolan agreed.  "I'll stay here tonight.  I'll just wait for
the Cowboy to get here.  I want to make sure he has something ready for me
before I head for California.  Some special ammunition with armor-piercing
bullets."


                                     3


     The dog twisted and convulsed beneath the net of metal mesh.  Andrew
Gallow watched emotionlessly as the stench of burned fur and the crackle of
electricity accompanied the frantic movement of the animal.  He frowned as
the dog gave a final twitch, then lay still.  Sighing, he glanced at the
remote-control unit in his hand and limped across the tiled floor to a work
bench in the research section.  Childhood polio had left his right leg
partially paralyzed.  He had been unable to participate in sports as a boy,
and his desire to serve in the military or in law enforcement had also been
denied him.  He had tried to compensate for his physical limitation by
using his mind and mechanical talents to pursue his goals.

     Extremely near-sighted as well, Gallow wore glasses with thick lenses
that contributed to the "nerd" image he had resented his entire life.
Adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose, he used a narrow
screwdriver to remove the back plate from the remote unit.

     "Jesus," a voice remarked, "what's that smell?"

     Gallow glanced up at Raymond Stylles.  Tall, athletic and blessed with
superb health and 20/20 vision, Stylles was the sort of man Gallow had
always longed to be.  A former soldier, police officer and special agent
with the FBI, Stylles had led an active and exciting life.  Gallow could
never suppress a feeling of envy whenever the man was around him.

     Stylles wrinkled his nose at the offensive odor as he glanced about
the room, his eyes falling on the charred corpse of the dog under the net.

     "I was testing a new stun net," Gallow explained.  "The electrical
charge seems to be too high."

     "No kidding," Stylles said.  "It looks like you barbecued that animal,
Andrew."

     "It's a tricky business, electricity.  If it isn't strong enough, it
won't disable your opponent, and if it's too strong, it'll fry him."

     "Still, better too much than too little," Stylles declared.  "The
safety of the law-enforcement officer should always be considered over the
well-being of a low-life criminal who has to be restrained."

     "You know I feel the same way," Gallow said.  "This net is designed to
help handle suspects who are unarmed and who present a lesser threat to
law-enforcement personnel.  Like a violent drunk, for example.  It's still
in the experimental stage, though."

     "If you keep experimenting like that, you'll run out of dogs pretty
soon," Stylles said.

     Gallow sighed.  "That was my last one," he said.  "The stun net can
wait, anyway.  It's just a side project I've been working on.  Any word on
the rest of the L.A. team?"

     "Yeah.  They left California and they're making their way across
country.  We don't want them breaking any speed limits.  The last thing we
need is to have some cop decide to search one of those vehicles.  No way
they can explain why they're carrying your miracle body armor, let alone
the stacks of money, bundles of drugs and those fancy firearms."

     Gallow smiled with satisfaction.  "Everything worked well in the
field," he said, "didn't it?"

     "I took a plane back here so I could tell you in person, as soon as
possible," Stylles replied.  "Your inventions worked even better in the
field than we expected.  Those crack-dealing scum never had a chance when
we hit their place.  You should have seen their faces.  When they first saw
us they just stood there with their mouths hanging open."

     "They must have been even more surprised when they fired their weapons
at you," Gallow said.  "What was it like, Ray?  How did it feel to be
indestructible?"

     Stylles smiled as he spoke.  "I felt like a god, Andy.  One of them
fired an Ingram MAC-10 point-blank at my chest.  The bullets hit the
breastplate, and all it felt like was getting poked by someone's fingers.
I enjoyed that sense of power so much that I didn't even shoot back.  The
dumb bastard ran out of ammo for his weapon and he just stood there, frozen
with fear.  I didn't want to waste a bullet on him, so I hit him with a
left hook instead."

     "With the cestus glove," Gallow said.

     "Exactly.  I caught him on the side of his face with those steel
spikes.  The punk's teeth came out like a mouthful of bone chips and his
jaw dangled, broken and useless.  When he fell to his knees, I hit him
again, nailing him at the base of his skull.  Snapped his spinal cord right
by the brain stem.  Two punches, wham-bam, and he was dead."

     "But they couldn't touch you."

     "They tried.  They fired handguns, shotguns and a number of automatic
weapons at us.  I have to admit I was sort of scared when one of them
pointed a gun right at my face and opened fire.  The visor held up
beautifully, though.  The bullet didn't even scratch it."

     "And the guns?" Gallow asked, like a child urging a parent to continue
with a favorite story.  "They worked well, too, didn't they?"

     "They were great," Stylles confirmed.  "The bullets punched through
them like they were made of cream cheese.  I brought down three punks in a
narrow corridor by shooting into the first guy.  The bullets went right
through him and the two guys behind him.  It was the most thrilling
experience I've ever had, Andy.  One of these times you'll have to come
along with us on a raid."

     "I'd sure like to," Gallow said with a sigh, "but with my leg and my
poor eyesight-"

     "You can still join us.  You don't have to be able to run or even walk
fast.  They can't hurt you even if you just stand there and let them try."

     "Not quite," Gallow corrected him.  "Jurgens suffered a broken knee in
Pittsburgh.  One of those Anarchists managed to shoot him directly in the
joint guard with at least two high-velocity rounds."

     "Pretty impressive marksmanship," Stylles said.  "I didn't think any
of those bank-robbing morons were capable of that sort of shooting."

     "Whoever the shooter was, he was the only one to get away.  St. John
had to pull out before they could hunt him down."

     Stylles frowned.  "But all the Anarchists have been accounted for," he
said.  "The FBI knew the names of all its members.  They had been
identified from photos taken by bank security cameras.  Every member is
dead."

     "Well, they weren't all killed by our people," Gallow stated.  "They
only took out three.  The others must have been killed by the police.  It's
ironic that our people wound up having to kill more cops than robbers
during that raid.  How could we have guessed a bunch of idiot cops would
try a cowboy hit on the Anarchists at the Gossier factory?"

     "They obviously wanted to show the Feds how good they were at their
job," Stylles remarked.  "I've seen that plenty of times in the past.
There's not much you can do when people allow their stupidity to get them
into a situation that results in their death."

     "St. John took it pretty hard.  He didn't like the fact that cops were
killed.  He considers them fellow soldiers, on the same side of a war
against crime and the destruction of our nation."

     "I'm sorry it happened too, but he should realize good men get cut
down by friendly fire in almost every major conflict."

     "You can tell him that yourself," Gallow suggested.  "He and the
others from the Pittsburgh assignment arrived while You were taking your
shower.  They got the money, nearly one and a half million dollars.  A nice
addition to our war chest."

     "We'll have more coming in, Andy.  There's a lot of dirty money out
there, waiting for us to confiscate for a worthy cause.  Stupid legislation
has kept law enforcement from doing this to finance operations against
organized crime.  Damn big-shot hoodlums make a fortune selling drugs and
with other crooked deals while law enforcement is saddled with restricted
budgets and pathetic regulations."

     "And those rich crime lords have been able to count on high-priced
lawyers and a convoluted legal system to avoid punishment," Gallow added.
"But they won't be able to protect them from the justice of the
Juggernauts."

     "Juggernauts?" Stylles asked with raised eyebrows.

     "Yes.  As it means an indestructible force that crushes everything in
its path, I thought that it would be a good name for our troops."

     "I like it," Stylles said.  "You feel like a juggernaut in that body
armor, armed with a gun that can blast through a brick wall.  Nobody can
stop you and you can kill anything that gets in your way.  If that doesn't
make us Juggernauts, I don't know what will."



     Zachary St. John drove his fist into the makawara board.  He struck
repeatedly, using the knuckles on his fore and middle fingers in a classic
karate punch, setting the rope-bound pad rocking.  Gallow and Stylles
watched him go through his routine, alternating his punches with a series
of kicks.  "You didn't see enough action last night?" Stylles inquired as
he approached the man.

     St. John turned to face the pair.  Lean, strong and fast, he was a
veteran fighting man.  A former captain with the Airborne Rangers, he was a
natural leader, and his military expertise made him a valuable addition to
their organization.

     "Maybe I just need to burn off some nervous energy," he replied, "or
some anger."

     He padded barefoot across the lawn to join Stylles and Gallow.  The
trio strolled across the patio, entered the building and made their way to
Gallow's office.  The inventor limped to his desk and perched on the corner
to face St. John.

     "So tell us what you're angry about, Captain," he suggested.

     "I find killing police officers distasteful to say the least," St.
John said, "but I'm not going to dwell on that too much.  I've gone over
that scene at Pittsburgh in my mind and I don't see any other way we could
have handled it.  I do have another problem, though.  I really don't like
the idea of us getting into the drug business."

     "Who said we were getting into drug trafficking?" Stylles inquired.

     "News reports stated that large amounts of the drug supply had
apparently been stolen during the raid at the crack house in Los Angeles.
You telling me this isn't true, Ray?"

     Stylles sighed.  "We need to raise more money to fund our Juggernaut
Brigade.  Leaving that coke behind would be like turning our backs on a
million dollars."

     "By selling that poison on the streets?" St. John demanded.  "I
thought our goal was to crush these filthy drug dealers.  Now, you say
we're going to join them."

     "Our goals are considerably higher than simply putting some cocaine
dealers out of business," Gallow said.  "We might have to bend our
principles a bit to accomplish those goals, but the results will compensate
for whatever extremes are necessary."

     "Selling drugs is a bit more than bending principles in my opinion,"
the former Airborne Ranger said.

     "We don't have to get involved," Stylles told him.  "I know some
people who will take care of this, a small but ambitious group of
lawbreakers who will jump at a score like this.  They won't be able to pay
us what it's worth, but we can sell them part of the score now and the rest
later after they've earned more cash."

     "By selling more damn drugs to children in school yards," St. John
said.

     "We're not responsible for who they sell the drugs to," Gallow stated.
"Somebody will sell the stuff anyway.  At least we'll make a profit from
it."

     "And that makes it acceptable?" the captain asked.  "Then how are we
any different from the people we're opposed to?"

     "The difference is the reason we're doing it and what we'll do with
the money," Stylles insisted.  "What do you think would have happened to
that cocaine if we'd left it?  Someone would have gathered it up and tried
to sell it, unless a bunch of junkies found it and decided to take the
stuff for their own personal consumption."

     "The police arrived shortly after you left the area.  They would have
confiscated the drugs."

     "And there would have been a fifty-fifty chance it would have been
surreptitiously removed from the evidence room by cops willing to increase
their income by pushing some dope on the side.  You'd be surprised how many
of those narcotic plastic bags in the evidence rooms of police departments
across the country are fakes.  Somebody takes the drugs and replaces part
or all of it with sugar, baking powder, or whatever looks the same,"
Stylles said.

     "Then of course cops use informers," he went on.  "Prostitutes, drug
addicts, or a combination of the two.  These low-level criminals give
information for pay or for some sort of favor.  The cops know these junkies
use the payoffs to buy drugs.  Frequently they look the other way when they
catch these informers with narcotics, or blackmail them with the threat of
arrest if they don't agree to help them.  Some even directly supply the
addicts with drugs."

     "I'm afraid this is one old country boy who finds that practice to be
unsavory.  I know that the police use these informers to go after
higher-ranking bad guys, but do you really think that's the same as us
dealing with crack pushers to make money?"

     "To finance our operation," Gallow corrected him.  "Look, Captain.
You're an honorable man and I appreciate that, but you must realize we
don't live in an honorable world.  If we did, none of us would be here and
there'd be no need for the Juggernaut Brigade.  The governments of several
countries have been directly involved in drug trafficking, from the British
who launched the Opium Wars against the Chinese emperor when he tried to
stop production of the drug, to the KGB who smuggled heroin into the West
to try to further corrupt Western culture, like we needed help to do that."

     "I'm aware of all that," St. John stated, "but we're not British
monarchs or damn Communists."

     "The U.S. government has been involved in this too," Stylles picked
up.  "The CIA and NSA have participated in the trafficking of heroin and
cocaine from Southeast Asia, Central America and Afghanistan.  It was
usually done in the name of supporting some anti-Communist movement, or a
so-called noble cause like raising funds for the Contras in Nicaragua.
It's all part of the politics of narcotics.  It's a dirty game, but right
now we have to play it, Zach."

     "I still don't like it," St. John said, shaking his head.  "When we
establish our army as a national organization there won't be any more of
this business with drug dealers.  That's got to come to an end.  We've got
to concentrate on purifying this country and we can't do that if we remain
impure ourselves."

     Gallow nearly laughed in the captain's face.  Did he really believe
power had anything to do with purity?  One took control any way possible
and stayed in control by doing whatever was necessary.

     Stylles's expression was serious as he nodded and addressed St. John.
"When we reach our goal, we'll crush every damn dope dealer and user in the
United States," he assured the man.  "Hell, the group I'm using as our
go-between will be the first to get the ax.  They could prove to be an
embarrassment if news of us having used them ever became public knowledge.
We use them now, then get rid of them when we don't need them anymore."

     "Well, I'm going to try to not even think about them for now," St.
John said.  "What's our next move, gentlemen?"

     "What else do you do with a juggernaut force that can't be stopped?"
Gallow asked with a grin.  "We go for another target.  We have a couple of
possible sites.  We can go for two at the same time, or just hit one."

     "Let's check them out first, then we can figure out what to do,"
Stylles suggested.

     "All right," Gallow replied.  "By the way, if any of our men make a
trip to get supplies, let me know if they'll be passing a dog pound."


                                     4


     "Oh, great, two agents from the Department of Justice," Captain Ryder
said.  "I can't tell you how thrilled we are to have more Feds help us with
our investigation."

     Mack Bolan closed the ID folder that claimed he was Special Agent
Michael Belasko.  He hadn't expected a warm welcome from the Los Angeles
police.  He glanced at Leo Turrin.  The little Fed's expression displayed
no surprise that the police were annoyed with outsiders poking around their
turf.  He knew how territorial cops were, and Ryder seemed to be more so
than most.

     "So far we've got the DEA, the BATF and the FBI trying to tell us how
to do our job," Ryder complained.  "All of you throwing your weight around
with that high and mighty federal government attitude.  It's bad enough
we've got the media on our backs asking what we know about that crack house
slaughter.  Most of them want to know if any of our people have helmets and
protective suits that might fit what the eyewitnesses claim they saw last
night."

     Turrin sank into a chair by the desk and looked at Ryder with genuine
sympathy.  The Fed had formerly been undercover with the Mob and he'd found
federal outfits a real pain at the time.  Of course, he hadn't been
terribly fond of local cops back when he was on the opposite side of the
law, either.

     "You know, Captain," Turrin began, "we didn't come here to ruin your
day.  We don't think the LAPD has some sort of death squad carrying out
raids on crack houses, or that you guys are lying down on the job."

     "That's mighty big of you," Ryder retorted.  "What did you say your
name was again?  Was that a misprint on your ID or is that really your
name?"

     "Yeah.  Leonard Justice.  Justice with Justice," Turrin replied.
"It's easy to remember that way."

     "I'm not sure I should be talking to you guys until I get some
confirmation from your superiors at Justice, back in Washington," Ryder
said.

     "I don't think we have time to waste," Bolan said, reaching inside his
jacket pocket and drawing out a sheet of paper.  He unfolded it to show
Ryder his sketch of a gunman clad in body armor, head encased in a visored
helmet, and holding a strange weapon.  Ryder stared at the drawing, his
eyes wide.

     "Is this similar to what witnesses claim they saw at the crack house?"
the Executioner asked.

     Ryder nodded and turned his gaze to Bolan.  "Where did you get that
sketch?"

     "It's based on the description from an eyewitness of another
incident," Bolan answered.  "We think there may be a connection."

     "None of the other Feds said anything about this."

     "That's because they don't know about this possible connection,"
Turrin explained.  "And we'd like to keep it that way for now, Captain.
Right now, we don't even know if we trust our fellow Feds.  Isn't that
ironic?"

     "So why would you trust me?" Ryder asked.

     "We'll just have to take a chance," Turrin answered.  "We're still
gathering facts about what's going on.  We sure could use your help,
Captain."

     "Well, I can tell you that a number of witnesses claimed the men who
attacked that crack house were dressed like this figure in the sketch," the
captain said.  "You think some branch of the federal government might have
gone into the vigilante death squad business?  Just like those federale
assassination groups down in Central America?"

     "We can't say that," Bolan replied.  "We know the FBI is assisting
with ballistics, but your forensics people were at the scene first.  We'd
like to see what they've got so far concerning the bullets found at the
crack house.  Other lab results from prints, tire tracks, clothing fibers
and so on would also be appreciated, Captain.  You may also have reports of
suspicious persons or vehicles in the area around the time of the raid that
may be worth looking into, although your people are probably the best to
evaluate that sort of data because they know the city and have a feel for
what goes on in the streets."

     "I can have most of that information for you in about an hour," Ryder
assured him.  "Right around lunch-time.  You guys got an expense account
for this trip?"

     "Lunch is on us," Turrin replied.  "Actually on the taxpayers, but
they won't notice.  I know you're going to call D.C. to check on us between
now and then.  Just keep those details confidential.  They'll fax you data
and photos to verify who we are, so don't burn our security.  See, we're
not even sure if we can trust everybody in Justice at this point."

     "Jesus," Ryder said, "how big is this, Justice?"

     "Call me Leo," Turrin said.  "It doesn't sound so dumb.  We don't know
how big it is, but it has some people worried who don't usually scare so
easy, people who are used to taking on some major threats to our national
security."

     "Then this isn't just a gang war?"

     "That depends on what you call a gang," Bolan replied.  "This may be
the first skirmish of a war.  We're just trying to keep this thing from
blowing into a conflict that won't benefit anybody except the manufacturers
of body bags."



     Ryder picked the restaurant for lunch, an expensive seafood place
called Neptune's Feast.  Fishing nets dangled from the ceiling and draped
the walls, which were adorned with seashells, dried starfish and driftwood.
A huge marlin was mounted above the mirror behind the bar.  The tables
resembled giant clams with carved seahorses for legs, while a revolving
blue light tried to create the impression of being underwater.

     A waiter dressed in a sailor suit took their order and headed for the
kitchen.  Ryder seemed in better spirits, more relaxed.

     "You like this place, huh?" Turrin inquired as he glanced
uncomfortably about the restaurant.

     "Do you have some information for us?" Bolan asked the captain,
getting down to business.

     Ryder opened a briefcase and removed a folder that contained several
reports.  He donned a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and scanned the first
sheet.

     "Okay," he began, "early ballistics report.  They found bullets all
over the crack house.  They fished slugs out of the walls, ceiling,
furniture, floorboards and the bodies of the dead and wounded.  A lot of
different calibers were used in the gun battle.  Many appear to have
belonged to the drug dealers.  They pack some pretty heavy hardware these
days in L.A.  You can buy anything short of a tank on the black market.
The pushers had Ingram MAC-10 machine pistols, a couple of M-16 assault
rifles, some shotguns and a variety of handguns."

     "Sounds like they turned the place into an armed fortress," Turrin
remarked.

     "They did," Ryder confirmed.  "Off the record, the narcotics division
knew about the place, but they hadn't tried to bust the house because the
bad guys had such a big arsenal.  They planned to launch a raid when they
could get together enough firepower, but your friends in the funny suits
and helmets beat us to it."

     "Anything unusual about any of the slugs they studied?" Bolan asked.

     "Dozens of misshapen bullets were found.  Forensics says these
appeared to have struck some sort of solid object.  Real solid.  It looked
like the slugs had slammed into a sheet of steel at least three inches
thick."

     "Body armor that thick?" Turrin asked, looking at Bolan.  "Is that
possible?"

     "Maybe," Bolan replied, "but that would be a lot of weight to haul
around.  Any information on the killers' weapons?"

     "I have a special note on that," Ryder said.  "It says here that all
the victims were apparently killed by weapons of a high-velocity caliber.
Rounds were specially designed, unlike anything our forensics people have
seen before.  Most of these slugs were distorted, although they seemed to
have punched through walls, furniture and human flesh with ease.  When they
finally hit their mark, they were pretty mangled.  Forensics thinks they
might be 10 mm or maybe .41 Magnum rounds, but these are hot loads,
superhot.  They've never come across anything like this before and, believe
me, they've seen a hell of a lot, working crime scenes in this city."

     "No idea about the weapons' make or model?"

     "Not really.  The number of rounds suggests the weapons must be
full-auto or maybe semiauto.  Velocity of the bullets and groove marks
suggest a barrel length of a foot or more.  By the way, two of the victims
were actually beaten to death--faces, heads and rib cages smashed in as if
by a sledgehammer.  A hammer with big steel studs, from the description of
the wounds."

     "The gloves," Bolan stated.  "Metal gauntlets with spikes.  A fist
with a cestus like that would be a war hammer at close range."

     "A cestus?  What's that?" Ryder asked.

     "Boxers in ancient Rome used to wear leather straps around their
fists, often weighted with lead or studded with iron spikes."

     "They used to box with brass knuckles?" Ryder said.  "They must have
had some bloody messes in the ring back then."

     "I think that was the idea," Turrin commented.  "They liked some blood
and gore with their entertainment in Rome.  So what else did forensics come
up with?"

     "Footprints on the stairs they think were those of the killers.  Seems
they all wore the same type of heavy boot with a thick rubber sole that had
a waffle-like pattern.  None of these guys were little.  The smallest boot
was a size ten-and-a-half, the biggest a size fourteen."

     "Big Foot in body armor," Turrin mused.  "What about tire tracks?"

     "I got them, too.  They found some tracks to a large automobile,
probably a four door, and a van-style truck.  I think we found them
abandoned outside town.  Turns out the vehicles were stolen in San Diego
and supplied with Arizona plates.  They were also customized."

     "Reinforced metal in the body, battering ram welded under the front
fender and a shell over the engine?" Bolan asked.

     Ryder nodded.  "That's right.  You want to tell me how you knew that?"

     "It fits the previous MO of another hit," the Executioner said.
"These guys are resourceful as well as dangerous.  So far we haven't been
able to catch them making too many mistakes."

     "I don't know that they made a mistake hitting that crack house,"
Ryder said with a shrug.  "You know, the people killed at that place were
the scum of the earth.  You guys ever see what crack does to people?  The
addiction burns them out and fries their brains.  The bastards sell it to
school kids.  Those drug gangs are armed to the teeth with better weapons
than we cops have.  They're crazy animals who don't give a damn about human
life, not even their own.  They'll kill an innocent bystander or a cop
without hesitation.  Sorry if I can't get too choked up about slime like
that getting taken down."

     Bolan turned to face the captain.  He understood Ryder's anger and
frustration, knowing better than many men the desire to hunt down evil and
blast the life from it.

     "Before you start to think the men in the body armor are some sort of
noble vigilantes," he said, "you should know they've already killed at
least three police officers.  They may not be on the same side as the
dealers they killed and stole from, but they're not on our side, either."

     "So who the hell are they and what do they want?" Ryder asked.

     "That's what we're trying to find out," the Executioner assured him.


                                     5


     Mack Bolan placed the laptop computer on the desk of the hotel room.
He opened the lid and punched in the access code to a special security line
with a communications satellite used exclusively by Stony Man personnel.
Leo Turin unpacked his garment bag, concerned that the "Fed suits" for the
trip might be wrinkled.  Aside from color, the single-breasted,
off-the-rack outfits were identical in style and design.  Turrin believed
they added an official quality to his appearance, yet his taste for wide,
flashy neckties often undermined the serious image he tried to present.

     "Can you believe that restaurant Ryder picked?" he asked.  "They ought
to change the name of the place to Sissy Seafood.  You'd never see cops in
New York hanging out in a place like that.  Not in Chicago, either."

     Bolan had heard similar complaints from Turrin.  California had become
one of his favorite targets.  The Executioner didn't answer, concentrating
on establishing the communications link with Stony Man Farm, aware Turrin
was just voicing his annoyance because he didn't have enough to do at the
moment.

     "You know, every time they send me to this state," the little Fed
continued, "it's more crazy than the last.  Psycho street gangs, wimpy cops
and trials that unfold like soap opera plots.  It's all too much.

     "You notice all the disasters that have been happening here in the
past couple of years?" Turrin went on.  "The earthquakes, mud slides,
riots, and either a drought one year or a flood the next.  You know what I
think, Mack?"

     "You figure it's some kind of message," Bolan replied without
bothering to look up from the screen.  "A warning to California to change
its ways."

     "Yeah.  How'd you guess?"

     "Spooky, isn't it?" Bolan replied.

     The Farm came on-line.  Colors swirled on the screen and materialized
into real-time broadcast from Stony Man HQ.  Hal Brognola appeared, seated
at the conference table in the War Room, John "Cowboy" Kissinger standing
behind him.

     "Hello, Striker," Brognola said.  "How are things in California?"

     "I'll let you talk to Leo about that later," Bolan replied.  "I didn't
expect to see the Cowboy back from Pittsburgh this soon."

     "The FBI sent evidence to Quantico," Kissinger explained.  "I headed
there to examine it and the lab reports.  I just got back a few minutes
ago.  You were right, Mack.  There's something very different about these
people running around in body armor."

     "I appreciated that when I saw them in action," Bolan said.  "The LAPD
seems baffled by the case.  They say the bullets used are unique
armor-piercing projectiles, but they're not quite sure what caliber."

     "Ten millimeter," Kissinger declared.  "That much has been confirmed
at Quantico.  The make and manufacture are unfamiliar and the FBI hasn't
been able to determine where these bullets are made.  The metals used are
also very unusual.  Tungsten and rhodium are among the chief alloys used,
and the tips are coated with a hard plastic similar to something developed
by NASA for the space shuttle."

     "NASA?" Turrin asked with surprise as he leaned over Bolan's shoulder.

     "It's similar to a spacecraft plastic," Kissinger explained, "but that
doesn't mean we have a real lead there.  Anyway, these are some kick-ass 10
mm rounds.  Those Pittsburgh cops wore bulletproof vests, but the bullets
punched right through them.  Obviously these are superhot loads.  You say
the guns they used resembled M-3 grease guns, Striker?"

     "That's what came to mind when I saw the weapons," Bolan answered.
"The barrel and frame were thicker, though, and the cyclic rate seemed
slower."

     "The old M-3 never was much for high cyclic rate," Kissinger said.
"The maximum was maybe 450 rounds per minute, and even then it suffered
from serious control problems that reduced accuracy."

     "Yeah," Bolan agreed, "but the weapons these guys used seemed to be
even slower than 450 rpm.  That might be to help control the weapon when it
fired such powerful ammunition."

     "The blowback action might be modified."

     "I'm sure it is.  Everything on the gun appeared to have been
reinforced and altered.  The heavy ribbed barrel would cut down on
muzzle-climb.  That was always a major problem with the M-3."

     "True," Kissinger agreed.  "The best thing to be said about the M-3 is
that it had a simple design.  Not too many parts, easy to break down and
reassemble.  Maybe somebody took the old design, looked at what was wrong
and decided to make improvements."

     "I'm sure you two are having fun discussing firearms," Brognola broke
in, "but it all comes down to the fact that these guys are using some new
kind of gun.  Right?"

     "Pretty much so," Kissinger replied.  "The weapons and special
ammunition would be impressive enough, but the body armor they have is even
more amazing."

     "Has the FBI been able to come up with anything on it?" Bolan asked.
"All the L.A.  forensics people have are some mangled bullets that seemed
as if they'd slammed into a thick steel wall."

     "Yeah," Kissinger said with a nod.  "A lot of the slugs recovered at
the Pittsburgh site sort of looked like that, too.  They hit something damn
hard, but it wasn't a wall.  The bullets and buckshot were viewed under a
high intensity microscope.  Tiny strands were found on the projectiles.
Seems to be a metal alloy combined with a cloth they haven't yet completely
identified.  It appears similar to silk, but the composition is more
durable and the fibers bound closer together.  The metal fibers used
included titanium and rhodium."

     "Rhodium was part of the bullet composition, too," Bolan noted.
"That's unusual, to say the least."

     "I hate to sound like the most ignorant guy in two rooms," Turrin
said, "but I've got to admit I don't even know what the hell rhodium is."

     "It's a hard, white element generally found in platinum ores,"
Kissinger explained.  "Needless to say, it isn't common.  It's highly
resistant to acids and other types of damage.  Probably best known as an
ingredient with platinum alloys, it helps make jewelry more durable because
it doesn't scratch easily."

     "If it was used in that body armor, it would hold up pretty well under
some extreme stress conditions," Bolan remarked.  "Any idea who might have
developed a type of body armor with a weave combination like that?"

     "The Bear is working on it," Brognola answered.  "No luck so far, but
you know Aaron.  He'll check every possibility every which way he can."

     "Yeah," Kissinger said, "he even came up With the source of the
cocaine found at the crack house in L.A."

     "What's this?" Bolan asked with surprise.

     Brognola shuffled through some papers on the table, found the one he
wanted and referred to it as he spoke.

     "Aaron tapped into the mainframe of a DEA lab assigned to analyze the
drugs and related paraphernalia.  It turns out the composition of the
cocaine fits a medium-quality grade known to be processed by a jungle-lab
chemist they refer to as Dr. Petrol who works for a subfamily of El
Dorado."

     "El Dorado," Bolan said with a frown of concentration.  "That's a
Bolivian syndicate, right?"

     "Yep," the big Fed confirmed.  "Dr. Petrol got his nickname because
traces of gasoline were found in cocaine processed by the guy.  They
generally use kerosene to soak the coca leaves in the early stages of
breaking cocaine down to the white powder.  Dr. Petrol must have more
access to gasoline, or maybe it's cheaper in the areas he operates from.
For whatever reason, he uses gasoline instead of kerosene.  The DEA says
the guy's actually a pretty good chemist to turn out the quality of coke
he's known for despite this practice.  I don't know if this information
will help us, but it seems worth mentioning."

     "Will it help much if we know the coke came from Bolivia instead of
Colombia, Brazil or wherever they harvest coca leaves these days?" Turrin
asked.  "It might be sort of interesting if the stuff was a product of this
Dr. Petrol, but I don't know if that's useful, either."

     "It could be," Bolan said.  "The armored men took the coke as well as
the cash from the crack house.  They must have taken it for a reason.  I
doubt they'll destroy it and it would be a hell of a lot for personal use,
unless these guys have a taste for nose candy that could burn out the sinus
passages of an army.  Most likely they plan to sell the stuff themselves.
If coke or crack cocaine processed by Dr. Petrol is identified at a
location not known to carry his products before, it could help lead us to
the enemy."

     "I don't think we can spend much more time and manpower on this
project, Striker," Brognola said.  "It doesn't qualify as a threat to
national security at this time, and I doubt the President will approve our
continuing with this, based on what we have so far."

     "Then the President will be making a mistake," Bolan said.  "This is
just the beginning, Hal.  Whoever these people are, they won't stop now.
They might have raked in more than two million dollars in cash and drugs
with these two raids, but I wouldn't be surprised if each of those armored
suits cost close to a million to make.  They must have a larger objective
than just ripping off bank robbers and drug dealers."

     "You may be right, Striker," Brognola admitted.  "Do you have any idea
what that might be?"

     "Not yet, but they must want something big.  They have established an
organization that can effectively strike at different locations thousands
of miles apart.  Their members are well-trained in escape and evasion, as
well as special combat skills.  Even with the advanced protective gear,
they have to be extremely motivated to carry out such bold and dangerous
attacks.  They also must have a pretty sophisticated Intelligence network
to be able to select their targets.  They've put all this together because
they want something, and they'll keep going until they achieve their goal,
or somebody stops them."

     "Then we won't have long to wait before they show up again," Kissinger
commented dryly.

     He took a sheet of paper from the table and studied it.  It was a copy
of the pencil sketch Bolan had done of the armored gunman.  The Cowboy
looked at the drawing and whistled softly.

     "This is one hell of an opponent," he said.  "You hit these bastards
point-blank in the breastplate and helmet without any effect.  And the only
target that was successful was the metal knee guard.  That and the elbow
guard are probably the closest things to weak spots on the body armor.  The
folds at these joints must be thinner than the rest of the suit to allow
the wearer to bend his elbows and knees.  Not very big targets to aim for."

     "That shouldn't be a problem for Striker if he comes up against these
killers again," Brognola said.  "Not since you gave him that special
armor-piercing Parabellum ammo.  Right, John?"

     "I sure hope so," Kissinger replied.

     "What's that supposed to mean?" the big Fed asked.

     "It means the ammo I gave him is damn fine quality and ought to punch
through just about any type of bulletproof vest, flak jacket or heavy
protective gear.  But I don't know if it'll pierce the outfits these guys
have or not."

     "You seemed confident it would work when you gave me the ammunition at
the Farm this morning," Bolan reminded him.

     "I was, but that was before I came back from the FBI labs and learned
more about the body armor they're wearing.  To be honest, I'm not so sure
now.  Better try to be careful if you run into them again."

     "Yeah," Bolan replied, "I will."


                                     6


     Raymond Stylles had felt a surge of exhilaration when he'd put on the
body armor.  The suit was power, transforming him into an indestructible
superman--the shell protecting him from harm, the helmet and visor
concealing his identity.  He rode in the back of the van, the special 10 mm
submachine gun held on his lap.  He was sure he could bring down a
California redwood by blasting two magazines of the armor-piercing ammo
into the base of the trunk.

     Stylles had always dreamed of being feared and powerful.  As a boy he
had endured abuse from his father.  He'd become a school-yard bully to rule
over others, but he'd learned that was a mistake.  Teachers reported his
misconduct to his father, and the old man demonstrated his outrage with a
belt.

     Parents and teachers held authority over children, the boy had
realized, so a position of authority gave one more power than just using
one's fists.  He'd applied himself in class with new determination,
surprising everyone with his intellectual prowess.  But still he'd remained
angry and bitter, searching for some way to gain power and authority in a
world that seemed to render him helpless.

     The police had a form of authority that had appealed to the young
Stylles.  They carried clubs and guns, drove fast cars and arrested people
who broke laws.  Even those who didn't admire or respect the police feared
them.  He'd decided he wanted to be a cop.  When he graduated from high
school, he decided to enlist instead.  The Army would train him to be a
military policeman, and he would be sent far away from his father and the
hometown he hated.

     The military gave new life to Stylles.  The physical and mental
demands of his training were difficult, but he excelled in every task and
subject.  Private Stylles found the code of conduct that required respect
for officers and NCOs harder to deal with, but he concealed his resentment
and obeyed orders, as expected of a good soldier.  When he realized one
could achieve power and authority within the service, but that it would
take years to achieve a high rank that would only apply within the
military, he left with an honorable discharge and joined a civilian police
department.  He used the GI Bill to take college courses, before moving on
to the FBI.  If a cop had authority, he reasoned, a cop with the federal
government had even more.  However, he was once again disappointed by the
amount of power this granted him and the long path required to rise through
the ranks to achieve the position he desired.

     As Stylles looked around at his four armor-clad companions, he knew
this was the power he had dreamed of, the power to destroy all that stood
in their way, to take what they wanted and crush any opposition.  Gallow
had called them Juggernauts, and Stylles felt like a god.  Better, he
commanded a group of warrior gods.  It was power and authority beyond the
grasp of mortal man.

     It was almost enough for Raymond Stylles.

     The van traveled north from the Loop on John F. Kennedy Expressway,
then took an exit onto Lincoln Avenue and approached Albany Park.  The
vehicle came to a halt, and the driver turned to the five armored figures
in the back.

     "We're here," he announced.  "I can suit up and ram the car that's
parked in the driveway."

     Stylles and the others in the back of the rig weren't able to see
anything beyond the steel plates welded to the van's interior.  "Is the
front gate open or closed?" he asked the driver.

     "Open.  There are a couple of big guys by the car.  They look like
muscle boys."

     "We can take care of this," Stylles stated.  We don't want to get any
dents or bullet holes in this van if we don't have to.  There's no point in
drawing the attention of the Chicago police if that stakeout team calls the
cops."

     "Are you sure that stakeout team is in this area?" one of his
teammates inquired.

     "It's there," Stylles assured him.  "Let's hope they have enough sense
to stay out of this.  If not, we'll have to do whatever's necessary to
complete tonight's mission."

     He rose from the bench and opened the back door, emerging onto the
pavement.  He inspected the quiet, dark street in what would be called a
good neighborhood: expensive housing away from the heavy traffic and noise
at the heart of the city, a low crime area, populated by respectable
citizens with sizeable incomes.

     Stylles couldn't feel the breeze inside his body armor, but he saw the
trees swaying, and clouds concealed the moon.  He peered around the side of
the vehicle and saw their objective.

     A big, well-lit two-story house of brown brick with white trim stood
in the center of a manicured lawn, surrounded by an ornate fence inset with
iron gates.  A lime green Mustang was parked in the drive, two goons in
pin-stripe suits standing beside it, their faces turned toward the
Juggernauts' van.

     They probably thought it was a surveillance vehicle, Stylles mused, as
if federal agents or narcs would be as obvious and careless as those
stooges.  Stylles had read the data on the immigrant gangsters, yet he
could still hardly believe they advertised their activities in such a
blatant manner.  The pair looked like they were going to a costume party
dressed as James Cagney and George Raff.  But they weren't too funny to be
involved in real crime with real imported merchandise about to go on the
street market.  The clowns in the pin-stripes also carried real guns,
loaded with live ammunition.

     So what? Stylles thought with a smile concealed by the tinted visor.

     He stepped from the van and approached the house.  He was careful not
to move too quickly.  The body armor was constructed of supertough alloys
that weighed less than one might think for such formidable protection.  Yet
it was still heavy enough to wear out a man if he rushed about too much.
Stylles and the other Juggernauts had trained for months in the armor and
appreciated its restrictions as well as its strengths.

     The two hoods at the gate stared, frozen, at the unearthly figure that
marched toward the property.  Stylles walked to the mouth of the gate, his
gloved hand on the frame of the subgun that hung from a shoulder strap.

     One of the thugs said something in a foreign language that Stylles
didn't understand, nor did he care.  He raised the barrel of the subgun and
squeezed the trigger.  A 3-round burst snarled from the muzzle, hurling the
hood backward.

     The other sentry yelled and yanked a pistol from his jacket.  The
Juggernaut turned to face him.  He didn't bother to point his weapon at the
gunman, but smiled as the thug opened fire.  A bullet struck Stylles's
breastplate, and he felt as if a finger had poked him in the chest.  The
enemy rapidly squeezed off two more shots, his face a mask of disbelief.

     Stylles edged closer, then swung his gun arm.  The heavy barrel
slammed into the goon's extended arm, striking the pistol from his grasp.
Stylles stepped forward, this time leading with his left foot and left
fist.  Steel spikes ripped flesh and the force of the punch splintered
bone, as the thug was propelled into the side of the Mustang.  Blood oozed
from the gouges in the side of his face, his jawbone broken.

     No heavyweight boxer could equal the destructive power of that left
hook, Stylles thought with satisfaction.  He grabbed the subgun in both
gloved hands, driving the muzzle into his dazed opponent's abdomen.  The
man's body folded, and he fell face-first to the ground.  Stylles raised a
boot, then brought it down hard on the back of the fallen man's neck.  The
rubber sole of the boot covered a steel plate, and the Juggernaut's deadly
stomp crushed vertebrae as if killing a cockroach.

     Gunfire erupted from the house.  Weapons blazed from the front
entrance and at least one window, bullets ricocheting off Stylles's armor.
The other Juggernauts entered the battle, returning fire with their
subguns, shattering glass and gouging chunks of brick from the walls.  A
body tumbled from the threshold down the stone steps.

     The door slammed shut as the five Juggernauts approached, Stylles
assuming the lead as they marched up the steps.  Pistols barked from an
upstairs window, a bullet whining off Stylles's helmet.  One of his
companions raised his 10 mm subgun to respond with a 3-round burst.  The
lead Juggernaut ignored the fire as he stepped up to the door and launched
a straight punch under the knob.

     The blow struck like a battering ram.  The bolt burst through the wood
frame, and the door crashed open.  Stylles walked inside to discover two
opponents, their shotguns ready.  As twin sprays of buckshot bounced off
the Juggernaut raiders, Stylles fired his weapon from the hip.  An enemy
gunman went down, crashing onto the tiled floor.  The second shotgunner
jacked the slide of his 12-gauge, but one of the intruders blasted him with
another trio of 10 mm slugs before he could bring his weapon into play.

     Stylles looked about, turning his head from side to side within the
helmet.  They stood in a hallway, from which a staircase extended to the
second story.  One corridor led to a dining room, while the hallway opened
into the living room.

     "Some of them ran upstairs," Stylles declared loudly, compensating for
the muffling effect of the helmets.  "One of you stays here in case any of
these idiots decide to come down, two of you guard the corridor and one man
comes with me.  You all know what we're looking for.  If anybody gets in
the way, terminate.  There's no time to waste.  We need to get out of here
before the area is crawling with cops and Feds."

     "That'll be their tough luck if they try to stop us," a Juggernaut
replied.

     "We're not here to kill law enforcement personnel," Stylles snapped.
"We may have to, but only if it's necessary.  Now move!"

     The Juggernauts followed his instructions, two heading for the dining
room, one remaining by the stairs, the other trailing Stylles through the
living room.  They approached the entrance to another room.  Stylles
recalled the information they'd gathered in preparation for the raid: the
federal agents had focused their surveillance on an office on the first
floor adjacent to the front room.

     "I think we found the brass ring," Stylles remarked.

     Another beefy thug reared in the doorway, an Ingram MAC-10 in his
fists.  He triggered the compact blaster, hitting the two Juggernauts with
a furious volley of 9 mm Parabellum rounds.  Stylles winced involuntarily
when a slug struck his visor, level with his left eye, but the hard plastic
held fast.  The gunman suddenly cried out and staggered backward, his
weapon rising with the fierce recoil and firing the last few rounds of the
magazine into the ceiling.  He stared at the blossoming, red stain on his
shirt, the expression on his broad Slavic face more one of surprise than
pain.

     "You were hit by one of your own bullets ricocheting off us, you
moron," Stylles stated, supplying the answer to the gunner's unspoken
question.

     The thug bared his teeth as he hurled his empty weapon at them.  It
struck a Juggernaut's breastplate and bounced off it with even less effect
than the bullets.  Desperately the hardman lunged for Stylles, his fingers
curved into claws as if he would tear the armor from the Juggernaut's body.

     Stylles allowed the man to charge forward.  As the thug grabbed the
metal skin with both hands, Stylles slammed the crown of his helmet into
his skull.  The man staggered, blood dripping from his forehead.  Anxious
not to waste any more time, Stylles jammed the muzzle of his subgun into
the man's chest, shooting him through the heart.

     "Nyet!  Nyet!" a voice cried from the office.  "Do not shoot!"

     Two men stood behind a large oak desk.  Stylles recognized the round,
middle-aged man from a photo fax.  The would-be crime czar was sweating
profusely into the collar of his expensive Italian suit.

     Stylles didn't know who the scrawny character with the fat man might
be, but he guessed he was the owner of the Mustang parked in the drive.

     A mound of plastic bags containing white powder covered the desktop,
and an empty suitcase sat on the floor next to a closed briefcase.

     The fat man nervously cleared his throat and began to speak in halting
English.  "I do not know who you are, but we make a deal?  Okay?  You want
money?  I give you money.  Plenty money-"

     "Let's see it," Stylles demanded.  "Make it quick, asshole."

     "There is one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in that case," the
fat man said, pointing to the attache case.

     Stylles guessed that was the payoff for delivering the dope.  Rat-boy
had brought the narcotics, intending to collect his money and leave as fast
as possible.  That explained why the gate had been left open and the
Mustang parked in the driveway.

     "A hundred and fifty grand is nothing," Stylles's companion
complained.  "Where's your safe?"

     "I open it!" the mobster replied.  "Do not worry."

     "Just do it!" Stylles said, his weapon poised.  "And your friend can
pack that heroin back in the suitcase, as well."

     The fat man moved to a liquor cabinet, removed some bottles and began
to work the combination to a wall safe.  The dealer started to stuff the
plastic sacks into the suitcase, as gunfire continued to echo outside the
room.  Wailing sirens could be heard in the distance.

     "Jesus," Rat-man rasped.  "The cops are going to nail all of us!  I've
met some crazies, but you guys take the cake."

     "Just shut up and do as you're told!" Stylles warned.

     The mobster began to pile several stacks of bills on the desk.
Stylles knew that based on the street value of the drug, they were netting
a sizeable haul.

     "Get a bag or something for that money," Stylles ordered.  "How do you
think we're supposed to carry it?"

     "I am sorry," the fat man stuttered, producing a small duffel bag.  He
hastily crammed the cash into it, while darting nervous glances at the two
Juggernauts.  Stylles casually raised his subgun and pointed it at the
man's face.  The other armored raider did the same to Rat-man.

     Without a word, they opened fire in unison.



     Raymond Stylles and his henchman returned to the hall, burdened by the
cases and bag.  Corpses littered the area.  The three Juggernauts assigned
to deal with the opponents in the rest of the house waited there for
Stylles and his assistant.  None had been harmed during the battle, but
flashing lights from outside warned them that they had another problem.

     Stylles edged to the door.  Police cars and at least two unmarked
vehicles were positioned just beyond the gate.

     "Damn," he muttered.  "I didn't want it to come to this."

     A voice bellowed through a bullhorn.  "This is the FBI!  We're here
with the Chicago police and we have the house surrounded.  A SWAT team is
in place, and there's no way you can escape.  Throw down your weapons and
come out with your hands over your heads."

     "That'll be the day," the Juggernaut leader growled, opening a pouch
on his belt and removing a grenade.  He turned to his men, ordering two of
them to get their grenades ready, the other pair to open fire.

     The Juggernauts charged from the house, submachine guns leading.  Two
uniformed policemen went down immediately.  An FBI agent ducked for cover
behind the open door of his unmarked car, but three 10 mm slugs drilled
through the barrier, getting him in the chest.

     Law-enforcement weapons roared in reply, bullets and shotgun pellets
slamming the Juggernauts' body armor from all directions.  Stylles couldn't
raise his arm to lob the grenade because so many projectiles pounded his
limbs and shoulders, but he managed to toss the bomb underhand.  It rolled
between two police cars and exploded, sending fiery wreckage and ravaged
human forms hurtling across the street.

     Stylles grabbed his weapon, adding to the raking gunfire, while
another Juggernaut threw the second grenade.

     More vehicles exploded.  A river of flaming gasoline began to flow
among the police and federal agents, sending burning figures fleeing.
Suddenly a heavy-caliber slug smashed onto Stylles's helmet.  It was from a
SWAT sniper, he guessed as the projectile was followed by a tear gas
canister.  It landed near the Juggernauts, but their helmets and armor
shielded them from the immediate effects of the CS gas.

     Stylles led his troops past the gate as the third grenade targeted
another cluster of police vehicles.  The explosion erupted around them as
the Juggernauts reached the street.  A patrolman bravely opened fire with a
shotgun.  His buckshot bounced off a breastplate and a 3-round dose of 10
mm slugs pitched him across the pavement.  Snipers continued to try to stop
the gray figures, but their accurate head shots only caused the
Juggernauts' helmeted heads to jerk on impact.  The formerly heavy salvo of
gunfire had been drastically reduced, and the Juggernauts made steady
progress toward their van.

     A SWAT officer appeared at the mouth of an alley, M-16 assault rifle
to his shoulder.  He hit Stylles with a burst of 5.56 mm projectiles.  The
Juggernaut commander spotted the black-clad cop by the muzzle-flashes from
his assault rifle.  Returning fire with his subgun, he drilled the SWAT
commando, dropping him in the alley.

     The Juggernauts moved on.  A wounded policeman lay in their path.  He
tried to crawl from them, but his leg had been smashed by an armor-piercing
round through the thigh.  The man had lost his weapon and Stylles was
content to walk around the unarmed man, but another Juggernaut had less
mercy.  He kicked the cop in the face with the steel toe of his boot,
knocking him unconscious, blood streaming from his mouth.  The last
Juggernaut in the group paused to stomp on the helpless figure, his
reinforced boot caving in the officer's chest.

     "And this little piggy went to hell!" the murderer declared,
chuckling.

     Darkness had vanished, replaced by the light generated by burning
gasoline and debris.  Gunfire had ceased.  Even the snipers had stopped
shooting, allowing the Juggernauts to reach their vehicle.  Stylles saw the
startled face of their driver.  He stared at the street, clearly stunned by
the horrific spectacle before him.

     "Start the engine, damn it!" Stylles ordered.  "We've got to get out
of here!"

     "Holy shit!" the driver exclaimed.  "I don't believe it, man.  You
must've killed a hundred cops-"

     "Just shut up and do your job!" the Juggernaut replied.

     The armored men climbed into the back of the rig.  As Stylles placed
the suitcase on the metal floor, he noticed white powder leaking from
several holes in the container.  The damn cops had hit the suitcase.  He
cursed, wondering how much of their profits had been spilled onto the
street when he saw that the duffel bag and briefcase had also been riddled
by bullets.

     He slammed the door, and the van screamed away from the curb.  They
would ditch the rig as planned and move on in other vehicles.  Police
roadblocks would soon be set up, if they weren't already in position.  They
needed to get as far away as possible in a very short time.

     "That's one hell of a mess you left back there," the driver said.

     "Yeah, but we got what we wanted," Stylles replied.


                                     7


     Yellow police tape sealed off what the police referred to as the crime
scene, but to the Executioner, it resembled a combat zone.  The charred
remains of vehicles and bodies littered the streets, and the stench of
burned rubber and the sickly sweet scent of roasted human flesh still hung
in the air.

     "You could have told me this place was bombed from the air and I'd
figure it was true," Leo Turrin said.  "These bastards are getting kill
crazy, Mack."

     "I think they already were," Bolan replied, watching the FBI
investigator in charge and the Chicago PD liaison officer talk with a
member of the federal forensics unit and a couple other men in the
single-breasted suits Turrin called "Fed uniforms."

     Albert Monroe, the Bureau investigator, approached Bolan and Turrin.
A stocky African-American, he looked as if he carried an invisible
fifty-pound burden of responsibility on his back, and stress lines were
etched deeply into his face.

     "You guys from Justice got here pretty quick," he commented.  "I hear
you were already working on something similar on the West Coast."

     "Yeah," Turrin answered, "but it wasn't as bad as this."

     "I can't imagine it gets much worse than this," the FBI agent replied.
"There were forty-seven federal agents and Chicago police in this area.
Now we got eighteen dead and twenty-one in the hospital, and some of them
might not pull through.  That's not including all the dead hoods they
carried out of that house.  I think tonight kicked up the Chicago homicide
rate to put it in competition with D.C. for the year.  Murder statistics
are going to look like a telephone number, complete with area code."

     "We know the Bureau had this house under surveillance," Bolan said,
"but we're not quite sure who these people were or why you had them staked
out."

     "We won't have to worry about them anymore," Monroe said as he handed
a clipboard to Turrin.  "Most of them are dead, with only a couple of
lowlife underlings left of the gang."

     Turrin glanced at the names of identified bodies taken from the house.
He blinked with surprise.

     "You got to be kidding," he said.  "Capone, Nitti, Luciano ...  These
guys were pulled out of here tonight?"

     "Isn't that too much?" Monroe said, with something that could have
been a smile with a little more effort.  "These jokers actually changed
their names after they came to the U.S. Vito Capone even went to court to
legally change his name from Dimitri Ivanovich Zhukov."

     "So they were Russian immigrants," Bolan commented.  "There's been a
big increase in organized crime in Russia since the fall of the Soviet
Union, and the syndicates have branched out to other countries, including
America."

     "Yeah," Monroe confirmed, "but these clowns were more 'disorganized'
crime.  Zhukov and his boys weren't exactly ex-KGB master spies turned
brilliant gangster warlords."

     "Not when they make mistakes this stupid," Turrin said.  "They even
picked names that made them suspicious."

     "That's how we first suspected they were up to something crooked," the
FBI man said.  "It didn't take any great insight to make that assumption.
These Russians wanted to be some sort of self-styled Italian-American Mafia
Family, and they were obvious about it."

     "How did these aspiring capitalists plan to make their fortune?" Bolan
asked.

     "What's someone's choice to make big bucks in a big hurry?" Monroe
said.  "Drugs, of course.  At first it was difficult to take these guys
seriously.  The stakeout team had a bug planted in the house, and these
guys were listening to the soundtrack from The Godfather every night like
it was inspirational music.  But then they actually started to make some
big money.  It turns out they managed to get a connection with some
smugglers working out of Montrose Harbor over by Wrigley Field.  They were
expecting a shipment of heroin to arrive.  Although we still sort of
doubted it, the Chicago cops and the DEA agreed to stand by, just in case.
Then it came down tonight.  Nobody expected what else was going to happen."

     "The men in body armor," Bolan stated.

     "The bastards just showed up," the FBI agent said.  "They marched
right through the gate, blowing away anybody who got in their way.  When
they came out there was a small army of cops and Feds, dug in and ready for
trouble.  SWAT was set up with enough firepower to bring down a couple of
hundred armed felons.  They were prepared to take on about two dozen
Russian gunmen, and instead they came up against five guys in armored suits
and helmets.  Just five guys!"

     "Five bulletproofed opponents armed with powerful armor-piercing
weapons," Bolan amended.  "You couldn't have expected that, or been
prepared for them.  Believe me, I understand."

     "Right, you've seen these bastards before," Monroe said.  "So, who the
hell are they?  How long have they been pulling this sort of crap?"

     "We know about them," Turrin replied, "but we still don't have any
idea who they are, where they come from or why they're doing this."

     "Well," the agent said, "I think it's safe to assume they wanted money
and dope.  They cleaned out Capone's safe before they blew his brains.
Survivors from the shoot-out said they were carrying baggage of some kind.
Bullets must have punctured the bag with the heroin.  They left a trail of
white powder from here to their getaway vehicle.  DEA swept it up and
they're having it analyzed, whatever good that'll do."

     "You never know what might help," Bolan said.  "Did you get a
videotape of the incident?"

     "The stakeout team across the street got it on tape.  The Chicago PD
and DEA had cameras, too, but those were destroyed when the bastards
started throwing grenades.  What the hell were those guys wearing?  Two
SWAT sharpshooters were posted on rooftops with a couple of those NATO
sniper rifles.  They swear they nailed direct hits to the heads of those
killers, but they couldn't bring them down.  A couple of guys think they
might be some sort of killer robots developed by the government that have
gone out of control."

     "Afraid not," Bolan told him.  "It's worse than that."



     Mack Bolan stretched in a series of warm-up exercises, while Leo
Turrin set up the laptop computer on the desk.

     "I've got the Farm on-line," he announced as he punched in the access
code.

     Bolan crossed the room to join Turrin as Hal Brognola appeared on the
screen.  The Stony Man chief had a stack of files in front of him and a
cigar butt in his hand.

     "How do you guys like Chicago?" he asked.

     "We haven't seen much of it this trip," Bolan answered.  "Just the
site of the most recent attack by the body-armor killers and our motel."

     "I understand it was pretty bad."

     "Yeah, but this time they got a videotape of the attackers.  It might
help Cowboy make some evaluations about the body armor if he gets to see it
being worn in action."

     "You won't need to broadcast the tape," Brognola said.  "Aaron already
got a copy via his computer link with the FBI.  The damn thing will
probably hit the regular TV news within the next six hours or so.  Reports
about a big gun battle between mystery men in armor and helmets and Russian
mobsters don't remain secret."

     "Do any of the reports mention that all the law-enforcement officers
killed or injured were struck down by the guys in body armor, not the
Russians?" Turrin asked.

     "Early reports haven't made that clear.  The good news is that I think
we'll be able to get the President to support continued work on this
assignment, so consider it an official mission at this point, Striker.  The
President will certainly see this as a national concern when he learns so
many police and federal agents have fallen victim to these killers.  We
can't dismiss this as the work of a small gang of vigilantes."

     "Any good news is welcomed," Bolan assured him.  "We could also use
any news that would help us guess where these murderers will show up next.
They're damn sure busy and bold.  Only a few days have passed since they
first struck in Pittsburgh.  These people aren't stupid.  They must have
good reason to accept the risks of being so active in such a short period
of time."

     "Maybe they plan to rake in as big a profit as possible from cash and
drugs before they vanish.  As nobody knows who they are, they could just
shed their armor and head for Rio."

     "That's possible, Hal," the Executioner allowed, "but I doubt it.
That body armor and other gear must have taken a long time and considerable
expense to develop.  I don't think that was done just to rob a bunch of
hoods.  I still think they want more than that."

     Brognola reached for a file and glanced over it as he spoke.  "This is
an update on that FBI lab investigation of fibers found on the bullets in
Pittsburgh.  You remember they identified titanium and rhodium among the
alloys, along with something similar to silk.  That something turned out to
be spiderweb strands."

     "Spiderweb?" Turrin repeated.

     "Yeah," Brognola confirmed, checking his data.  "From one of the
largest of a type commonly called fishing spiders.  It says here that these
spiders actually catch small fish and tadpoles.  Can you imagine a spider
doing that?"

     "I can't imagine one spinning a bulletproof vest," Turrin replied.
"You sure these guys at the FBI aren't sniffing glue in that lab?"

     "Actually there's been research into using woven spiderweb strands for
that purpose for some years now, according to this report," the big Fed
went on.  "It's believed that spiderweb could be stronger than Kevlar, if
compressed and weaved in the correct manner."

     "So, somebody combined a weave of the spider strands with the metal
alloy fibers to construct the body armor," Bolan mused.  "They must have
come up with that idea after a lot of trial and error.  Whoever developed
it might have worked on similar projects for the military or police at one
time."

     "We're considering that possibility," Brognola assured him.  "Aaron is
doing a computer scan on personnel who might fit that profile.  He's been
busting his tail as usual.  He also came across information about some
cocaine that showed up in Detroit.  You remember that business about Dr.
Petrol, the jungle chemist who uses gasoline in processing his coke?  Well,
the coke in Detroit might have come from the L.A. supply taken by the
body-armor troopers."

     "How did this show up in Detroit?" Bolan asked.

     "A street pusher tried to sell the stuff to an undercover narc.  I'll
fax you the information if you think it's worth looking into."

     "It might be a lead," the Executioner said.  "Leo is better at dealing
with federal investigators and agencies than I am.  Cowboy is qualified to
handle the data concerning body armor and ballistics.  I might go to
Detroit and see if there's a connection, unless something else occurs that
seems more promising."

     "I hope something pans out pretty soon," Brognola said.  "These
killers haven't been letting much time pass between hits, and each seems
more brutal than the last.  The body count keeps rising and it's including
a lot of good guys, as well as bank robbers and drug dealers."

     "We'll stop the body count from rising when we stop the enemy," Bolan
replied.  "Let's just hope we find them before they strike again."


                                     8


     Malachi Jones frowned as he studied the stock exchange listings in the
Wall Street Journal.  Commodities were down again.  His shares in major
computer and telecommunications companies had also dropped in value.  How
had that happened?  Modern technology was supposed to be the way of the
future, yet his stock was taking a nose-dive.

     "What's with this economy?" he grumbled.  "We got a recession or an
inflation, or what?"

     "I just put money in T-bills and a couple of IRAs," Stanley, Jones's
bodyguard, remarked.  "I figure it's better to save and let interest build
than to try to make any big profits with the market the way it is."

     "You don't make any money that way," Jones said.  "And somebody's
making money out there, Stanley.  Whenever the economy makes a huge shift
one way or the other, you can bet some damn insiders are making a profit
somehow."

     "You're probably right, Mr. Malachi."

     "Damn right I am.  I just have to figure out what those guys are doing
and get into it myself."

     Stanley nodded, not daring to get into an argument with his boss.  No
one called Malachi Jones "Mr. Jones."  It seemed too common for such an
uncommon man.

     Jones had come a long way from his first job as a young mule in
Detroit's drug trade, which led to a position as a dealer at his high
school.  He was proud of the fact that he'd graduated and even spent two
years at Michigan State College studying business and economics.  The
knowledge he'd gained had helped his career in the sale and distribution of
narcotics.

     He liked to consider himself a successful African-American
businessman, using the drug trade to get ahead, until he could retire from
it and move into a respectable legal business.  Perhaps he would even start
a scholarship for young blacks interested in business law and economics.
Unfortunately he had more success coordinating his small syndicate of
dealers and mules than investing in legitimate enterprise.

     Jones put down the paper and sipped some coffee from a small china
cup.  His morning hadn't started very well: bad news on the stock exchange,
and soon he expected a visitor connected with other bad news he had
received earlier.  He ignored his eggs and hash browns, his appetite
affected by his woes, instead finishing his coffee as he looked at his
bodyguard.  A former professional athlete, Stanley had been a promising
ball player with the Tigers before he'd served time for manslaughter.
Jones had recognized potential in Stanley.  Bright, tough and disciplined
both mentally and physically, the man proved to be a splendid combination
of adviser, bodyguard and manservant.

     "I need to estimate how serious my losses have been," Jones said, "and
how I can recover a profit by some other avenue of income."

     "I don't know about the stock market," Stanley muttered.  "I figure
those white boys on Wall Street have that sucker tied up for themselves."

     "Nonsense.  My money is just as green as theirs.  They didn't
downgrade stocks and commodities just to hurt me financially.  I made some
bad choices.  It worked out on paper, but it went sour in actual practice.
Every businessman has to accept a few losses.  It's part of the game."

     The doorbell rang.  Stanley took a checkered red vest from a coat rack
and put it on as he headed for the door, the vest concealing his holstered
snub-nosed .357 Magnum revolver.  In his opinion, such early visitors
showed a lack of consideration, and he knew Mr. Malachi didn't like
discussing business while still wearing his robe and slippers.

     Stanley returned with the visitor, a slender young man, whose eyes
were fixed on his feet as he walked.  His footgear was the most expensive
item of clothing the young man wore.  A denim jacket, blue jeans with rips
at the knees and a felt hat with a wide brim made a fashion statement that
caused Jones to grunt with disapproval.

     "You look like the shabbiest pimp in Detroit, Ron," the dealer
remarked.  "You should be embarrassed."

     "I am, Mr. Malachi," Ron Wayton replied.  "I would have changed, but I
knew you wanted to see me right away."

     "Actually I wanted you here at 11:00 a.m.  You're very early."

     "I'm sorry.  Do you want me to come back later?"

     "You're here now, so let's get this over with.  And take off that
stupid hat!"

     Wayton snatched the offending article from his head and clutched it in
front of him.  He hadn't been invited to sit, so he remained on his feet.
Stanley stepped up behind him.  Wayton seemed nervous, aware that the
bodyguard packed heat.

     "The other day I gave you some cocaine to sell," Jones began.  "I also
gave you instructions to only sell the merchandise to persons you had done
business with in the past.  Do you recall that, Ron?"

     "Yes, sir, Mr. Malachi."

     "Then why did you attempt to sell the coke to someone you didn't know,
someone who proved to be an undercover narc?"

     "He didn't look like a narc," Wayton said lamely.

     Jones raised his eyebrows.  "That's strange, because he was a narc.
Since you obviously can't recognize a cop in plain-clothes, you should have
followed my orders and dealt only with known customers."

     "The dude was in a big limo.  He looked like a high roller.  Who would
have thought a cop would be riding around in a limo?"

     "I would have suspected that, Ron.  The fact is, you didn't do what I
told you to do and that's going to cost me a lot of money.  Providing you
with a lawyer and bail was just part of it."

     "I'm real thankful to you for doing that."

     "Don't be too thankful because I want you to know I'm unhappy with
your conduct, and it's going to cost you.  Any idea how much that should
be, Ron?  How about you, Stanley?"

     The bodyguard took that as his cue, slamming a hard fist into Wayton's
kidney.  The street dealer groaned and staggered forward.  He caught the
edge of the table with one hand as the other plunged into his pocket,
emerging with a switchblade knife, his thumb on the button.

     "You know better than that, Ron," Jones warned.

     Reluctantly Wayton put away the knife.  He glared at Stanley, the
bodyguard's face a mask.

     Jones poured himself another cup of coffee.  "The lawyer's fee and
bail money will be extracted from your pay until the debt has been covered.
You had just better hope it doesn't go to court, because your costs will be
higher.  The lawyer believes he can claim entrapment by getting supportive
testimony that police, disguised as wealthy customers, cruised the area
asking how they could purchase some high-quality cocaine.  You have a
record as a user, Ron, but not a dealer.  We'll say this was your first
time attempting to sell dope in a desperate effort to support your own
habit.  There's a good chance we can get you off the hook by having you
finger someone else as your supplier.  The cops will probably drop charges
against you to go after bigger fish."

     "That sounds good, Mr. Malachi."

     "It's better than you deserve, but I don't want my people going to
jail.  It's not good for our image.  I'll probably have to take you off the
street, and that means the cocaine will take longer to move and thus my
profits will take longer to come in.  That doesn't make me happy, Ron."  He
nodded at his bodyguard, who suddenly hooked his left fist under Wayton's
ribs, driving the wind from the young man's lungs.  Stanley grabbed the
collar of Wayton's jacket with both hands and pumped a knee into the
smaller man's groin.  Wayton doubled up with a wheezing moan, then fell to
the floor where Stanley gave him a final kick to the ribs.

     "That's enough," Jones said.  "I don't want him bleeding all over the
carpet."

     Wayton coughed, trying to get his breath as he rolled into a kneeling
position.

     "You know I don't enjoy these strong-arm tactics," Jones went on.  "I
simply can't have my people thinking they can disobey my orders, jeopardize
my business transactions and slow down the distribution of my product.  I
want you to go home and stay there for now.  We'll see what the lawyer can
work out with the DA."

     "I'll do like you say," Wayton replied.  "That narc just looked like
he'd be a big spender ready to buy a lot of coke."

     "I'll have to figure which one of the local suppliers to accuse of
giving you the coke to sell," Jones said, ignoring Wayton's excuses.
"Maybe Rappo Rogers.  I've always found him foolish, anyway.  Speaking of
which, I want you to get rid of that switchblade and any other illegal
weapons.  The cops may come to check on you.  That means no guns, drugs, or
anything else that can lead them to me.  I'll be sending someone to make
sure you have obeyed me, and things will go badly for you if they find
anything."

     "Sure, Mr. Malachi."

     "If everything works out, I'll have to send you to another location,
maybe Dearborn or Ann Arbor.  I have some business deals in the works
there."

     "Ann Arbor?" Wayton asked as if the words tasted bad in his mouth.  "I
was born and raised here.  Detroit is all I know.  What kind of place is
Ann Arbor for a guy like me?"

     "Your life experience has been too restricted, Ron.  Perhaps you need
to grow more so you'll have a higher opinion of yourself and those you work
for.  You'll probably have to go back to being a mule for a while until I
feel you can be trusted to deal again."

     "A mule?"  The street dealer seemed ready to protest, but then
apparently thought better of the idea.  "I guess it's better than going
back to the joint."

     "Or making a trip to the bottom of the river.  This discussion is
over.  Show him to the door, Stanley."

     Wayton got to his feet and limped to the door, accompanied by the
bodyguard.  As they exited, the telephone rang.

     "Morning, Malachi," Raymond Stylles's voice came through the wire.
"How's business?"

     "Mr. Webster," Jones said, using the cover name favored by the man.
"Nice to hear from you.  Business has been promising, but there have been
some setbacks.  It's hard to get good help these days."

     Stylles chuckled.  "Well, I did give you good merchandise.  You were
certainly happy with the quality and the price."

     "Absolutely, but let's not forget you needed the cash, so the deal
seemed all right to you at the time."

     "I didn't call to complain.  The fact is, I might have some more goods
for you if you'd like to make another investment.  It has the potential to
make a twenty-fold profit."

     "That does sound interesting.  We should talk."

     "I'll be in town later today.  Is five o'clock good for you?"

     "Make it six.  We'll have dinner at the Lake Bistro."

     "Fine.  I think you'll like this offer, Malachi."

     "That's the best news I've had all morning."



     Ron Wayton descended the stairs to his basement apartment in a
building on Kercheval Avenue.  The neighborhood had gone from unsavory to
bad during the two years he had lived there.  Street gangs had gotten
larger, better armed and even more crazy than when Wayton had been running
with the Splinters.

     That had been almost ten years earlier.  Wayton had been a
fifteen-year-old kid trying to be tough, smart and successful with money
and women.  The Splinters had led only to a stay in juvenile detention and
a crack cocaine habit.  Wayton had cut a few dudes in the joint, but he
never really got a reputation as a tough guy.  Nobody figured he was smart,
and Wayton himself had no illusions in that regard.  He played the streets
as best he could, doing some fetch-and-carry jobs to support his romance
with the glass-stemmed pipe.  Eventually he'd gotten a job with Mr.
Malachi.  The man was everything Wayton wanted to be.  People genuinely
respected him, and he had real class and dignity.  Wayton did his best to
please his master.  He handled stolen merchandise for a year, carried dope
as a mule for another eight or nine months, and finally earned the position
of a crack pusher in the ghetto.

     For Wayton, that was the pinnacle of his career.  He'd tried to keep
his intake of dope to a minimum, aware Mr. Malachi never really trusted
anybody who sucked on a crack pipe.  Wayton had hoped to one day earn a
position as a big dealer, peddling pure coke and other drugs to
upper-middle-class clients, but when Mr. Malachi had finally given him a
chance to move some cocaine, he'd gone and blown it.

     He unlocked the door to his apartment and entered, slamming the door
shut and shoving the bolt home.  A gasp of surprise rose from his throat
when he saw the man by the bathroom doorway, a big white dude dressed in
black.  A bulge under his black jacket told Wayton the man packed some
serious heat.

     "Had a busy morning?" Mack Bolan inquired as he stepped forward.

     "Who are-?"

     "Why don't you just call me Favor because that's why I'm here.  I'm
looking for a favor, and I'll do you and your boss one in return."

     Wayton narrowed his eyes.  "This is a bad neighborhood for you to be
hanging around in, white man, and this sure as hell ain't the right crib to
be busting into."

     "Are you afraid I'd lift that stash of crack and the pipe you've got
wrapped in plastic in your toilet tank?"

     "You're a cop," Wayton snapped.  "You planted that dope on me.  I'm
calling my lawyer!  This is harassment."

     "I'm not a cop," Bolan replied.  "If I was, I'd have a search warrant
and your landlord here to let me in legally.  He would have seen me find
your stash so I'd have a witness.  I had no trouble finding it.  It was the
first place I looked.  You junkies still think it's so smart to hide it in
the toilet so you can flush it in a hurry."

     "I ain't saying nothing without my lawyer, pig."

     Bolan sighed and stepped closer.  The apartment was a dump, littered
with trash and discarded clothing.  He didn't want to stay any longer than
necessary.

     "You've got a pretty expensive lawyer, Wayton.  It doesn't look as if
you could afford your bail money, let alone a high-priced attorney."

     "Arnold Collay offers special rates to minorities unduly victimized by
society and a prejudiced legal system."

     "Arnold Collay won't even pick up his briefcase unless someone has
already paid him at least five grand up front," Bolan replied.  "He's
represented so many big drug dealers that his list of clients looks like
the DEA's most wanted.  One of his clients is a man known as Malachi
Jones."

     Wayton shoved both hands in his pockets and shrugged as he said,
"Never heard of him, man."

     "Hell, you work for him.  You were peddling his cocaine last night, a
small part of a big shipment he received recently from a national
distributor."

     The petty pusher stiffened, clearly startled by the statement.  He
thought for a moment before he spoke.

     "You say you ain't a cop.  That means you broke in here illegally.
That's breaking and entering.  I'm going to call the police and my lawyer."

     "You haven't noticed your phone is missing?" Bolan asked.  "I
unplugged it from the wall jack and put it away.  You're not going to call
anyone, Wayton.  You're taking me to Malachi Jones to discuss some
business."

     "I don't know nothing, so you'd better back off, honkie."

     "My name's Favor, remember?  We're going to help each other."

     "Okay," Wayton said with a shrug.  "If you put it that way-"

     His hand suddenly emerged from his pocket and the blade snapped into
view.  He lunged, desperate to plunge the knife into the stranger before
the man could go for his gun inside his jacket.

     The Executioner responded immediately to the attack.  His left hand
swung into Wayton's forearm, deflecting the knife thrust.  He moved with
the swing, stepping beside his opponent, his right hand quickly snaring
Wayton's wrist above the weapon.  With his left hand he chopped into the
crook of Wayton's elbow, forcing the arm to bend.

     Jamming the dealer's bent elbow into the crook of his left arm, he
grabbed the man's knife fist with both hands and pushed down.  Bone popped
as Wayton's wrist was abruptly bent more than the joint could handle.  He
cried out, the switchblade falling from his fingers.

     Bolan released Wayton, who wailed in pain.  Then his eyes widened with
fear when he saw the stranger draw the Beretta 93-R pistol from his
shoulder leather.

     "Do I finally have your cooperation?" the Executioner asked.

     "My wrist!" Wayton moaned.  "You broke my wrist, you bastard!"

     "Take me to Malachi Jones or you'll die right here and now."

     "Mr. Malachi will kill me."

     "Mr. Malachi isn't holding a gun to your head at this moment.  I am,"
Bolan reminded him.  "So, do you take me to him, or do I squeeze the
trigger and find another way to meet your boss?"

     "Mr. Malachi's not going to like this.  We'll be lucky if he doesn't
kill us both!"

     "Let's see how our luck holds up," Bolan said.

     Wayton shook his head, but he headed toward the door.


                                     9


     The President of the United States glanced over the speech he was
scheduled to deliver to the graduating class at Cleveland State University
that afternoon, as Air Force One descended below the clouds and circled
Cleveland-Hopkins International Airport.  It would soon land, and he'd have
to carry out the usual ritual of waving at crowds and displaying a wide
smile before getting into a car with a ring of Secret Service men around
him.  Then he'd be taken to the function that was more for public relations
than of any substantial benefit to Ohioans.

     The President's popularity had dropped in the polls, and his press
secretary had urged him to make some public appearances across the nation
in an effort to put him in the spotlight.  The Man thought his time would
be better spent in Washington, where the Senate debated two bills already
passed by the House.  The President opposed one and supported the other.
And there was also the bizarre reports of armor-clad gunmen popping up all
over the country, allegedly shooting down criminals and law-enforcement
personnel.  Hal Brognola of Stony Man Farm seemed convinced that it was a
genuine threat to national security and the welfare of the country, but the
President still had his doubts.  He respected the Justice man's opinion,
but he wasn't sure that a handful of men in body armor and helmets
presented any real problems for the entire United States.

     "Excuse me, Mr. President?"

     He glanced up at Vince Kendall, unit chief of security for Air Force
One.  The man's expression seemed serious.

     "What is it, Vince?"

     "We got a call on a secure line to the mobile phone system.  It's not
exactly a hot line, but somebody had to get access to a satellite link in
order to use it.  It's a pretty sophisticated trick, and even finding out
about the system isn't something your average hacker could manage."

     "You mean somebody is on the phone who isn't supposed to have the
number?" the President asked, his eyebrows knitted with concern.

     "Essentially.  The guy says he's the captain of the Juggernauts,
supposedly connected with those characters running around in body armor and
helmets."

     "Oh, my God," the President said.  "Is he on the line now?"

     "Yes, sir.  We tried to run a trace, but we can only track the signal
to the telecommunications satellite he's using.  It sounds like he has some
sort of 'electronic handkerchief' that distorts the user's voice and even
alters the pattern to a voice print to avoid identification when recording
the call."

     "Let me speak to him."

     "That might not be a good idea, sir."

     "I want to know what these people are up to, and this is the most
direct way to find out.  Where's the phone unit?"

     "I'll bring it to you.  This is as secure a cabin as we've got here."

     Kendall left the President's quarters, returning shortly with a
telecommunications device set in a metal attache case.  The Man picked up
the handset.

     "Hello, Mr. President."  The man's voice was echoey, sounding as if it
came from the bottom of a well.  "How do you like Ohio?  Ever eat one of
those buckeyes?  It sort of looks like a chestnut but tastes real bad."

     "I wouldn't know," the President replied.  "Who are you, and what do
you want?"

     "You don't need to know my name yet.  I represent the Juggernauts.
That flunky I talked to before didn't explain that?  He must have, or we
wouldn't be talking now."

     "You people are thieves and murderers.  I don't know how you got
access to this line, but I don't do business with people like you."

     "Come now, Mr. President.  You've had the heads of Third World
dictatorships as guests of honor at the White House who have had thousands
of people killed.  We've killed some drug dealers and bank robbers.  Does
that really offend you more than having dinner with a savage in a tuxedo
who stays in power by slaughtering anyone in his country who opposes him?"

     "Save your twisted rationalizations for the psychiatrists your defense
lawyer will call in to support your insanity plea when you go to trial.
You Juggernauts, as you call yourselves, have also killed numerous police
officers and federal agents."

     "No, we didn't.  They were killed by the bad guys."

     "You are the bad guys.  Ballistics reports confirmed the same kind of
armor-piercing bullets were used to kill law-enforcement officers as those
fired into the criminals you admit you killed."

     "So you have taken an interest in our activities," the man said with a
chuckle.  "Those ballistics reports are wrong.  You'll have to get that
straightened out when you explain we were really assisting the police, the
FBI and the DEA.  Unfortunately for them, they don't have the same sort of
advanced body armor and weaponry we have.  Of course, in the future there
won't be any need for law-enforcement personnel to be harmed.  Not after
the Juggernauts become the primary force to restore law and order in the
United States."

     The President was stunned by that remark.  He didn't blurt out a
response; words were a main part of his professional life and he
appreciated their value more than most.  He remained silent as he evaluated
the Juggernaut's statement.

     "Are you still there, Mr. President?" the Juggernaut inquired.

     "I didn't know you had finished talking.  You said something about
becoming the force for law and order.  How do you plan to do that?"

     "We're doing it already, surely you realize that.  We have established
an Intelligence network that's almost as efficient as any the federal
agencies have in place, even without the support and financial backing they
enjoy.  Even with our limitations we've been able to locate nests of
dangerous, ruthless criminals that prey on innocent citizens.  We've dealt
with these scum in the only way that works.  We've done so because it was
necessary."

     "It was necessary to kill all of them?"

     "Please, Mr. President, we're not talking about traffic violations and
shoplifting.  These were heavily armed, violent criminals.  They would have
killed us if they could.  Believe me, they tried.  The local police and
federal agencies knew about the hoodlum trash, but they didn't deal with
it.  We did."

     "The Pittsburgh police arrived at the bank robbers' hideout, and both
local authorities and federal agents were at the site of those Russian
gangsters in Chicago."

     "They just got in the way.  Too bad about it, but it doesn't have to
happen again.  If we get your support and the support of those in
government you can influence, then we won't have any problems with those
outdated, poorly equipped and badly trained law personnel.  We can do what
they can't.  We've already proved that, Mr. President.  We are the
Juggernauts.  We are invincible and able to take out any opponent we
encounter."

     "And you really think I'd agree to let you Juggernauts take the place
of our local and federal law enforcement?"

     "You might not be convinced yet," the man went on, "but we are the
only solution to this country's crime problem.  Ask the people of this
nation what their number-one concern is.  Most will tell you they fear for
their lives because of crime.  Ask them if they mind that we had to kill
some demented savage bank robbers who stole more than a million dollars and
left a string of bodies in their wake.  Ask them if they object that some
drug dealers, who peddled poison to their children and collected money from
junkies who support their habit by robbing innocent victims, are now dead.
The public doesn't care how we get rid of such vermin.  They just want us
to do it."

     "The American people might not approve of your tactics as much as you
seem to think they will."

     "Gangs are running wild in every major city in the U.S. They're armed
with full-auto weapons and they don't give a damn who they kill.  Innocent
people, often children, are gunned down during drive-by shootings by these
mad dogs.  The police can't stop them, social workers can't reason with
them, and even if you pass more laws, they'll just break them and continue
to behave in this murderous manner.  We can stop them.  They can't shoot
down the Juggernauts.  Their weapons might be better than what the cops
have, but they can't match our firepower and might."

     "So your answer to crime is to kill them all?"

     "We'll be willing to arrest anyone smart enough to surrender to us.
We obviously couldn't make citizens' arrests at the previous incidents.
That will change when we're the official law-enforcement officers
throughout the country."

     "If you intend, as you say, to enforce the law, why did you take money
and drugs from those previous sites?"

     "We don't have federal funding, so we have to finance our organization
with what we can take from the enemy.  Haven't money and property taken
from criminals been used to fund the war on drugs?  Speaking of which, the
DEA has complained for years that the criminal syndicates are better
financed and better armed than they are.  The Juggernauts don't have
limitless financial resources and our manpower is small, but we've already
shown we're superior to the DEA or the drug syndicates.  Imagine what we
can do with adequate resources."

     "The mind boggles," the President muttered before he could stop
himself.  "What did you do with the cocaine and heroin you got in Los
Angeles and Chicago?  A lot of those drugs were supposed to be at both
sites."

     "Oh, we destroyed the drugs, of course.  We couldn't leave that stuff
lying around.  Kids might have gotten into it."

     "We have to protect the children," the President said, deciding to
play along with the man.  "Do you have any idea how much this proposal of
yours might cost the taxpayers?"

     "I don't think it would cause an increase in their tax burden if you
have us replace police and federal agents dealing with the most serious
crime situations.  We Juggernauts can get more accomplished with fewer men.
We must insist on picking our own people, though.  Selection, training and
conditioning will be up to us, and us only.  It takes a special kind of man
to be a Juggernaut."

     "I'm sure of that," the President replied, continuing the charade.
"It might take awhile to convince the House and Senate, or even my own
cabinet, that we should fire thousands of law-enforcement personnel, and
pretty much scrap the FBI, the DEA, Justice and whatever else, and let you
guys run the show.  I know the attorney general won't like it."

     "You don't seem to like the idea either, Mr. President.  You probably
think we're insane, don't you?"

     "No.  I didn't say anything to suggest that."

     "Of course you didn't.  Only a fool would tell a madman he's crazy.  I
didn't think you'd be ready to agree to this.  Right now, you think you're
dealing with some lunatics, and you're trying to get information you can
pass on to the FBI or whomever to try to track us down.  Don't bother to
deny it, Mr. President."

     "Anything I say won't satisfy you at this point.  If I do talk to my
advisers, they'll want to speak with you before they will even consider
what you suggest."

     "You think I'm going to give you a phone number?  Don't be absurd.
It's clear you'll need more proof that the Juggernauts can succeed at
dealing with crime, but any efforts to stop us will only result in more
tragedy for the families of the police and federal agents you claim you
care about."

     "Making threats isn't a good way to gain cooperation with the federal
government."

     "No one is making a threat," the voice insisted.  "You simply have
only one course of action, and you'll have to agree to it.  You can expect
to hear from us again in the near future.  Actually you'll probably be
hearing a great deal about us even sooner.  Have a good time in Ohio, and
remember to stay away from those buckeyes."

     Suddenly the transmission ended, and the President returned the
handset to the case.  Kendall stared at him, uncertain what, if anything,
he should say.  The Man glanced at his wristwatch.

     "Tell the pilot to circle the airport until I tell him to land," he
said.  "I need to contact someone about this Juggernaut business."

     "We can arrange a conference call with the directors of the FBI and
the National Security Agency if you wish to speak with them
simultaneously," the security chief said.

     "No," the President replied.  "I need to speak with someone else
first, and I have to do it myself.  Sorry, but this has to be very
confidential."

     "I understand, sir," Kendall assured him.  "So you think these people
are really serious?"

     "Oh, yes.  They're deadly serious."



     Mack Bolan and Ron Wayton rode the elevators to Malachi Jones's
penthouse suite in the Grand Oak complex.

     Wayton was miserable.  His right arm rested in an improvised sling,
and although his broken wrist hurt, he was more concerned about facing Mr.
Malachi.

     "I'm telling you, man," Wayton said through clenched teeth, "these
suckers are going to be pissed off.  They didn't act too happy to know I
was here.  If they saw you get in the elevator-"

     "Don't worry," Bolan cut him off.  "I've got a way with people.  Look
how I charmed you."

     Wayton rasped a four-letter word under his breath.  They had passed
through a simple camera surveillance system and Wayton had buzzed the
penthouse, getting permission to go up to Malachi Jones's luxury suite.  If
Mr. Malachi's security people had seen the big white guy enter the
elevator, there was sure to be a welcoming committee waiting for them.

     The elevator reached its destination, and the doors slid open.  Two
large African-Americans stood on the threshold, resembling a pair of
linebackers in dark suits.  Bolan slid both hands into the cargo pockets of
his jacket as he nodded at the pair.  They glared back in response.

     "What the hell is this honkie doing here?" one of them demanded.  "You
were never very smart, Ron, but you're turning too stupid to live at this
rate."

     "You don't understand-" Wayton began.

     "Will you gentlemen ask Mr. Malachi if he'd be willing to speak with
me about making a few hundred thousand dollars in the next few months?"
Bolan broke in.  "I apologize for not making an appointment, but he's not
an easy man to contact.  It was hard enough convincing Ron to even bring me
here."

     One of the thugs looked at Wayton's injured arm as the other shook his
head and pointed toward the Executioner.

     "Just go back down to the lobby and get out of here," he ordered.  "I
don't know if you're a cop or what the hell you think you're doing here,
but Mr. Malachi is an honest businessman and a respected member of the
community.  He doesn't need any trouble, and we're not going to let you
cause any."

     "That's a shame," Bolan replied.  "After all this effort to meet him,
too."

     Suddenly the Executioner shoved Wayton, the push propelling the
scrawny dealer from the elevator into one of the strong-arm guys.  Both men
gasped with surprise, and Wayton howled with pain as his injured arm
slammed into the one man's brawny chest.

     At the same instant, Bolan stepped from the elevator.  The second
guard confronted him, growling an obscenity as he reached inside his
jacket.  The soldier's left hand emerged from his pocket, and he moved
closer to the thug, his fist held high.  The goon's eyes widened when he
saw the Executioner held a hand grenade.  With his attention focused on the
bomb, the hardman failed to notice Bolan's right arm shoot out, driving a
short, hard blow with the Y of his hand, between the thumb and forefinger.
He hit his opponent in the throat.

     The thug choked and staggered backward, both hands raised to his
windpipe.  Bolan heard the elevator doors hum shut and saw the first guard
shove Wayton aside as he unleathered a 9 mm Browning pistol.  The
Executioner yanked the pin from the grenade.

     "Shoot me and I'll drop it," he warned.  "This is an M-26
fragmentation grenade.  That means you'll have only a couple of seconds
before it explodes."

     "You're bluffing," the gunman said, sounding uncertain.

     "Just try me," Bolan challenged.  "Sorry to include you in this, Ron,
but I can't leave here until I talk to Jones.  If the people I work for
find out I failed to even talk to your boss, I'll face a slow, painful
death that will make getting splattered by a grenade look like an act of
kindness."

     "What the hell kind of people do you work for?" the guard asked.

     "Believe me, you don't want to know."

     "All right," the man conceded as he lowered his weapon.  "Wait here.
I'll try to get Mr. Malachi."

     He headed for a door and rang the bell.  The other goon had stopped
gagging, but he continued to rub his neck, glaring at Bolan as if he would
like to stuff the grenade down the Executioner's throat.

     Wayton slowly got to his feet.  "You really are an asshole, Favor," he
complained.

     "Nice guys don't get into the dope trade," Bolan replied with a shrug.

     Stanley appeared at the door and spoke with the guard.  Jones's top
man turned to the Executioner and said, "I don't know any cop who would
pull a stunt this crazy.  If you want to talk to Mr. Malachi, you have to
put that pin back in the grenade.  I won't let you in if you don't."

     "I'll do it when I'm sure there won't be any more problems with seeing
your boss."

     Stanley addressed the trio.  "You two stay back and don't come in
unless you're told to, or you hear trouble," he ordered.  "Ron, you're
coming in.  However this turns out, you've got some explaining to do."

     Wayton reluctantly approached.  Bolan advanced, holding the pin near
the spoon to the grenade as Stanley ushered them into Jones's luxury
apartment.

     Malachi Jones stood in the center of his living room, arms folded
across his chest.  He frowned as he looked at the grenade in Bolan's fist,
yet he handled the situation more calmly than one would expect.

     "Didn't your mother ever tell you it's bad manners to threaten to blow
up a host's property?" he inquired.

     "Not that I recall," Bolan said, "but we didn't discuss military
hardware much when I was a kid.  Things change, Mr. Malachi."

     He stuck the pin back in the grenade.  Stanley stood by, his attention
divided between the Executioner and his boss, probably watching for a
signal if Jones wanted him to take out the visitor.  Wayton kept his
distance, appearing totally vulnerable and surrounded by hostile forces.

     "So who are you and what do you want?" Jones asked.

     "As I told Wayton here, you can call me Favor," Bolan said.  "That
fits our business, because I'm going to do a favor for you and you'll do
one for me."

     "You seem very sure about that."

     "That's because I am.  It will be profitable for us both.  I represent
some people who are interested in buying a large amount of cocaine.  You
have access to such a supply, and you need buyers.  Basic economics."

     "I know about supply and demand," Jones said, "but not about selling
drugs.  I own a number of furniture and carpet stores.  I'm an honest
businessman."

     "You've got a good cover, and it helps to explain why you live well,
but we both know you deal in more than household goods.  Let's not waste
time with this, Mr. Malachi.  You're smart and you're careful.  The fact
that you've never been convicted of a felony proves that.  I'm not a cop,
and you know it."

     "Who gave you this information about me?" Jones asked.  "Was it
Wayton?"

     "No, Ron didn't tell me," Bolan replied.  "I learned about you from
other sources.  The police can't prove you're involved in criminal
activities, but they're aware of it.  The DEA has a file on you, too.
Let's just say I have friends with connections.  Arnold Collay is one of
your lawyers.  He was called in when Ron here got arrested.  It's not too
hard to figure out what happened.  When a bottom-of-the-barrel crack dealer
tries to sell high-grade coke to a guy in a limo, it means his boss must
have acquired a big supply of the white powder and he wants to move it."

     "But Wayton brought you here."

     "Not willingly," the Executioner said.  "He pulled a knife and came at
me.  A bad move.  Still, you should know he didn't agree to bring me here
until he had a broken wrist and a gun held to his head.  On a loyalty level
from one to ten, that's got to rank at least a seven."

     The drug dealer shrugged.  "How much cocaine are these people you
represent interested in buying?"

     "About one hundred kilos.  Maybe more, if they're happy with your
merchandise and they don't have any problems with distribution."

     "That's a lot of coke.  I'd say that would be worth about three
hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

     "They were thinking of a price tag more like thirty-three, but that
can be decided later.  For now, they'd like to buy ten kilos and see if
everybody is happy with the deal."

     "Three hundred and fifty grand would certainly appeal to me," Jones
stated.  "But they could buy it much cheaper if they went to other sources.
A more direct one to South or Central America, for example."

     "They had one of those.  The DEA, political turmoil and a gang war
between cocaine syndicates all conspired to close down that pipeline, at
least for now."

     "How do they expect to make a profit if they spend so much for the
product?" the dealer asked.  "They'd have to have clients willing to pay
even more."

     "That's right," Bolan confirmed.  "They have a foreign market.  Coke
is in big demand, and it's difficult to get it there.  That means people
will pay a lot to get it."

     "Too bad I can't tap into that market directly."

     "Maybe they'll be interested in a partnership in the future.  For now,
let's see how this deal works out."

     "I have to think about it."

     "I suggest you don't think too long.  There are other sources out
there.  You're not going to find a deal much better than this, Mr.
Malachi."

     "It just seems a little too good to be true," the dealer said.  "Will
you be in Detroit long, Favor?"

     "Three days," the Executioner replied.  "You do any business with
heroin trafficking, by any chance?  They're working on a market in that
area, as well."

     "Heroin?"  Jones frowned.  "I haven't been involved with that for
years."

     "I didn't think so, but it doesn't hurt to ask.  Should I contact you
tomorrow?"

     "Stanley will give you a private phone number, but please be discreet.
You never know who might be listening."

     "One can never be too careful," Bolan agreed, nodding.

     "The method you used to get in here wasn't so careful," Jones said.
"That bluff with the dummy grenade was a bit much."

     "It's a real grenade and I wasn't bluffing.  You have a nice day, Mr.
Malachi."


                                    10


     "Sometimes I think you're really crazy and the rest of the time I'm
sure of it," Hal Brognola declared.  "Marching into a drug dealer's lair
like that."

     The big Fed shook his head as he sat once more at the conference table
of the Stony Man War Room.

     Mack Bolan observed him on the screen of the laptop computer in his
room at the White Pine Palace.  It was a fancy name for a pretty standard
motel, but it was located within easy driving distance of Malachi Jones's
building.

     "You have to take some risks to get any results," the Executioner
stated.  "Anyway, I spoke with Jones and he seemed interested.  But he's no
fool.  He's not going to be eager to tell me where he got that cocaine
from, not if he knows someone is listening."

     "Leo hit town with Gadgets Schwarz," Brognola said.  "They have legal
authorization to set up surveillance and wiretaps.  By the way, our boys in
the armor-plated costumes call themselves the Juggernauts.  You won't
believe who told me that.  The President himself."

     Bolan was surprised.  "They contacted him directly?"

     "On a secure line on Air Force One," the big Fed confirmed.  "They
sure made an impression on the President, but not one they'd hoped for.  He
wants us to go after them with everything we've got.  We don't have to
worry about White House support now."

     "Did they tell him what they wanted?"

     "Basically they want to take over law enforcement throughout the U.S.
They claim they can deal with crime better than anyone else, so they should
be in charge.  The President said the guy he talked to carried on the
conversation in a reasonable manner, although he was making unreasonable
demands.  He didn't sound like some foaming-at-the-mouth mad dog."

     "That's the worse kind.  Did this Juggernaut say how killing police
and federal agents proves they're such great crime fighters?"

     "He implied that the President should just agree those people were
killed by the drug dealers and bank robbers in the shoot-outs and to forget
about it.  He also said they destroyed the cocaine and heroin.  Needless to
say, the President didn't buy any of that, and he sure didn't appreciate
somebody trying to blackmail his way into taking charge of this nation's
law enforcement.

     "Anyway, we've got a little more to work with now.  We know these
Juggernauts have to have some pretty good computer and telecommunications
expertise.  They must be getting information about criminals through police
and federal data banks.  Contacting the President on Air Force One is a
neat trick, too.  If they're telling the truth about wanting to be a kind
of national police force, that means there are probably some former cops
among them.  Maybe ex-Feds who got frustrated with the system."

     "I imagine you're going to find a hell of a lot of disgruntled cops
and ex-cops out there, Hal," Bolan remarked dryly.

     "Yeah, but hopefully not too many who'd go to this sort of extreme.
Aaron figures we might get lucky looking into cases of cops and Feds who
lost their jobs due to brutality or other unacceptable behavior.  We might
even find somebody who tried to put together some sort of death squad in
the past."

     "The Juggernauts seem to have been well-trained.  Running around in
full body armor can't be easy.  They must have gotten some sort of
conditioning and practice for these raids.  That suggests someone with a
military background could be involved.  Especially someone who had been
part of an elite unit like Special Forces or Navy SEALS."

     "That's something else to add to our list of possibilities.  The
biggest advocates of the 'kill 'em all in the name of law and order' tend
to be politically to the far right, so we're checking into some of the more
extreme groups."

     "Anything on the body armor and who may have developed it?"

     "We've got a couple of possibilities on that," the big Fed replied.
"There were a number of inventors working on protective gear, armor and
advanced weaponry who tried to sell their ideas to the military or police
organizations.  Some of those got vetoed, either because the cold war
officially came to an end, or the proposed equipment would simply be too
expensive to make or considered too complicated for use in the field.
Still others failed when tested and were scrapped before the inventors
could try to correct what was wrong with their projects."

     "Any of them working on something similar to the body armor worn by
the Juggernauts?" Bolan asked.

     "Actually there were several people who conceived of using spiderweb
threads in a manner similar to Kevlar, or woven metal strands.  We know the
whereabouts and recent activities of most of these inventors.  For the most
part, they've moved on to other projects or given up the inventing business
to concentrate on other ways of making a living.  However, we're
particularly interested in three scientists involved in weapons and body
armor.  One moved to Europe and tried to get work with the Belgian
military, but they rejected his concepts, as well.  He then tried to peddle
his inventions in France, and they turned him down, too.  Supposedly he's
still living in Paris, but he spends a lot of time going to other countries
to try to make a deal."

     "And the other two scientists?"

     "Nobody is quite sure what happened to either of them," Brognola said,
leafing through some papers.  "One guy, Andrew Gallow, was working on both
body armor and reinforced weapon designs for handling special high-velocity
ammunition with hefty grain and armor-piercing capacity.  He had proposed a
type of spiderweb weave with titanium threads for a bulletproof vest, but
his prototype failed to pass tests carried out by the U.S. Army.  He
claimed the spiderweb strands had to be packed closer together and he
wanted to try some different metal alloy combinations, but the military had
lost faith in him at that point.  He had better luck selling a riot shield
to a national police supply distributor.  It was made of a clear plastic
with a special synthetic resin that hardened the shields to a degree that,
and I quote, 'provided impressive protection for an officer and effectively
resisted impact from various caliber weapons and 12-gauge buckshot.'"

     "So, an expert in the development of devices using advanced plastics
as well as metal and experimental spiderweb innovations," Bolan mused.
"Gallow sounds like a brilliant man.  What happened to him?"

     "A good question.  The cop shields were successful, but they didn't
really catch on due to the high cost of production.  Most police
departments have similar riot shields, but most aren't really bullet
resistant.  Still, the majority of police figured what they had would do
well enough until Gallow or somebody else provided a superior product at a
lower price.  Gallow spent the money he made with the shields and just
about all the rest of his cash on attempts to improve his old inventions.
He was turned down when he tried for government grants to finance his
projects.  Then he just dropped out of sight.  Aaron, his computer system
and I all figure Gallow is a good suspect.  Too bad none of us has any idea
what happened to the man."

     "There's another guy on your list?"

     "Raul Lopez," the big Fed answered, "another inventor interested in
body armor using an exotic weave similar to Gallow's.  He tried to convince
the government to invest in a Kevlar-style vest with an extra layer of
spiderweb for added protection.  Apparently this was pretty much theory.
He didn't have an actual prototype, and he didn't get too far with it.
Lopez had done some previous work on tank construction, armored cars and
more conventional flak vests and such.  However, he hadn't been getting
much work in this country after the hoopla over the Gulf War wore off.
Then he vanished, but they think he may have used a fake passport and
disguise to head for South America.  According to his file, he speaks
Spanish fluently and is semifluent in Portuguese and French."

     "So he may have gone south to look for contracts with major arms
manufacturers in Brazil or Argentina," Bolan guessed.  "Both countries sell
a lot of weaponry to international markets."

     "That seems to be the most popular theory about the guy.  Lopez is
still a member of the U.S. Army reserves and holds a top-secret crypto
clearance.  That's why he may have used a fake passport and disguise.
Seems he was always sort of paranoid, accusing the Army and the CIA of
spying on him and trying to prevent him from leaving the U.S."

     "What source did you get this information from?"

     "From psychological evaluations by Army intelligence and the CIA.
They should know if Lopez was paranoid, after spying on him for so long.
Anyway, it's possible he might still be here in the States, working for the
Juggernauts.  Gallow might be a more likely choice for us, but as we don't
know what happened to either of them, it's impossible to know.  Hell, the
inventors of the Juggernauts' fancy gear might be somebody we haven't even
got on the list."

     "Seems like we're coming up with more questions than answers," Bolan
said.  "That's becoming typical of this mission."

     "I don't recall having had a mission quite like this before," Brognola
commented.  "You've usually been up against opponents who fall down and die
when you shoot them."

     "Cowboy gave me these armor-piercing bullets.  Hopefully that'll make
the next encounter with the Juggernauts different from the previous ones."

     "I sure hope so.  You watch your back, Striker.  Even if you don't
come across those bastards in high-tech tin cans, you still have to deal
with Malachi Jones and his crew.  He might not be a big-time criminal, but
he's smart and certainly dangerous, as well."

     "I don't plan on getting killed in Detroit," Bolan assured him.  "I'll
be in touch, Hal."

     They signed off.  Bolan decided he could use a hot shower and a change
of clothes.  He first slipped out of the shoulder holster rig that held the
Beretta, then slid his belt off.  He checked the inside of the belt for a
small slit that concealed a handcuff key, worn at the small of his back
when the belt was in place, making sure the key was still intact.

     Bolan set the belt on the bed, next to the ammunition pouches and the
Beretta.  He wondered how effective his weapon would be against the
Juggernauts' armor.  He recalled the gun battle in Pittsburgh, where his
trusted pistol had seemed like a pellet gun against a group of gun-toting
rhinos.  Even with Kissinger's special 9 mm Parabellums, he couldn't be
certain he would do any better if he clashed with the Juggernauts again, or
if he would even survive another encounter.

     "I never figured I'd die of old age, anyway," he muttered.



     Malachi Jones watched the small TV set in the back of his limo.  The
stock market hadn't improved since he'd read the morning paper.
Frustrated, he switched off the set and gazed out the window.

     He smiled at the sight of his favorite restaurant.  The management and
staff at Lake Bistro always treated him well.  Of course, he was a good
customer who tipped well, but he knew they genuinely liked him, admiring
the fact that he was a local businessman who had made it from the ghetto to
a penthouse.  The folks at Lake Bistro thought he had done that by selling
furniture and carpets.  Sometimes Jones wished that was true, that his
fortune hadn't been made dealing in drugs and stolen merchandise.
Sometimes he thought about making enough money to set himself up without
having to deal in any illegal business.  He would try to make up for some
of the sins he had committed, perhaps starting a drug rehab center or a
child-care clinic to help working mothers.  Yet, he realized those were
things he considered only during rare moments of guilt.  He liked the power
he held as much as his wealth.  He would never make enough money to be
satisfied.  He had made his choices long ago and knew he would have to live
with them.

     Stanley steered the limo into the parking lot.  They made their way
into the restaurant, where the hostess recognized Jones.

     "We have your table reserved, sir," she said.  "A Mr. Webster called
earlier to say he couldn't make it.  He left a phone number for you to call
him."

     "Thank you," Jones said, taking the number from the hostess and
heading for the pay phone.  His call was answered on the second ring.

     "Sorry I couldn't make it," Raymond Stylles said, "but you seem to be
attracting too much attention these days."

     "You may be right," Jones admitted.  "Do we arrange a meeting for
another time?"

     "I'm a busy man, so I'll tell you what I've got now.  Your business
has already gotten a big boost from the cocaine shipment I brought you.
How would you like fifteen kilos of uncut heroin, as well?  I'm practically
giving it away at fifty thousand.  Don't haggle because I won't go any
lower."

     "Heroin?"

     "Don't tell me that's beneath you, Jones.  Drugs are drugs and money
is money."

     "Yes, I know.  It's just that a man came to me today who wants to buy
a large amount of coke, and he's willing to pay top dollar for it.  He also
asked if I did any business in heroin."

     "Do you know him?" Stylles demanded.  "How'd he find out about you?"

     "He calls himself Favor.  He didn't act like a cop-"

     "I didn't ask you that.  I don't like it.  A coincidence like this
makes me very suspicious.  Can you find this Favor character?"

     "Probably.  I can find almost anyone in the city if I have to, but I'm
supposed to hear from him tomorrow."

     "Forget that, I want him taken care of tonight.  Too much is at stake,
and we can't afford any mistakes."

     "If he's a cop or a Fed, this may not be the best way to handle it.  I
mean, that's going to bring some heat down on me, Webster.  Maybe I could
stall him until we find out who he is."

     "Just find him and take care of him.  You'll hear from me later."

     Stylles hung up.  Jones sighed and returned the phone to its cradle.
Suddenly he didn't seem to have much of an appetite.


                                    11


     Zachary St. John's paratrooper boots pounded on the tiled floor of the
corridor.  He marched past rows of doors until he reached Andrew Gallow's
special section.  He opened the door to the scientist's office without
bothering to knock.  The room was empty.

     St. John moved to the research lab where Gallow spent most of his time
on various projects.  He found the man seated on a stool, his eyes glued to
a microscope.

     Gallow heard the footsteps and raised his head.  He groped for his
glasses, barely able to recognize St. John until he'd put them on.  "You
shouldn't come in here unannounced," he said.  "I could have been using
explosives, electricity or some dangerous chemicals."

     "Stylles called to say he's made a change of plans," St. John stated.
"He's not going for the target in Milwaukee.  Instead he's contacted the
troops in his unit to meet him in Detroit."

     "Did he give a reason?"

     "It's something to do with that drug dealer.  Apparently he's made a
serious mistake that could put our whole operation in jeopardy.  I knew we
shouldn't have let Stylles talk us into doing business with that man.  I
don't like dealing with drugs, period, nor do I like Stylles changing
strategy in the middle of a mission."

     "There must be a reason for it, Captain."

     "The reason is Stylles thinks he runs this show, and we're supposed to
take orders from him.  I started this place before Stylles ever heard of
it, Andy.  You told me we needed Stylles, said he knew how to get
information and had connections that could help us go after the vermin in
society."

     "You have to admit he has done that.  We couldn't have located those
gangster strongholds on our own.  Besides, if we intend to have a national
police force, we need someone who served with a federal law-enforcement
agency," Gallows said, defending him self.

     St. John grunted and began to pace the floor, his hands clasped behind
his back.  As usual, he wore his fatigue uniform.  He never tired of being
a soldier.  When he hadn't fit into the U.S. Army, he'd tried to create one
of his own.  Now, he felt he was losing control of his command to Raymond
Stylles.

     "I don't think he should have spoken to the President, either," he
said.  "It's too early for that.  The President and others in the federal
government aren't prepared to surrender control of national law enforcement
to us this soon.  We have to prove we can accomplish what no one else can.
We have to get the American public firmly behind us before we can expect
the government to agree to our demands.  That damn sure won't happen if we
keep killing police officers and federal agents."

     "That was unfortunate," Gallow agreed, "but you and your team were
forced to kill those law officers in Pittsburgh.  It couldn't be avoided.
You said so yourself."

     "It could have been if Stylles hadn't insisted we hit those idiot
Anarchist bank robbers as our first target.  They got a lot of publicity
when they claimed some sort of political motivation, which was a lie, and
seemed to be a sort of throwback to the days of John Dillinger, or Bonnie
and Clyde.  Stylles told us the high degree of interest in the gang would
gain us points when we took them out.  He should have known the police
would also piece together information and learn the Anarchists were using
that old plant for a hideout."

     "You could have called off the raid when you saw the police outside
the plant, but you decided to go ahead with the plan."

     "I completed my mission," St. John insisted.  "I didn't take it upon
myself to change what we had planned.  Stylles is making too many decisions
on his own, and that puts all of us in danger."

     "We'll have to talk to Ray about this when he gets back," Gallow said.
"I'm not sure there really is a problem, but we do need to discuss this and
prevent our leadership from becoming divided and thus weakened."

     "We need to take a more realistic look at what we're doing, too," St.
John added.  "The body armor you invented is fantastic, but it doesn't make
us invincible, immortal, or anything more than men.  We keep pushing our
luck, what with the combined efforts of the federal government and various
police departments hunting us.  Stylles seems to forget that."

     Gallow frowned.  He knew his armor made them more than human.
Obviously St. John failed to realize that.  But there was nothing to be
gained by arguing with the captain.  After all, why should the creator of
gods debate with someone who still considered himself a mere mortal?



     Mack Bolan pulled his Honda rental into the parking space in front of
his motel-room door.  Earlier, he had met briefly with Leo Turrin and
Gadgets Schwarz.  They had begun surveillance on Malachi Jones, but so far
it hadn't accomplished much.  It hadn't been necessary to place a wiretap
on the drug dealer's phone line, because the Detroit PD narcotics division
had already done so.  Turrin was going to meet with the head narc to try to
gain cooperation with the help of his Justice ID.

     Schwarz had planted a microphone transmitter under Jones's limo and
even tailed him to a restaurant.  That, too, had yielded nothing, which
wasn't surprising.  Surveillance generally took time to produce results.
Schwarz had also said reception on the radio telemetry equipment had been
poor.  Even standard forms of communication had been disturbed by unusually
high levels of static, which suggested some sort of atmospheric
interference.

     The Executioner killed the headlights and switched off the engine.
After locking the car, he walked toward his room, digging in his pocket for
the room key.  He stopped in mid-stride: the venetian blinds at his window
were closed.  He had left them open.

     He went for the Beretta holstered under his arm.  From the corner of
his eye, he saw a shadow move in the parking lot.  Bolan spun, spotted a
large black man standing between two vehicles, his pistol leveled.  The
Executioner recognized the guy and the weapon.  They had met in the hall to
Malachi Jones's penthouse.

     "Get your hands up, Favor," the gunman ordered.

     "What the hell is this about?" Bolan asked.

     The motel door opened.  The other strong-arm guard from Jones's
penthouse stood on the threshold, Ron Wayton beside him.  He held a .38
snub-nose revolver in his left fist, his broken right wrist encased in a
plaster cast.

     "You just happen to be in the neighborhood?" Bolan said to Wayton.

     "Get in here!" the young dealer growled, motioning with his weapon.

     Bolan entered, followed by the man with the Browning.  The second
guard glared at the Executioner as he rubbed his throat, clearly wishing to
pay him back for the "Y" of the hand stroke he had received earlier.

     The gunman closed the door.  His companion raised a fist and prepared
to throw a punch.

     "I'm going to bust up this honkie!"

     "Not yet," his partner insisted.  "Frisk him first.  Get his guns,
hand grenades and whatever else he's carrying.  He's a slick sucker, so do
a good job, Oscar."

     "You're going to tell us who you really are, Favor," Wayton said as he
pointed the short barrel of his revolver at Bolan's face, "and what you
are.  The stuff we found in the closet looks like it belongs to some kind
of federal pig."

     "What stuff?" the pistolman asked.

     "Oh, some kind of fancy binoculars," Wayton said, "a big knife in a
sheath stuck in an Army boot, a couple of boxes of 9 mm rounds and
something that looked like a portable computer."

     "A laptop," the guy in charge of the trio remarked.  "A lot of people
have them these days."

     "Not like this one, Jim.  Take a look."

     The man stuck the Browning in his belt as he approached the bed where
Bolan's special gear, including the computer, lay sprawled across the
spread.  Oscar shoved Bolan against a wall as Wayton stepped closer, his
.38 pointed at the Executioner's head.

     "Hands on the wall and spread 'em," Oscar rasped.

     Bolan obeyed.  Oscar's hands roughly patted him down, soon locating
the 93-R under his left arm.  The guy snorted and slid his hand inside
Bolan's jacket, his attention focused on the task.

     That was the best distraction the Executioner could hope for under the
circumstances.  He suddenly pushed away from the wall, slamming his elbow
into Oscar's face.  The blow connected with the hood's upper lip and drove
him back into Wayton.  A muffled gunshot sounded, and Bolan turned to see
Oscar's body stiffen and his head jerk back, eyes wide with surprise.
Blood spurted from a bullet hole beneath his chin.  Wayton stood frozen
behind the man, smoke rising from the revolver in his hand.  Wayton had
triggered his weapon when Bolan took action, accidentally shooting Oscar
through the back of the neck.

     Bolan jumped the shocked Wayton, grabbing the dealer's weapon with his
right hand.  With his left, he delivered a short, hard punch to Wayton's
chin.  Suddenly he saw Jim draw his Browning.

     Without loosening his hold on Wayton's gun hand, the Executioner
pressed down on the petty crook's index finger, firing the .38.  Jim
shuddered, then stared at the crimson patch on his shirtfront.  His knees
buckled and he slumped to the floor, his weapon slipping from his lifeless
fingers.

     Bolan relieved Wayton of his revolver and swung a back-fist to the
man's face.  The dealer staggered from the blow, a ribbon of blood
trickling from his nostril.

     Desperately he turned and yanked open the motel-room door.

     Bolan moved rapidly.  Grabbing Wayton's left hand, he shoved it into
the space between the door and frame, then thrust his weight against the
door.

     The petty criminal screamed as the door slammed on his wrist and hand,
crunching bone.  Bolan pulled back, and Wayton fell to the floor,
whimpering as he stared at his broken left wrist and mashed fingers, trying
to cradle it with his cast-covered right hand.

     The Executioner headed for the closet, got out his suitcase and began
stowing his gear.  He closed the case, picked up the laptop and headed for
the door.  From the floor, Wayton looked up at him, his face filled with
fear.

     "You really are having a bad day," Bolan said, aren't you, Ron?"  He
left the room and hurried to his rental.


                                    12


     Good brandy had to be one of the finest things in life, Malachi Jones
thought as he raised the balloon glass to his nose and inhaled slowly.  He
took his first sip and closed his eyes to better appreciate the taste.  The
strident ring of the telephone cut into the moment.

     "Damn.  Couldn't those idiots wait until morning to call?"

     Stanley hurried to the phone and grabbed the handset, aware his boss
didn't appreciate being disturbed when relaxing in his den.  Jones remained
seated in the armchair, clad in a comfortable silk robe and slippers.  He
guessed the call was from the trio sent to dispatch the man who called
himself Favor.  The job had been assigned to Jim and Oscar because they
would recognize Favor.  Ron Wayton was permitted to go along as a way to
redeem himself for his recent mistakes.

     Jones didn't like to use violence, but he accepted that it was a
necessary part of his business.  He was reluctant to have anyone killed and
was particularly opposed to the termination of someone who might be a cop
or a Fed.  It was bad for business; the law-and-order boys got very upset
when one of their own was taken down.  They would want revenge, which meant
they'd triple their efforts against his operation to achieve it.

     "It's your lawyer, Arnold Collay," Stanley announced.  "He says it's
important, Mr. Malachi."

     His attorney wouldn't be calling him at that hour if it wasn't
important, Jones realized.  He set his brandy aside and took the phone.
The voice of the Harvard-educated criminal defense attorney came over the
line.

     "Your friend Ronald Wayton called my office, and my answering service
relayed his message to me," he began.  "He's been arrested again.  He
hasn't even been out on bail for a full twenty-four hours and already he's
in trouble.  I'm not so sure I want to continue to represent this man,
Malachi.  A plea of entrapment on a drug sale is one thing.  Double
homicide is another."

     "Double homicide?" Jones asked, surprised.

     "Wayton was picked up by the police at the White Pine Palace when they
arrived to investigate reports of gunshots at the motel.  They found Wayton
and two bodies.  Both had apparently been killed by a medium-caliber
firearm, most probably the .38 revolver found at the scene.  Wayton also
had half a dozen cartridges of this caliber in his pocket.  That sort of
thing sure doesn't help his case."

     "Do you know who the victims were?"

     "According to their drivers' licenses, their names were James Holmes
and Oscar Sparks.  Both men were armed.  Neither carried gun permits."

     "Sons of-" Jones hissed.

     Collay cut him off.  "You may recognize their names, but I'm not sure
I want to know about that.  Wayton said he shot one of them by accident,
and another man grabbed his hand and made him shoot the second victim.
He's going to need a better story than that before he goes to court.  About
all that is in his favor is the fact that his wrist is broken, which
suggests there could have been another person present at the time of the
shooting.  I understand his other wrist had been broken just a few hours
before."

     "You mean he has two broken wrists?"

     "Yes.  At any rate, Wayton has got himself in a pretty bad mess here.
I don't like to refer to any case as hopeless, but he's going to serve some
time even if he doesn't get convicted for murder.  I don't particularly
care to have a case like this on my sheet.  I doubt he's important enough
to you to pay the sort of salary I'd want to handle this myself."

     "No, he isn't, but I need to think about this, Arnold.  This comes as
quite a shock, you understand.  Should I call you tomorrow, around ten?"

     "I'll be in court most of the day.  We have a break at noon.  I can
call you then."

     "Fine," Jones confirmed.  "Thanks for letting me know about this."

     He hung up, cursing under his breath.  What the hell had happened at
that motel?  Everything had gone wrong.  Jim and Oscar were dead, and
Wayton had been arrested, while that man Favor was apparently still alive
and well.  Webster wouldn't be happy.

     The sudden roar of automatic gunfire galvanized Jones.  He jumped from
his seat and stared at the front door to the penthouse.  The shooting came
from the outside hallway, but he hadn't been alerted to anyone coming up in
the elevator.  Wondering how they got in was a moot point, he decided,
rushing toward a bookcase.  He yanked open a drawer and scooped up a
Walther PPK pistol.  He jacked the slide to chamber a round, aware he
hadn't used a gun in years.  With relief, he saw Stanley draw his own
revolver and point it at the door.

     Jones hesitated, not sure what to do.  He had never seriously
considered the possibility that anyone would attack his home.  Any threat
was supposed to be handled by the complex's security or his own bodyguards.
But his men stationed in the hall weren't armed with submachine guns, so
whoever had launched this attack would probably barrel right through them.

     Then the door burst open, and a figure marched across the threshold.
Stanley aimed his gun, but froze when he saw the intruder.  The armored
gunman stepped closer, turning his helmeted head toward the bodyguard as he
brought his weapon to bear.  Stanley still seemed unable to believe what
was happening.  The Juggernaut blasted a short volley, the 10 mm slugs
tearing into the man and hurling his body across the room to slam into a
wall.  Stanley slid to the floor, an expression of amazement on his face.

     "My God," Jones gasped as he stared at Stanley's corpse.

     The armor-clad killer turned to face him.  Two more figures clad in
protective gray and helmets appeared behind him.  Jones gripped the Walther
in both hands and desperately squeezed the trigger, firing into the chest
of Stanley's killer.  Sparks revealed the bullets were on target, yet his
opponent didn't even flinch.

     "Who the hell are you?" the dealer cried out.

     Laughter met his question, the sound muffled by the Juggernaut's
helmet.  The other gray assassins advanced, submachine guns pointed at
Jones.  Their leader raised a gloved hand, telling his men to halt.  Jones
began to back away, moving until he banged his elbow on the corner of a
stereo unit set on a shelf of an entertainment center.  He glanced at the
pistol in his fist, and, realizing it was useless against the attackers'
body armor, tossed it aside.

     "Okay," he said, "let's talk about a deal."

     He turned his body slightly as he spoke, using it to conceal his hand
movement as he quickly pressed the record button on the stereo.  He had
raised his hands until they were above his head.

     "What do you people want?"

     The Juggernaut leader stepped closer as he began to speak.  "We have
to shut you down and wipe you out," came the muffled, yet strangely
familiar voice.  "I wish we could have spared you longer, Malachi.  We
would have had to do this eventually, of course, but I had planned to leave
you be as long as possible."

     "Webster!" the drug dealer exclaimed with sudden recognition.  "What
the hell is this about?  Why are you doing this?"

     "It's a long story and we really don't have time to go into it,"
Raymond Stylles said.  "I'm sorry this has to be done.  I almost liked you,
Malachi, even if you are a drug-selling sack of dirt."

     "You sold drugs to me, you damn hypocrite!" Jones yelled.  "If you're
going to kill me, just do it, but don't pretend you're any better than I
am."

     "My motives are different.  But I have to agree with you that I should
just kill you and get it over with."

     "No, Webster-"

     "It might be better if you turned around," Stylles suggested.  "You
really don't want to see it coming, do you?"

     Jones realized he would accomplish nothing by trying to reason with
the killers.  To beg would simply make his final moments on earth
pointlessly humiliating.  He turned to face the wall and closed his eyes.



     Mack Bolan steered the Honda with one hand as he keyed the handset to
a radio transceiver on the seat beside him.  He was trying to contact Leo
Turrin and Gadgets Schwarz, but all he could get was static.  He switched
on the car radio and discovered more interference.  He changed channels but
got the same result.  The police frequency was also jammed.

     Something was blocking radio transmissions on every level.  The
Executioner guessed it was probably an atmospheric condition of some kind,
but there was nothing he could do about it, and he couldn't afford to waste
time driving all over Detroit trying to find Turrin and Schwarz.  He had
business to take care of, and he intended to do it with or without backup.

     Bolan had left the White Pine Palace motel after his encounter with
Malachi Jones's hardmen and used the police scanner before the static had
set in.  He'd learned that the cops had arrived at the motel and arrested
Ron Wayton.  He had heard no mention of any eyewitness descriptions of
himself or his vehicle.  He gave thanks for the apathetic "don't get
involved" attitude of the big city.  At least he didn't have to worry about
the police looking for him.

     The Executioner had a particular quarry in mind: Malachi Jones had to
have sent those three thugs to kill him, and he wanted to know why.

     He approached Jones's building, circling the block to be sure the
police weren't present and to do a preliminary recon of the area.  Ideally
he would have liked more time before he made his move on the location, but
he didn't want to give the dealer any opportunity to make a break for it.

     Little traffic moved along the street as he finished his revolution.
The night sky seemed to have become brighter.  He glanced up, noticing an
ivory-colored shaft of light bisecting the firmament that seemed to be part
of a large cloud formation.  Perhaps that was the weather condition that
was causing the dense static in radio transmissions.

     As Bolan zeroed in on the complex, his vehicle's headlights picked out
a box-shaped van parked by the curb.  An alarm sounded inside his head.
The body of the van appeared thicker than normal, with patches of scarred
metal covered by a thin layer of gray paint.  He recalled the reinforced
van used by the Juggernauts in Pittsburgh and similar rigs reported at
their raids in L.A.  and Chicago.

     He pulled into an alley across the street from the building and
switched off the engine, emerging from the Honda and facing the complex.
Three figures stepped from the entrance to the building.  His face turned
grim as he took in the gray body armor and helmets worn by the trio, the
subguns, side arms and ammunition pouches they carried.  He hadn't expected
to encounter the Juggernaut killers, but he responded without hesitation.
Drawing his Beretta, he held it in a firm Weaver combat grip as he tracked
their progress toward the van.

     He took aim and squeezed the trigger.  The Beretta unleashed a 3-round
burst, recoiling in his hands with twice the kick he was accustomed to, due
to the hot load ammunition.  Then he saw that he had hit his intended
target.  A Juggernaut had taken the three 9 mm slugs in the side of the
helmet.  He staggered sideways into a clipped hedge and tumbled out of
Bolan's view.

     "One down," the Executioner said as the remaining Juggernauts turned
toward him.  Acquiring a new target, he triggered another 3-round salvo.
The Parabellum rounds slammed into the gray breastplate of the second
enemy.  The man stumbled backward as if he'd been punched in the chest.  He
whirled his arms, trying to maintain his balance.  The sight would have
been almost comical, but Bolan didn't crack a smile.  The Juggernaut didn't
go down.

     The third gunman raised his weapon as Bolan sprinted from the alley.
The subgun bellowed, unleashing several rounds in the vicinity of where the
soldier had been just a moment before.  He heard the metallic twang as
projectiles pierced the body of the Honda.  Bolan kept moving, seeking
cover by a Ford Escort parked at the curb.  He crouched and fired another
burst at the enemy, but he failed to find target acquisition.

     An explosion roared from the alley as one of the Juggernaut's
projectiles found the Honda's gas tank.  Shards of metal and broken glass
were hurled into the street, and flames shot from the mouth of the alley.
At the same instant, a volley of enemy bullets shattered the display window
of a shoe store behind Bolan, the entire glass pane dissolving with a
crash.

     The term "armor piercing" was supposed to apply to Bolan's ammunition
as well, but Kissinger's hot loads were no match for the Juggernauts'
incredible protective gear.  The gunner Bolan thought he'd taken out with a
head shot was back on his feet, weapon up and ready.  The trio of rounds to
his helmet had served only to knock him off balance, not kill or even wound
him.  Rounds hammered into the Executioner's shelter, slugs puncturing the
body of the Escort as if the vehicle were made of tinfoil.  The hood sprang
open and water spurted from the pierced radiator.  Two bullets punched
through the vehicle near Bolan's head, scoring on a brick wall behind him.

     The soldier raised his head, darting a glance over the frame of the
battered Ford.  A single Juggernaut had marched into the street, moving
toward Bolan's position, aware they had the man pinned down and clearly
determined to get a final, telling shot at him.

     Bolan fired his Beretta, nailing the enemy with another direct hit to
the torso.  The Juggernaut swayed from the impact as he returned fire, his
shots raking the wall well above the soldier's head as they went wildly off
course.  Angered, but apparently unharmed, the enforcer kept moving
forward.

     "Dave!" a muffled voice yelled from the street.  "Get back here!  We
have to haul out before the cops come!"

     The Juggernaut ignored the order, continuing to walk toward Bolan's
cover, firing his subgun as he advanced.  The windows to the Escort
shattered, and Bolan ducked as glass shards fell across his back.  Although
his special ammunition seemed useless against the Juggernauts' body armor,
the Executioner knew he had no option but to try again.  Aiming the Beretta
at his opponent's helmeted head, he squeezed the trigger, sending a
triburst slamming into the tinted visor.

     Cracks spider-webbed on the thick plastic.  The submachine gun slipped
from the Juggernaut's gloved hand as he swayed on unsteady legs, two bullet
holes visible in the visor.  The enforcer raised both hands to the helmet,
then suddenly toppled backward, his armored body crashing to the ground.
The loosened helmet fell from his head and rolled away.

     "He's killed Dave!" a voice roared.  "The bastard's killed him!"

     Bolan didn't waste time congratulating himself on finally bringing
down one of his armor-plated adversaries.  He bolted from behind the
Escort, taking advantage of the momentary distraction as the remaining
enemy realized one of them had been slain, despite their invincible,
protective gear.

     The Executioner sprinted to the shattered display window of the shoe
store and dived through the opening.  He hit the floor in a forward roll as
a wave of submachine gun fire ripped into the store, sending shoes and
cardboard boxes hopping from the shelves.  Several showered Bolan's
position, but he barely noticed as he adopted a kneeling stance, his weapon
aimed at the display window.

     The Juggernauts would be less eager to pursue him, Bolan realized.
They had just discovered they were still mortal inside their fancy armor,
and they also needed to escape before the police arrived.  He weighed the
situation and guessed they would probably choose to flee and avoid more
casualties rather than attempt to hunt him down to avenge their fallen
comrade.

     Then he recalled that the enforcers had used grenades, as well as
firearms, in previous raids.  An explosion inside the shoe store would be
devastating.  He glanced about, but saw no available cover aside from
flimsy aluminum and plastic shelves, a plywood counter and some wall racks.
The enemy had ceased fire, but he couldn't assume they had left.  He headed
for the rear of the store, to a door marked Employees Only.  He turned the
knob, but the door was locked.

     A noise at the front of the store drew his attention; the Juggernauts'
reinforced van had pulled up, halting beside the ravaged Escort.  Whirling,
the Executioner slammed a boot to the door, shattering the lock with a
hard, well-placed kick.  He rushed into a storage area, sprinted past rows
of shoe boxes and headed for a back exit.  The metal security door was
designed to keep out intruders, not to trap anyone inside.  Bolan slammed
the bar latch and the door swung open.

     He hit the outside just as dual explosions--one rolling into the
other--reverberated within the store.  He felt the violent vibrations
against the metal door, and the entire building seemed to tremble from the
blast.  He guessed the Juggernauts had hurled two grenades through the
display window, which was a solid tactic.  A person might reach one grenade
in time to throw it back at the enemy before it exploded, but the chances
of getting two would be almost nonexistent.

     Bolan stood in the dark alley, inhaling deeply to try to slow his
pulse.  The blood rushed in his veins, the result of both the stresses and
stimulation of combat.  He guessed that the enemy was almost certainly in
too great a hurry to hang around to make sure he was dead.  Still, his
senses were primed for danger as he headed through the alley, his Beretta
up and leading.  He hugged the shadows until he reached the mouth of the
alley, sirens wailing in the distance as he emerged.  A few onlookers stood
on the sidewalk, staring at the destruction that littered the street.

     Bolan holstered his pistol and removed a badge with a Justice
Department ID from a jacket pocket.  He clipped it to his lapel in case the
police wanted to know who Mike Belasko was and what he was doing at the
scene.  The soldier reached the corner of the street and examined the
scene.

     His Honda rental still burned, and the smashed remains of the Ford lay
scattered in front of the shoe store, its interior trashed into oblivion by
the enemy grenades.  There was no sign of the Juggernauts or their vehicle.

     The body of their slain companion was also gone.  Bolan guessed the
enemy had taken the body for reasons more practical than sentimental: the
Juggernauts wouldn't want the dead man to be identified or the body armor
to fall into the hands of the authorities.  However, they had missed
something in their haste.  Bolan picked up the helmet that had rolled into
the gutter.

     He turned it over in his hands.  It was heavy, but not as heavy as he
would have guessed in order to be so durable.  The tinted visor had been
secured with steel bolts, blood and bullet holes now marring the front.
The metal surface of the helmet was still smooth, and he could see no
scratches or nicks on it.

     A blue Dodge screeched to a halt by the curb.  Bolan recognized
Gadgets Schwarz behind the wheel, and he hurried over to the passenger side
and climbed in.

     "I tried to get here sooner," Schwarz explained.  "I saw part of the
gun battle through a surveillance scope, but I was set up more than a mile
away and I couldn't get through the damn traffic."

     "Let's just get out of here," Bolan urged.  "Did you get a heat-sensor
reading on the Juggernauts' van on your way over here?  We might be able to
track them if you did."

     "Hell, I didn't expect those bastards to hit Jones.  I didn't expect
you to show up, either.  Why didn't you contact me before you charged over
here?"

     "I tried, but I couldn't get through.  When I went looking for Jones,
I didn't know the Juggernauts would be there.  Too bad they got away, but
at least one of them isn't breathing, anymore."

     Schwarz glanced over at the helmet Bolan held.  Police cars, with
their lights flashing, and fire trucks passed them on their way to the
battle scene, and Schwarz turned down a side street to avoid them.

     "So you took out one of them," he remarked.  "Guess their armor isn't
so tough after all."

     "Tough enough," Bolan assured him.  "Cowboy will want to see this
helmet.  I'm glad you came along when you did.  I would have had a hell of
a time trying to explain walking around with this thing under my arm.

     "What happened to your rental car?"

     "They blew it up," the Executioner answered.  "I knew I was going to
have trouble with a Japanese car in Detroit."


                                    13


     Aaron Kurtzman rolled into the Stony Man War Room, where Mack Bolan
sat at the conference table with Hal Brognola.  He nodded a greeting and
waved a printout at the pair.

     "I've got a meteorological report here on atmospheric conditions over
the state of Michigan in general, and the Detroit area in particular," he
announced.  "I found out what caused all that static and interference with
the radio communications that prevented you from being able to contact Leo
or Gadgets last night."

     "It affected police and civilian radio broadcasts, as well," Bolan
said.  "There was no thunderstorm moving in that I could see.  In fact the
sky was pretty clear, aside from that strange luminous cloud."

     Kurtzman nodded.  "A mother-of-pearl cloud.  It's a fairly rare
phenomenon, similar to the northern lights.  Basically it caused radio
waves to get drowned out by thick static."

     "But it didn't affect regular telephone communications?" Bolan asked.
"I'm just curious how the police were called to the scene of the gun battle
and whether the wiretap on Malachi Jones's telephone line would have picked
up anything aside from static last night."

     "Telephone lines along poles or underground cables were not affected,"
Kurtzman answered.  "Sometimes the old-style technology works better than
high tech.  Actually Jones did get a call from that lawyer guy, Arnold
Collay.  He was talking about your pal Ron Wayton and the other two
characters who tried to take you out at the motel."

     "Poor Ron," Bolan said sardonically.  "It wasn't a very good night for
the Malachi Jones syndicate."

     "That's a fact," Brognola confirmed.  "Jones and three of his
bodyguards were found dead at his penthouse.  Apparently the Juggernauts
deactivated the security system, then took out the guys in the hall, broke
down the door to Jones's apartment and killed him and his bodyguard.  Then
you arrived just as they were coming out of the place.  The Juggernauts had
apparently supplied cocaine from the L.A. job to Jones, but then they
turned on him.  They must have decided he was a liability."

     "It was probably after Jones talked to me about a drug deal," Bolan
said.  "He seemed interested in the offer I made, but then he sent his men
to waste me.  He must have been told to do that after he spoke with a
high-ranking Juggernaut."

     "Leo and Gadgets had Jones under surveillance.  So did the Detroit
narc division.  As far as they know, he wasn't in contact with anyone
between your visit and the attempt to take you out."

     "That just proves the Juggernauts are smart," Bolan replied.  "If they
weren't, we would have nailed them already.  They must have guessed Jones
was being watched and his phone tapped.  Gadgets followed him to a
restaurant earlier that evening.  We know that he didn't meet with anyone
there, but he could have used a pay phone to talk to a Juggernaut
commander."

     "You're probably right," Brognola said.  "How did Jones manage to find
you so easily?  You didn't tell him you were staying at the White Pine
Palace."

     "No, but Detroit was his town.  A white guy comes to Detroit, uses a
rented car from the airport and checks into a motel near Malachi's place.
It wouldn't be that hard to find me.  He sent Wayton and the two bodyguards
I'd met outside his penthouse so they could make a positive ID when they
saw me.  I guess he wanted to make sure the wrong guy wasn't killed.
However, none of them were really hit men, especially Wayton.  They should
have taken me out as soon as they had the drop on me."

     "Lucky they didn't," Kurtzman remarked.

     "I could have arranged a decent safehouse before I arrived in Detroit,
but I wanted Jones to think I was exactly what I appeared to be--a
go-between for a party interested in selling cocaine to a source abroad.
My guess is he mentioned me to the Juggernauts and told them I was looking
for heroin as well as coke.  That must have seemed too great a coincidence,
seeing as they had just acquired some heroin from their hit on the Russians
in Chicago.  They realized I was a threat and decided it was time to get
rid of Jones, as well."

     "Leo used his Justice Department clout to take charge of the
investigation into Jones's homicide and everything connected with it,"
Brognola said.  "He was with the Detroit police last night, while you were
encountering hardmen with and without armor plating."

     "The ones without are easier," Bolan stated dryly.  "That body armor
even withstood Cowboy's special Parabellum hot loads.  Fortunately the
plastic visor didn't hold up so well.  Is Cowboy still examining the
helmet?"

     "Yeah," Brognola said, "and he's impressed with it, too.  I'm
beginning to think you'll need to use a rocket launcher on these bastards."

     "That has crossed my mind," Bolan admitted, "but we can't use rocket
or grenade launchers as long as the Juggernauts continue to carry out their
missions in populated areas.  We couldn't use weapons that would put
hundreds of innocent lives at risk."

     "Too bad they don't go by the same rules," Kurtzman commented.  "The
Juggernauts haven't shown any concern for innocent bystanders when they
blast away with their armor-piercing bullets or lob grenades."

     "We're not them," Bolan replied.  "If we have to destroy a city block
and everyone on it in order to take out one terrorist, then we're no better
than they are.  I've seen war fought that way.  They call it 'acceptable
losses.'  Killing innocent people can never be acceptable."

     "Let's hope Cowboy can come up with something that will work against
the Juggernauts without putting people at more risk than necessary," the
big Fed said.  "We might be able to minimize such risk, but we can't
eliminate it, Mack."

     "I've got to head back to my computers," Kurtzman said.  "I've got the
artificial-intelligence systems evaluating known information, strong
theories and suspected transportation methods used by the Juggernauts to
try to determine a likely spot for their home base.  Also, we're trying to
determine what their next target might be."

     "Computerized clairvoyance," Brognola joked.

     "Hey," Kurtzman said, defending his operation, "my machines work on
available data, mathematical probability and logic.  You might recall we've
been pretty successful with this method in the past."

     "Okay," the big Fed replied.  "You get back to that high-tech
Nostradamus and let us know if you get lucky.  If any information rolls in
from Leo in Detroit, be sure to put it through to the Cowboy's terminal."

     "You'd think I was running a switchboard," Kurtzman grumbled as he
rolled toward the elevator.



     The Juggernaut helmet lay on a counter in John Kissinger's workshop.
The weapons expert sat on a stool near the trophy and peered into a
microscope.  He looked up as Bolan and Brognola entered his domain.

     "This is the damnedest headgear I've ever seen," he said.  "If you'd
told me it came from another planet, I wouldn't be too quick to dismiss
that claim."

     "The thing I shot was definitely human," Bolan assured him.  "At least
as far as you can apply that term when it comes to killers like that."

     "So what have you learned from studying this thing?" Brognola asked,
pointing at the helmet.

     "Okay," Kissinger began, "we know that the Juggernauts' armor is
extremely hard and able to stand up to incredible punishment and stress."

     "Like being hit by so-called armor-piercing bullets?" Bolan inquired
with a raised eyebrow.

     "The ammunition I gave you is armor piercing," Kissinger insisted.
"Those Parabellum rounds punched right through double layers of Kevlar when
I tested it.  The body armor is obviously even tougher than we suspected.
You appreciate that more than anybody else, Mack."

     "I can't say I appreciate it, but I know it to be true."

     "Well, we knew the metals used in the armor included titanium and
rhodium, as well as woven spiderweb strands.  What we didn't know until
now, having examined the helmet, is that the outer layer of the armor is
largely a rhodium alloy, with the second layer a titanium alloy and the
third a chemically treated spiderweb mesh.  I had to use a diamond cutter
just to scrape off samples for the microscope."

     "That's all very interesting," Brognola said, "but does it help us
find a weakness in the damn armor or not?"

     Kissinger slapped his palm against the helmet and said, "Not much
weakness to find here.  The metal and web combination is pretty formidable.
In fact the helmet might be the toughest item of the Juggernauts' gear.
Its curved design is more inclined to deflect a projectile than a flat
surface.  That's why bullets will often bounce right off a curved
windshield.  There have been plenty of documented cases of bullets actually
bouncing off a person's skull if it struck at the right angle."

     "The visor didn't hold up so well," Brognola noted.

     "That might be a weak spot compared to the rest," Kissinger admitted.
"The visor is made of a high-tech plastic, similar to the type used for the
portholes on the space shuttle."

     "Still, it's not all that vulnerable," Bolan said.  "I had to nail the
enforcer at close range with three rounds to penetrate the plastic.  In
Pittsburgh I shot a Juggernaut in the visor with standard Parabellum rounds
without any effect.  I can't say I'm thrilled with the idea of having to
rely on hitting such a small target in a firefight in order to bring down
an opponent.  It was tough enough taking out one Juggernaut that way.
Maybe I could handle two if they came at me, but if three or more rushed my
position, I'd be lucky if there'd be enough of me left to bury."

     "I don't think you'll have to rely on nailing a bull's-eye in the
Juggernaut visor next time," Kissinger announced.  "I have some new
ammunition for you that ought to do the trick."

     "No offense, John," Bolan said, "but you told me that last time."

     Kissinger climbed off the stool and moved over to another countertop.
A set of scales, bullet molds, crimpers and a cabinet stocked with primers,
powders and shell casings revealed this to be his "loading section" for the
preparation of special ammunition.  He handed Bolan a case containing fifty
rounds of ammunition.

     The Executioner removed a cartridge and immediately recognized it.
"Forty-four Magnum," he said.  "I thought about using the Desert Eagle.
It's a more powerful weapon than the Beretta, but I doubted it would make
any difference against the Juggernauts.  Some of their opponents used .357
Magnums without any success."

     "But this is special," Kissinger said.  "Feel how heavy it is?  It's
hot loaded at 310 grain."

     "I'll be lucky if the barrel doesn't come loose."

     "I made some modifications on a Desert Eagle for you," Kissinger said.
"A reinforced barrel and frame to handle the bigger grain.  It's essential
if you're going to be able to fire the projectile with enough velocity to
drive it through the Juggernauts' protective gear."

     Bolan examined the .44 cartridge.  The bullet fitted above the steel
casing was made of a gray metal, too hard to be lead.  The nose was painted
with a blue plastic coat.

     "Teflon?" he asked.

     "It's a sort of cousin of Teflon," Kissinger answered.  "A new
synthetic resin developed by the Navy.  The bullets are made of a
rhodium-tungsten alloy.  Guess where I got that idea?"

     "The armor-piercing ammunition used by the Juggernauts themselves,"
Bolan replied.  "I've seen those super 10 mm bullets in action.  They'll
punch through brick, steel and the bulletproof vests worn by the police.
Obviously I haven't seen a Juggernaut shoot another Juggernaut, so I'm not
sure their ammunition will pierce their own armor."

     "They're a ruthless bunch," Brognola commented.  "Could be they'd want
to make sure none of their people could be taken alive for interrogation.
If they found themselves in a tight spot and couldn't take a wounded man
with them, I wouldn't be surprised if they chose to kill him instead.  That
would be hard to do if they couldn't pump a bullet through the guy's
armor."

     "I test fired this new ammunition on steel plates twice as thick as
those used for the Parabellums," Kissinger said.  "These are going to work,
Hal."

     "Easy to say," the big Fed replied, "but it'll be Striker's head on
the line when he goes up against those guys again."

     "There's only one way to find out," Bolan said.  "Where's that
modified Desert Eagle you talked about?"

     "Right next door at the indoor firing range," Kissinger replied.
"I've got some steel targets set up for you.  I'm also working on a
modified FAL assault rifle.  I know you favor the M-16, but again, the
armor-piercing rounds need a grain high enough to propel them with adequate
velocity, and we just can't get that with the smaller caliber ammunition
used in the M-16.  The FAL takes a 7.62 mm cartridge, and I'm confident
that'll be big enough to work."

     Bolan scooped up the helmet from the counter and tucked it under his
arm.  Kissinger raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth to say something,
but then clearly thought better of it.  The Executioner could guess what
bothered him: the Juggernaut helmet was their only sample of the advanced
armor and Kissinger wanted to protect it.

     They moved off to the firing range.  Located in the basement level of
Stony Man Farm, the range had been designed to test the accuracy of
experimental weapons and firearms up to 150 meters.  Longer distances were
used at the outdoor range, where anything from a submachine gun to a tank
could be tested for combat use.

     Benches faced the targets of the firing range.  Paper silhouettes were
the most frequent targets used at the site to help shooters maintain their
skill with pistols, but on this occasion, heavy steel plates, similar to
what might be used for tank armor, had been placed downrange from a
shooter's post.

     The modified Desert Eagle waited at that station.  The slide was
locked back and the magazine-well empty.  Two loaded magazines lay on the
bench next to the pistol.  The Executioner headed downrange to the next
aisle.  He stacked some sandbags to make an elevated platform and set the
headgear on top.

     He returned to the benches.  Kissinger had acquired Apache
earmuff-style protective gear and plastic shooter glasses for all three
men.  Bolan donned a pair of glasses and hung the Apache muffs around his
neck as he inspected the Desert Eagle.  He was very familiar with the big
Israeli-made pistol, having used it countless times in his missions.
Heavy, with a thick barrel and frame, the modified Magnum pistol was even
heavier with Kissinger's reinforced metal.

     "This is almost as heavy as the .50 Desert Eagle," Bolan remarked,
hefting the pistol, muzzle pointed at the ceiling as he moved to the
station with the helmet on the range.

     "I considered using one," Kissinger said, "but that sucker has enough
of a recoil without adding the beefed-up loads for armor-piercing
ammunition.  You'll feel the extra kick with this baby.  If we'd used the
.50, you could have ended up with a dislocated shoulder."

     "Okay," Bolan said as he shoved a magazine into the gun, "let's see
how she does."

     He set the headgear over his ears and thumbed the lever to the pistol
slide.  The steel snapped shut to chamber the first round and arm the
weapon.  He gripped the Eagle in a firm two-handed Weaver stance and aimed
at the helmet.  He inhaled slowly and squeezed the trigger on his exhale.
The weapon roared and bucked in his grasp.  His arms rode with the recoil,
then he brought his fists down swiftly to fire again.  The helmet spun on
the burlap mound, and he nailed it with a third round before it fell from
view behind the sandbags.

     "Well," Brognola commented as he removed his ear protectors, "at least
it didn't just sit there.  Let's find out if the bullets went through it or
if they just knocked it over."

     Bolan ejected the magazine and cleared the pistol.  He set it on the
bench, slide locked back once more.  He headed downrange to the sandbags,
followed by Brognola and Kissinger.  He picked up the helmet and showed it
to the other men.  Three large bullet holes marred the side of the helmet,
two near the crown and one at the jawline.  Bolan turned the headgear to
reveal a trio of larger exit holes.

     "They went right through it," Brognola said with a nod of approval.
"It looks like you got it right this time, Cowboy."

     "Yeah," Kissinger said with a shrug.  "Sort of a pity you had to bust
up the helmet to make sure it worked, though."

     "Don't worry," the Executioner said.  "I'll see if I can get you a
couple more.  Maybe with the heads included."


                                    14


     Raymond Stylles handed the metal tray to Andrew Gallow.  The renegade
inventor peered through the thick lenses of his glasses at the two
misshapen pellets, stained with blood and pink-gray tissue.  He grimaced
and limped across his laboratory to a sink.

     "Those are the bullets removed from Dave Holt's head," Stylles said.
"Son of a bitch shot him through the visor."

     "You already told me," Gallow said as he washed the blood and brain
matter from the slugs.  "You also said you and others had been shot in the
face visors before and neither bullets nor buckshot had penetrated the
plastic or even cracked it."

     "Not until now," Stylles confirmed.  "The bastard used some sort of
hot-load ammunition.  I got hit in the side of my helmet, and it felt like
somebody slapped me hard in the head.  It caught me off balance so badly, I
tripped over a damn hedge."

     "And this mystery gunman didn't appear to be one of Jones's people or
a cop?" Gallow asked.

     "He was a white guy dressed in black.  The late Malachi Jones might
have had some whites on his payroll, but the majority of his people were
black.  Certainly his most trusted personnel were African Americans.  I
guess the gunman might have been a SWAT officer, but I've never heard of
one of them acting alone.  This one took us on by himself with no backup."

     Gallow held one of the mangled bullets with a pair of tweezers and
studied it up close.  He grunted and dropped it back onto the tray.

     "It's a special armor-piercing 9 mm Parabellum round," he said.
"Excellent quality.  Whoever came up with this knew his business.  Probably
made by a military ballistics expert.  It doesn't look like anything
generally used by the police, unless Detroit has a special section
supplying SWAT with advanced armor-piercing bullets.  It's not as good as
my ammunition, of course.  Your mysterious opponent got lucky.  If he
hadn't shot Holt in the visor, the bullets wouldn't have harmed him."

     "But he did shoot Holt through the visor and the face.  One bullet
punctured an eye socket, and the other caught him on the bridge of his
nose.  Our first casualty, Andy.  It's not good for the morale of the
troops."

     "There's not much we can do about that," Gallow replied with a shrug.

     "At least we killed that gunman.  We lobbed two grenades through the
window of that shoe store.  Blew the hell out of it and made sure he
wouldn't come out of there alive."

     "That's great, Ray," Gallow said.  "But let's not forget you also had
to kill Malachi Jones because he was a possible connection to us.  St. John
wasn't too happy about doing business with a drug dealer ... especially a
black drug dealer."

     "We've been over this before," Stylles said, his voice weary.  "And
about confiscating the cocaine and heroin to be sold for funds for our
cause.  Maybe it's unsavory, but it is profitable.  St. John's attitude
gets too extreme for my taste."

     "I never figured you for a liberal, Ray.  Still, most of our people
were with St. John when he first started this place, and white supremacy
was one of the keystones to building his private army.  Their notions of
law and order are pretty much the same as ours, even if they do go
overboard with 'ethnic purity' and the rest of their hate philosophy."

     "We're going to have our hands full establishing a national police
force, getting support from the government and the general public, as well
as seeking out and destroying criminal elements in our society.  We don't
need to start a race war on top of that."

     "To tell you the truth," Gallow said, "the captain isn't very happy
that you've taken it upon yourself to make decisions without informing us
first.  He thinks it was premature to contact the President, and he didn't
like you changing the target from Milwaukee to Detroit without giving us a
reason."

     "Really?  And what do you think, Andy?"

     "I'm not a strategist.  I'm more a technician, without the background
in police or military action that you and Zach can claim.  Still, I'm
supposed to be one of the leaders here, and I thought my opinion mattered."

     "Of course it does," Stylles replied.  "Let's find St. John and settle
this matter together."



     They found Zachary St. John in the gym practicing his martial arts.
He was sparring with two of his soldier followers, all three dressed in
sweatsuits, with leather head-guards, codpiece crotch protectors and boxing
gloves.

     Stylles focused on St. John.  The former Airborne Ranger was a hell of
a fighter.  He faced the troopers in a two-against-one contest, but he
still dominated.  His gloved fists hammered one opponent with a left jab
that forced the man to raise his hands to protect his face, then he quickly
altered his left to a hook, hitting his opponent in the side of the head.
He followed that up with a right uppercut that lifted the man off his feet
and threw him onto his back.

     The second adversary moved forward, but St. John weaved out of reach
of his flailing fist.  He counterattacked with a snap kick to his
opponent's unprotected abdomen.  Winded, the man staggered backward.  St.
John advanced, driving a straight right to his breastbone.  The blow
knocked the trooper off balance, and he fell to the mat as the first man
rose once more.

     He charged St. John, then suddenly leaped forward, one leg extended in
a flying jump kick.  It was a flashy, dramatic technique that seemed better
suited to a scene from a kung-fu movie than actual combat.  The captain
sidestepped the attack.  His opponent sailed past him, unable to alter his
path in midair.  St. John moved behind the attacker and pumped a punch to a
kidney.  The man dropped like a stone and landed on his back.

     "What was that, Captain?" Stylles asked as he approached St. John.
"Contact karate or kick boxing?"

     "It doesn't matter what you call it," St. John replied, his voice even
and his breath hardly labored by the exercise, "as long as it works."

     "This sort of training really isn't necessary because my body armor
makes you impervious to any black belt's punch or kick.  The steel gauntlet
allows you to strike with greater force than you could ever manage with
your bare hands, regardless of how much boxing or karate practice you might
do," Gallow said.

     "Physical fitness is possibly the most important part of a soldier's
training," the captain replied, removing his headgear.

     "If you've finished beating up those two, Zach, we need to talk to
you," Stylles said.

     "I want to talk to you, too," the captain snapped, "and the big
question is, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

     Stylles shook his head, waiting for the troopers to leave the gym.
Once alone, the three leaders of the Juggernauts could converse more
freely.  They all realized that quarreling in front of their followers
would cause the men to doubt their command ability and the success of their
movement.

     "All right," St. John said, picking up the thread of their
conversation.  "You called off the mission to the target site in Milwaukee
and changed it to an attack on your soul brother buddy in Detroit.  One of
our men came back in a body bag because of that, Ray."

     "I had to make that decision on short notice based on my telephone
conversation with Malachi Jones," Stylles explained.  "He had just met with
some guy who made him an offer to buy a load of cocaine at full-price, then
asked if Jones could supply him with heroin, as well.  It seemed too
suspicious to me.  So I told him to terminate this stranger who appeared
too good to be for real.  I had to take out Jones before he could do
anything that might put us at risk."

     "I can't believe you trusted that stupid dealer in the first place,"
the captain said.

     "Actually, he wasn't stupid," Stylles replied.  "I just had to make
sure we'd remain safe.  As for the death of David Holt, that was
unfortunate, but we knew we'd lose some good men when we started this
operation."

     "So much for your body armor making us invincible, Andy," St. John
said, turning to Gallow.

     "The bullets didn't pierce the body armor," the inventor insisted.
"The visor gave in after being struck repeatedly by Parabellum hot loads.
The late Mr. Holt was too arrogant and presented a clear target at close
range.  He also disobeyed a direct order when Ray told him to pull back so
they could flee the area."

     "If he became overconfident, it was because you gave us all reason to
feel that way," the captain said.  "I'd say that sense of invulnerability
has extended to you, Ray.  I'm talking about contacting the President."

     "That was part of our plan all along," Stylles replied.  "It seems to
have worked to a degree at least.  Have you noticed what the President has
said about my phone call?"

     "To the best of my knowledge he hasn't made any public mention he
spoke to you or that he knows anything about our plans for the future of
the Juggernauts."

     "Exactly," Stylles said with a sly smile.  "That's my point.  The
President hasn't mentioned it because he hasn't decided whether to accept
our offer.  Now, we should move on influencing the public to support us, as
well."

     "I think that might be a bit premature at this point," Gallow said
with a frown.  "I think we'd better be more concerned with how we're going
to continue to finance this operation.  Since you decided to terminate
Malachi Jones, our revenue from selling confiscated drugs is gone."

     "It'll take time to find another source we can deal with to move the
drugs," Stylles said.  "In the meantime, we need to find another target
that will provide us with a lucrative bounty.  Let me check our data banks
and update the information in the computers to see what's out there."

     "I don't like this," St. John admitted.  "We're moving too fast.  We
can't keep hitting target site after target site, throwing plans for
attacks just based on information from your computers and virtually no
reconnaissance."

     "Maybe we can slow our pace," Stylles said, "but first we have to take
care of our problem concerning public relations, putting pressure on the
government and securing our finances."

     "Ray has a point," Gallow cut in.  "We know the FBI and other federal
agencies are hunting us.  They're probably putting together all the clues
they can get their hands on.  Unfortunately they now have a Juggernaut
helmet, although we've been careful not to leave any fingerprints.  Since
all our equipment was developed independently, nothing can be traced to us,
but they'll continue to investigate.  They might already have all of us
listed as possible suspects because of our field of expertise already on
record.  I'm sure I'm a suspect, because I've worked on similar projects
for the military before."

     "So you don't think we should keep a lower profile?" St. John asked.

     "They'll eventually track us down whether we're active or not," Gallow
answered.  "The only way we can avoid being located and taken down by the
government will be if we can convince them to give us legitimate status as
a national law-enforcement arm before they come to arrest us as criminals."

     "Criminals?" the captain said and shook his head, clearly appalled at
the notion.  "How long do you think it'll take them to find us?"

     "We'll accomplish our mission and achieve our goals before that
happens," Stylles assured him.  "Trust me, Zach.  I know how these
bureaucrats think.  I used to work for them.  Elected and appointed
officials can always be counted on to do what they feel is in their best
interests.  They'll bend to the will of the public only if they think it
will keep them in office so they can enjoy the power they've worked so hard
to get.  It's a game.  You just have to know how to play it if you want to
win."

     "Holt is dead and the rest of us are at risk of being arrested," St.
John said, "so how can you call this a game?"

     "I didn't say it was a civilized game," Stylles replied.  "It's as
ruthless as hell.  If you win, you win big, but if you lose, you lose
everything.  We're not going to lose."


                                    15


     Kathleen Albert glanced at the papers on her desk and made some
notations on them.  She had earned her position as an evening news anchor
after three decades as a reporter, TV journalist and foreign correspondent
in numerous hot spots throughout the world.  She was no stranger to
handling breaking news stories, but she had never encountered anything
quite like this before.  She looked up from her notes and faced the
familiar red light that signaled the camera was on her.

     "We have just been informed of a live satellite broadcast at our
studio by a man who claims to represent the Juggernauts," she stated.
"This is allegedly the name of the mysterious group of armor-clad gunmen
who have been reported in recent crime scenes in Pittsburgh, Los Angeles,
Chicago and Detroit.  It is important to state that we do not have
confirmation that this individual is indeed associated with the
Juggernauts, but he is standing by on a satellite broadcast feed that is
used by our telecommunications system, and he has appeared to have broken
into this system.  I've been told we don't know the origin of the broadcast
or how this has been accomplished."

     A large TV screen at the end of Albert's desk displayed a figure.  The
metal helmet and tinted visor concealed the person's face, his body-armored
torso visible.  Behind him hung a white sheet, preventing any telltale
evidence that might betray the location of the broadcast.

     Kathleen Albert turned to face the monitor.  Her expression remained
professionally calm as she addressed the armored figure.

     "I believe you are violating several FCC regulations by this pirate
action," she began.

     "Not really," the distorted voice of Raymond Stylles replied.  "I
don't have time to waste, Ms. Albert.  I represent the Juggernauts, as you
already stated.  I don't intend to reveal my identity at this time, so
please don't ask me who I am, where I'm broadcasting from or any other
information I obviously have no desire to share."

     "Am I allowed to ask why you've decided to make a public statement?"
she inquired, an edge creeping into her voice.

     "I'm here to clarify the purpose of the Juggernauts," Stylles replied.
"We are a special anticrime unit, dedicated to dealing with the most
serious and dangerous threats to the United States of America.  We locate
the centers of extremely violent and well-armed criminal elements and stop
them.  Since they are ruthless killers, they have been reluctant to
surrender.  Unfortunately we haven't been able to make arrests, and we've
been forced to kill most of them in self-defense."

     "What do you mean by self-defense?  Our news reports say none of the
alleged criminals at any of these sites were placed under arrest by your
Juggernauts.  In fact a number of police and federal agents were apparently
killed by your group."

     "That is incorrect.  The law-enforcement personnel were actually
killed by the criminals we were attempting to apprehend.  Unfortunately
they used powerful weapons and explosives.  Standard police and federal
personnel do not have the protective armor, weapons and training of the
Juggernauts."

     "That conflicts with reports made by police investigators, the FBI and
the DEA.  It also does not explain why none of them know about your
organization or why you made no effort to cooperate with them, if you are a
lawful unit, as you claim."

     "That is a result of agencies failing to communicate," Stylles
answered.  "I'm afraid that's not uncommon when dealing with bureaucracies.
Let me assure you this misunderstanding is being corrected, and I'm sure
everything will be explained in the future.  I also want to assure the
law-abiding people of America they have nothing to fear from the
Juggernauts.  We are only a threat to criminals."

     "Are you suggesting that your organization has been created by the
federal government?" the news anchor challenged.  "That you have legal
authority to take the sort of action you have been?  No federal agency has
expressed approval of your Juggernauts.  In fact they say they have a
nationwide manhunt in progress for you and your group."

     "Of course they'd say that.  Those agencies are embarrassed to admit
that they've failed to deal with these criminals in the past and we've
succeeded.  They're trying to discredit us to save their own reputations.
We're making this public announcement to reassure the public and to warn
the criminals everywhere that the Juggernauts are a new kind of national
police force.  Perhaps if they realize the futility of resisting us,
they'll surrender in the future and we'll be able to place more of them
under arrest, instead of being forced to send them out in body bags."

     "Can you give us the names of any high-ranking officials in the
federal government who can support your claims?"

     "I believe you'll get a public statement from one or more high-ranking
individuals very soon," Stylles assured her with a chuckle.  "Thank you for
your time, Ms. Albert.  Goodbye for now."

     The monitor went blank.  Albert referred to her notes, finishing her
broadcast by recapping the interview with the Juggernaut as video footage
of the incidents in the four major cities appeared on the screen.



     Joel Ross shut off the VCR.  The President of the United States didn't
look at his adviser, but continued to stare at the blank TV screen from his
desk in the Oval Office, his expression grim.

     "This was broadcast live twenty minutes ago," Ross told him.  "It's
already being aired on newscasts across the country.  You can bet
ninety-five percent of the American people will have either seen it, read
or heard about it by tomorrow morning."

     "And they haven't been able to track down the origin of the
broadcast?" the President asked.  "These Juggernauts seem to be able to
link up with high-security telecommunications as easily as they can locate
criminal bases and carry out destructive raids."

     "Is this the same man you spoke with on Air Force One?" Ross asked.

     "That electronic device he uses to distort his voice and alter
voiceprints makes it difficult to be sure," the President answered, "but I
think it's the same guy."

     Joseph Briggs, the President's other adviser, began to pace the floor.
Ross glanced over his shoulder at Briggs, as if reluctant to have his eyes
off the other man.  The President felt that his advisers sometimes held
views he found extreme, so more often than not, he decided on a course of
action by looking for something in the middle of their recommendations.

     "So what do you plan to do, Mr. President?" Briggs inquired, twirling
a rubber band around his wrist.

     "My immediate reaction is to address the american people in a press
conference and declare that these Juggernauts are not, in any way, part of
the federal government.  That their actions have been completely illegal
and they are regarded as renegade criminals and killers, wanted for the
murders of law-enforcement officers, among their many crimes."

     "I agree with you one hundred percent, sir," Ross stated with a nod.
"We need to show that they're nothing but a bunch of vigilante madmen with
some funny outfits and assault rifles that should be completely outlawed
because they're only used to kill people."

     "They use submachine guns," Briggs corrected him, "not those
semiautomatic weapons that are referred to as assault rifles by the
gun-control people.  Submachine guns are already illegal, and the weapons
used by the Juggernauts appear to have been manufactured independently.  No
logos, stamps or serial numbers have been detected in enlarged photographs
of their arms.  They didn't buy those weapons in a gun shop or even from
any black-market dealer.  They made the damn things."

     "That's beside the point," Ross insisted.  "The President should
address the people and publicly denounce the Juggernauts as soon as
possible."

     "I said that was my immediate reaction.  I didn't say that's what I'd
do.  First, I'd like to hear what you both think, then I'll talk to the FBI
director, the press secretary and maybe a few other people."

     "Well," Briggs began, "I'm opposed to the idea.  It's too soon to
dismiss these Juggernauts as outlaws who might not serve a genuine role in
law enforcement."

     Ross turned to glare at the other adviser as if he thought the man had
completely lost his mind.  The President also seemed surprised by Briggs's
comment.

     "Sometimes I wonder if you say things just to see how we'll react,"
the Man responded.  "In this case I can't help but think you aren't really
serious."

     "Since when did the U.S. government need a band of professional
killers?" Ross asked.

     "We've dropped bombs on cities and launched missiles into populated
areas," Briggs said with a shrug.  "Our military personnel might not be
professional killers, but those were actions that definitely killed a lot
of people."

     "That's different," Ross insisted.  "That's war."

     "Haven't you heard about our war on drugs?  The war on crime?  We try
to convince the public we're serious in those 'war' efforts whenever we
pass a new crime legislation that'll cost the taxpayers another billion
dollars or so.  The public generally supports this, too, because they worry
about crime.  Some of them have lost family members due to drive-by
shootings and other gang-related violence.  They worry about terrorist
bombings like those that happened in New York and Oklahoma, the sort of
thing they used to think only happened in other countries."

     "We managed to deal with those problems without creating a death squad
to handle them," the President replied.

     "The American public might disagree with you, sir.  Take a look at the
targets the Juggernauts picked.  They killed a gang of murderous bank
robbers.  They struck at a major crack house in Los Angeles that everybody
in the city knew about--including the police.  Local cops didn't take
action, because it was simply too dangerous to launch a raid on the place."

     "That's an outrageous claim and an insult to the police," Ross
declared.

     "Then why wasn't any action taken against it before?" Briggs
countered.  "I'm not saying the cops are cowards.  Over and over we've
heard police complain that the gangs and drug dealers are better armed than
they are.  We hear it from the DEA.  They say the drug cartels have too
much money, too much firepower and they're too powerful to be defeated.
Sure, the DEA and the FBI had those Russian criminals under surveillance,
but they didn't intend to raid them the night the Juggernauts went in and
wiped them Out before that heroin could get on the streets, before it could
be sold to kids and to freaked out junkies who would commit crimes of
violence to buy more."

     "The Juggernauts killed several police and agents, the President
reminded him.

     "We don't know if they started shooting at the Juggernauts first,"
Briggs replied.  "The Juggernauts might have been acting in self-defense."

     "Oh, hell," Ross said, "that's absurd!"

     "The fact is, the cops and the Feds weren't the targets.  They
wouldn't have been hurt if they hadn't gotten in the way of the
Juggernauts.  I'm not saying that what the enforcers did was right-"

     "I should say not," the President interrupted him.

     "But this sort of thing might not happen again if the Juggernauts have
authorization to take action in the future," Briggs insisted.  "Whether we
like it or not, they've been able to do what no one else has been able to.
They already have an impressive Intelligence network, their body armor and
weapons are incredible and they sure as hell have guts.  Maybe we ought to
enlist them and take advantage of their abilities.  That way we can keep
them from getting out of control."

     "They're terrorists and murderers.  The United States government
doesn't do business with people like that, Joe."

     "We don't?" Briggs asked with raised eyebrows.  "What about Batista,
Somoza, Marcos, the Shah of Iran and a bunch of other nasty people who
oppressed and tortured their own people?  We supported their governments.
We had a lot of them visit this very building as honored guests.  When
Khrushchev visited the U.S., he was treated like a respected head of state,
although he was known as the Butcher of Budapest for slaughter carried out
by the Soviet Union against Hungary in the late fifties and early sixties.
That's politics, Joel.  You do business with all sorts of rotten people
when you figure it's in your own best interests to have them on your side
rather than against you."

     "Surely you don't agree with this, Mr. President?"

     The Man leaned back in his chair and uttered a long sigh.  He didn't
like what Briggs said, but he realized there was some truth to it.  He was
opposed to the notion of giving in to the Juggernauts.  Still, he had been
forced to compromise what he believed to be the right choice more times
than he cared to admit since he took the highest executive office in the
United States.  He hoped this wouldn't prove to be another bitter pill to
gag on.

     "I've decided to hold off on a press conference until I get a chance
to talk to some more people and hear their advice," the President
announced.  "I need to make some phone calls, and I want to do that
privately."

     "Yes, sir," Ross replied with a nod.

     He backed toward the door, still nodding until it changed to a series
of bows.  The President often found his sycophantic behavior annoying.
Briggs might be pragmatic, but at least he left the Oval Office with a
simple wave and a snap of the rubber band on his wrist.

     The President was eager to contact Stony Man Farm.  He hoped Hal
Brognola had some encouraging news about the Juggernauts.  He could really
use some good news, the way things were going.


                                    16


     Aaron Kurtzman rolled his wheelchair from the elevator to the Stony
Man War Room, a stack of printouts and fax copies on his lap.  Hal Brognola
had removed a glass case from a special red phone by the table.  Kurtzman
knew that was the hot line so he knew who the big Fed spoke with even
before he heard the man address the person on the other end.

     "Yes, Mr. President," Brognola said, "we know about the Juggernaut's
broadcast.  We tracked the teletransmission to a communications satellite
in orbit over the Atlantic.  It appears to have been transmitted from
another satellite, on a NSA telemetry Signal Intelligence model.  Somebody
knew the pattern of both orbits and managed to bounce a television
broadcast of the SIGINT satellite to the telecommunications system.  Sort
of a high-tech pool shot, and a pretty slick trick."

     "it impressed the hell out of me," Kurtzman muttered.

     Brognola cast a glance at him, then turned back to the phone.  He
listened to the President for a moment, then spoke into the handset again.

     "No, we're not sure about the point of origin, but we suspect it was
probably done with a radar transmitter system that could be mounted on a
truck.  Even if we do locate the area of the transmission, the Juggernauts
will already be long gone.  These guys have brains to go along with their
steel-plated armor."

     The big Fed rolled his eyes at something the President said.

     "I don't admire them," Brognola assured the President, "but you have
to respect an enemy's abilities.  You know we've made progress, and we're
working on this mission around the clock.  I wish I could tell you we'll
have this wrapped up in twenty-four hours, but we can't put a specific time
limit on it.  All I can say is that we're checking out some promising leads
and hope to be able to bring this to an end soon."

     The big Fed listened again, then responded.  "A spontaneous press
conference?  No, I don't think that would be a good idea.  The media will
obviously question you about the Juggernauts, and there's no need to give
them more attention with a special press conference, Mr. President."

     "What's he supposed to say?" Kurtzman wondered aloud.  "Tell everybody
the Juggernauts called him on a secure line to Air Force One?  That's like
saying these guys are even smarter and more sophisticated than they proved
to be by breaking into that telecommunications broadcast."

     Brognola caught Kurtzman's eye and raised a finger to his lips,
signaling for silence as he listened to the President.  The computer expert
shrugged and sorted through his paperwork while he waited for the
conversation to end.

     "One of your advisers actually said that?" Brognola asked.  "No way,
Mr. President.  You can't even consider the possibility of making a deal
with these Juggernaut killers.  Personally I don't think you should have a
press conference or even make an official statement at this time.  Yes, I
know you feel that way and I understand the urge to respond immediately to
the broadcast.  If the media does ask you about the broadcast, you can tell
them that it hasn't even been confirmed if it was genuine or a hoax.  If
they ask your opinion about the Juggernauts' general behavior and raids on
criminal outfits, you can tell them that the matter is part of a federal
investigation still in progress, so you can't comment at this time."

     He listened to the President for another moment, then said, "We do
appreciate how important this mission is, and we'll contact you when we
have something to tell you.  Thank you for the call."

     He hung up and turned to Kurtzman, who placed his elbows on the
armrests of his chair and locked his fingers.

     "What does the President expect us to do that we're not doing
already?" he asked.

     "He just wants this to be over.  The Juggernauts aren't merely a band
of vigilantes.  They're trying to establish themselves as a national
authority by force and coercion.  Now they've made their intentions a
matter of official public record, and the President is under pressure to
decide what to do about them.  He contacted us again because he wants us to
realize how important this is.  He understands we know it already, but
right now there isn't much else he can do.  His advisers don't seem to be
much help."

     "And one of them even suggested he consider making a deal with the
Juggernauts?" Kurtzman asked.  "Is he serious?"

     "Probably," Brognola said with a sigh.  "The problem is a large number
of people will look at what the Juggernauts offer as a good idea.  Send in
the shock troops to kick ass seems like a good way to deal with crime.
Hell, that's sort of what we do here at the Farm.  The big difference is we
deal with emergency situations and only use force when it's necessary.  We
keep a low profile and tight security so we can operate with a small number
of people who handle specialized jobs the big Intelligence and
law-enforcement agencies can't handle.  These Juggernauts want to set
themselves up as stormtroopers who will use force, or the threat of force,
to bully their way into power.  They don't serve the interests of this
country.  They want the country to put them in charge and let them do what
they want, any damn way they want to do it."

     "Well," Kurtzman remarked, "they're going to find out that they won't
get their way and disappointment can be a real bitch."

     "It sounds like you got something."

     "I'll explain when Striker gets here."

     As if on cue, the elevator doors opened and Bolan emerged.  He still
carried the modified .44 Magnum Desert Eagle in a hip holster.  He had just
spent hours at the firing range familiarizing himself with the special
armor-piercing hot-load ammunition developed by Kissinger for the .44 and
FAL assault rifle.

     "Got those weapons broken in?" Brognola asked.

     "I'd say they're combat ready," Bolan answered, "although you never
know for sure until you actually use a weapon in the field."

     "You might get another chance at the Juggernauts sooner than we
thought," Kurtzman said.  "I had the computers evaluate information about
these guys to try to determine where they might strike next.  A big concern
for them is that they lost their buyer for confiscated drugs when they
punched Malachi Jones's ticket to the hereafter.  They lost a source of
income when that happened, which means they'll probably be looking for a
target that can gain them a lot of cash in a hurry.  They need a big score,
and I think we might have a pretty good idea what it'll be."

     He turned to the material on the table.  Bolan approached as Kurtzman
selected a fax photo and file from his data.  The Executioner examined the
color picture of a man dressed in a blue suit with a matching tie.  His
straw-colored hair was professionally styled, as if he were a model, but
his wide, pockmarked face, toad-like mouth and small, cruel blue eyes
suggested he didn't make a living with his looks.

     "That's Lorenzo Chicama," Kurtzman said, "a native of Peru, currently
residing in Miami, Florida.  He's listed as a visitor assigned to oversee
shipments of copper and silver imported from his country to the U.S., but
he seems to spend most of his time just hanging out at home and having a
good time at various Miami nightclubs and social gatherings.  In some
circles he's referred to as Daddy Inca.

     "Chicama has a pretty nice life-style.  He lives in a big house, which
could be called a medium-sized mansion--spacious yard, pretty garden,
kidney-shaped swimming pool and a stone wall with iron gates for privacy
and security in a quiet out-of-the-way area.  Not that he owns the house.
A good friend, who just happens to be a rich movie star who owns a couple
of other big houses in California and Hawaii, and a big luxury apartment in
New York City, lets him stay there rent free.  I guess he can afford to be
generous.  The guy can also afford some expensive habits."

     "Would cocaine happen to be among those habits?" Bolan inquired.

     "You've got it," Kurtzman said.

     "Chicama could easily smuggle in a hell of a lot of cocaine with
legitimate shipments of silver and copper.  If he has connections with a
respectable metallurgist here in the U.S., customs probably doesn't search
the deliveries too hard," Brognola said.

     "Looks like that's probably what's going on," Kurtzman confirmed.
"Chicama seems to spend a lot of time with folks associated with cocaine
use or distribution.  DEA surveillance of a number of big dealers in Miami
have spotted him time and time again.  They had him under surveillance for
a while, but they never caught him making a deal, selling coke, using it or
carrying a milligram of white powder."

     "But he still lives like a king and has lots of money," Bolan said.
"Yet nobody asks how he does this?"

     "The guy's popular," Kurtzman answered.  "He rides around in a
Mercedes he doesn't own.  A certain Miami doctor has loaned it to him as
long as he's staying in the U.S.  He likes to go to nightclubs and
restaurants where the owners give him everything on the house or are happy
to accept his IOUs.  All these people happen to be into cocaine in a big
way.  Even the money he has isn't really his.  People have 'loaned' it to
him or asked him to 'hold on to it for them."  He even has documentation to
back this up.  Written agreements, signed by trusting souls who claim they
trust him to pay them back with interest when he returns to Peru."

     "How much money is he currently holding?"

     "Probably in the neighborhood of five or six million dollars,"
Kurtzman replied.  "Which is pretty nice when you consider how few expenses
the guy has.  Since he's not a U.S. citizen, the IRS can't really do much
about him.  He claims a certain amount of income through import deals and
has an accountant in Lima handle his taxes back home."

     "How about getting him deported as an undesirable?" Brognola asked.
"The Department of Justice helps investigations for the Department of
Immigration.  There's enough suspicious business here to suggest he's
involved in something dirty, even if he hasn't been caught red-handed."

     "Justice isn't eager to get involved in this," Kurtzman explained.
"The DEA has backed off, too.  Chicama found out they were investigating
him, and he got a bunch of lawyers to lay charges of harassment based on
racism and prejudice against him because he's from South America.  As the
DEA didn't have any real proof, they had to stop bird-dogging him."

     "He keeps a multimillion-dollar fortune in cash at that house?" Bolan
asked.  "Not in somebody's borrowed bank account?"

     "According to our information, he has most of it in a wall safe, or
tucked under his mattress," Kurtzman confirmed.

     "A tempting target for anybody who knows about it," Bolan commented.
"What's he got for security?"

     "A pretty standard system with some alarms and a line that signals the
police.  It would probably take the cops ten minutes to get there if the
alarm to them wasn't cut off by whoever decided to hit the place.  That
wouldn't be hard to do by anybody with access to the blueprints and
electrical wiring system.  The Juggernauts have been able to get
information a hell of a lot more difficult to acquire than that."

     "What kind of personal protection does Daddy Inca have?"

     "A twelve-man guard force.  All are relatives from Peru--two younger
brothers and ten cousins.  None of them have criminal records, at least
nothing that showed up in a background check.  A couple of judges helped to
cut some red tape for Chicama's family to legally pack heat.  They carry
various types of handguns, and keep semiautomatic rifles and shotguns at
the mansion as well.  It's enough to protect him and his cash from most
threats, but I doubt they're prepared for a raid by the Juggernauts."

     "It sounds like a pretty tempting target," Brognola mused.  "Lots of
money, no Feds or police to speak of--not that the Juggernauts would reject
a target due to the presence of law-enforcement officers, but I don't think
they want to kill any more cops while they're trying to court public
support--and the target is a bad guy involved in drug trafficking.
Everybody knows Chicama is dirty, but nobody can touch him.  Then along
come the Juggernauts and take him out.  A bunch of frustrated Americans
will cheer and say it's about time somebody nailed slick suckers like Daddy
Inca."

     "There are some other crooked bastards out there with a ton of cash,"
Kurtzman said, "but none as ripe for the picking as Chicama.  Most are
under surveillance by local or federal authorities, and a couple of them
are better protected than this Peruvian.  One or two others might be
tempting, but I'd have to say this guy has to be the top choice."

     "Let's make sure," Brognola said.  "I'll get Leo and his connections
with Justice to make sure there is a renewed interest in the other possible
targets.  Have them hauled in for questioning if there are any grounds.
We'll want the Feds to be visible to discourage the Juggernauts.  These
enforcers have pipelines into federal computer systems, so we'll also want
lots of reports flooding in to make sure the Juggernauts know these sites
won't be so easy."

     "Can Cowboy make more modified weapons for Able Team and Phoenix
Force?" Kurtzman asked.  "We don't want Mack to have to go up against these
armor-plated killers by himself."

     "Not on such short notice," Bolan answered.  "Besides, we can't risk
having our stakeout noticed by the Juggernauts.  They'll know it's a trap
if they spot anybody stationed near Chicama's place.  One man can stay
hidden a lot better than a group."

     "I don't like you doing this alone," Brognola said with a frown.

     "I'm not thrilled with the idea myself," the Executioner admitted,
"but it's still the best way to handle it."

     "We'll still try to arrange a backup that can be called in if you need
them," the big Fed said.

     "I've got one more item," Kurtzman announced.  "This one came in from
Leo in Detroit.  While investigating the slaughter of Malachi Jones and his
cronies, investigators discovered that Jones managed to switch on a tape
recorder before the Juggernauts killed him.  On it, he referred to one of
his assassins as Webster.  They even had a brief conversation before
Jones's skull was rearranged by a 10 mm slug.  Webster apologized for
having to kill Jones.  Wasn't that considerate?"

     "Do they have enough for a decent voiceprint?" Bolan asked.

     "The voice was muffled," Kurtzman answered.  "He was probably wearing
a helmet at the time.  So they're not sure about a voiceprint, and there
are a limited number of them on file anyway.  The name Webster is almost
certainly a cover name."

     "Wasn't there a former FBI director named Webster?" Bolan inquired.

     "William Webster was Bureau director back in the late 1970s," Kurtzman
answered, displaying his brain was as impressive a source of information as
any of his computers.  "You think the guy is FBI or a former Fed?  Well,
the Juggernauts sure know how to tap into government data sources, current
intel and communications under federal regulation."

     "You think this Juggernaut has decided to take an identity that would
satisfy some sense of nostalgia for his old days in the Bureau?  So he
chooses his former boss's name?" Brognola said.  "That might be stretching
it, Striker.  Maybe if he used the cover name of Hoover or Sessions, I'd be
more inclined to think there might be a connection."

     "Hell," Kurtzman growled, "these Juggernauts are a crazy bunch, so we
don't know what might inspire them.  They want to establish themselves as a
sort of elite national police force.  Maybe an ex-Fed would find that
appealing.  Especially if he had a personality that combined a desire for
law and order under an iron fist with a drive for personal power and
authority.  That kind of thing might have gotten him bounced out of the FBI
or some other outfit."

     We could be barking up the wrong speculative tree altogether,"
Brognola said.  "It won't make much difference if the Juggernauts are
former FBI, or whatever, who want to make the world safe, when Striker
encounters them in the field again.  Maybe the new ammunition Cowboy came
up with can penetrate Juggernaut armor, but you won't have any bulletproof
vest that can protect you from those supercharged 10 mm rounds they use,
either."

     "Yeah," Bolan said, "I'm aware of that.  I also know from past
experience their armor-piercing ammunition can punch right through a lot of
materials one might use for cover in a firefight.  I'll just have to make
sure I don't get shot."


                                    17


     It has been said that money couldn't buy happiness, but it could
certainly keep misery at a distance.  Lorenzo Chicama appeared to be quite
happy as he frolicked in a whirlpool tub with two young women, a stereo
system providing background music.  Chinese lanterns hung from wires above
the tub, and a poolside tray held champagne.  They paid no attention to the
two gun-toting men who patrolled the larger kidney-shaped pool nearby.

     The Executioner lay on his belly less than three hundred yards away,
observing the mansion through a Starlight scope.  He swept his instrument
across the gates, stone walls and armed guards around the site--adequate
protection from anything less than a major assault by a company of
well-armed troops, or half a dozen Juggernauts.

     Bolan had been in position for three hours, but time dragged under the
conditions of his watch.  He was dressed in a combat blacksuit, with the
modified .44 Magnum Desert Eagle in a hip holster and three M-26
fragmentation grenades on his belt.  He carried spare magazines for the big
pistol, as well as the FAL assault rifle that lay beside him.  He'd
included night-vision goggles, a Ka-bar combat knife and two garrotes.
Also on hand was a radio transceiver.  The compact unit would keep him in
touch with Able Team, posted one and one-half miles from his position,
allowing him to communicate with them by means of the earplug and throat
mike he wore.  They would provide backup in an emergency, although Bolan
knew he would be reluctant to do so because Schwarz, Blancanales and Lyons
weren't armed with Kissinger's special armor-piercing ammunition and
modified weapons.  He would call on his fellow Stony Man warriors only if
it came down to the wire.

     The soldier did another survey of the big house.  He realized he might
be stuck at his post until dawn without any sign of the Juggernauts.  Then,
too, the armor-plated vigilantes might have picked a different target, or
decided to lie low for a while.  They might even decide to attack Chicama
or some other target in daylight, although all their previous raids had
been launched at night.

     Bolan rolled onto his side to stretch a cramped muscle.  A flash of
light by the driveway to the mansion suddenly drew his attention back to
the site.  Raising the Starlight scope, he peered down at the two vans with
bulky frames and tinted glass that rolled to the front gate, as four guards
assembled by the entrance to see who the late-night callers might be.

     The Executioner instantly recognized the Juggernaut-style armored
vehicles.  He didn't need more evidence that the enemy had arrived.
Reaching for the FAL assault rifle, he left his cover and sprinted to his
Ford Taurus, parked behind a row of bushes and laced with loose tree
branches for additional camouflage.

     As he slid behind the steering wheel, he heard the bellow of
explosions in the distance and guessed that the Juggernauts had probably
blown the gates with grenades.

     Turning on the ignition, he steered the car around the bushes and
rolled downhill to the road.  Although it branched off from the busy
Palmetto Expressway to greater Miami, the side road was seldom traveled and
Bolan encountered no traffic at that hour.  He hit the road and accelerated
as he headed for Chicama's home.  He didn't turn on the headlights but
relied on his night-vision goggles to allow him to see the road in the
dark.

     Then the Executioner heard gunfire.  The hill blocked his view of the
house, but he knew Chicama's goons wouldn't last long against the
Juggernauts.  Two vehicles had arrived at the mansion, which meant the
attack force was probably twice as large as the previous Juggernaut raids.
It would mean taking on eight or ten armor-plated opponents instead of four
or five as before.

     He took a bend in the road and caught sight of the outline of the
estate.  Lights popped on rapidly at the site, as if a mob of paparazzis
had converged on the home of a celebrity.  The sounds of battle grew louder
as the Taurus reached the driveway.  The Executioner parked at the shoulder
and grabbed his rifle.  Kissinger's superammunition was about to get the
ultimate test in the field, Bolan thought, aware that his life depended on
whether the armor-piercing rounds proved effective against the Juggernauts.

     Twin columns of poplars flanked the driveway.  Bolan used the slender
trees for cover as he advanced on foot, the gloom of night and the
surrounding shadows supplying extra concealment.

     He came upon the vans parked in front of the mangled metal that had
formerly been iron gates.  The bloodied remains of Daddy Inca's thugs
littered the area.  A single armed figure clad in gray body armor and
helmet stood guard by the vehicles, his attention focused on the big house
and the battle that continued to rage inside the property.  Apparently the
sentry was more interested in the conflict between his comrades and the
hoods than concerned with any threat from the road.

     The Executioner knew he had to take advantage of the situation.
Raising the butt-stock of the FAL to his shoulder, he aimed at the broad
backplate of the Juggernaut.  Bolan didn't like taking out an opponent in
this manner.  To kill a man who was facing you--coming at you to cause
death or injury--was clear self-defense.  Shooting a man from behind,
without warning, was something different.

     But Bolan was at war.  The Juggernauts had started the nation-wide
conflict, and they had to be stopped.  He couldn't take chances with an
enemy as ruthless and dangerous as the armor-clad killers.  Setting the
sights of the rifle at the back of the sentry's helmet, he squeezed the
trigger.

     The FAL roared and kicked back into his shoulder.  The Juggernaut's
head jerked violently to the side from the impact of the 7.62 mm round.
The Executioner saw the bullet hole in the helmet even before the sentry
collapsed to the ground.

     Bolan moved forward to the fallen form and glanced at the body.  An
exit hole in the helmet left no doubt that the modified bullet had pierced
the Juggernaut's skull.  The dead vigilante didn't appear human--just a
lump of curious junk, a robot that had toppled after the Off switch had
been pressed.

     Movement at the wide steps to the front of the house caught the
soldier's attention.  Two Juggernauts had emerged, each carrying a canvas
bag in one gloved hand and a 10 mm submachine gun in the other.  Alive and
mobile, the armored opponents presented a very different and dangerous
image.  Bolan flicked the fire selector switch on the rifle from semi- to
full-automatic as the pair approached.

     "Watch out!" yelled a voice muffled by a helmet.

     The Juggernaut had spotted Bolan.  As he dropped his bag to grab the
subgun with both hands, the Executioner aimed his weapon.  He had a second
to notice the other Juggernaut didn't appear alarmed, probably confident
his body armor would protect him.  Bolan concentrated on the enemy about to
bring his subgun into play and triggered a 3-round burst.  A triangle of
bullet holes in the opponent's breastplate marked Bolan's accuracy.  The
weapon slipped from gloved fingers as the Juggernaut stumbled backward,
then crashed to the ground.

     Astonished at seeing a comrade in supposedly invincible armor go down,
the second Juggernaut stood frozen for a moment.  Then he cast aside his
bag and grabbed his weapon, as he tried to make for the shelter of a marble
statue by an outdoor fountain.  The body armor wasn't designed for speed,
and the gunman's efforts were slow and clumsy.  Bolan tracked him, drilling
him with another trio of metal-piercing projectiles.  The man was knocked
off balance from the force of the bullets, and he slammed into the statue,
snapping off a marble arm.  The Juggernaut collapsed to the ground, the
amputated stone arm sticking up incongruously from beneath his own arm.

     Bolan advanced.  He stepped across the smashed iron gates to enter the
spacious grounds, complete with rose gardens, ornate fountains and more
marble figures.  More gray armored enforcers appeared at the front entrance
to the mansion.  They saw their slain comrades and scanned the area for the
cause.  The soldier sprinted for cover by a pair of stone nymphs, then
raised his FAL and opened fire.

     The enemy returned fire.  The 10 mm hot loads pelted the area around
the Executioner, exploding the marble head of a nymph and showering him
with stone fragments.  Bolan responded immediately, more to impair their
marksmanship than to bring down an opponent from that distance.

     The Juggernauts marched toward the soldier's position, submachine guns
blasting.  Bolan ducked his head around the edge of the statue to get a fix
on where the enemy was and how many he had to deal with.  Three armored
killers had moved within twenty yards of him.  If they could keep him
pinned down, the trio could separate and catch him in a cross fire at close
range.  They might also try to use grenades, Bolan realized.  However, he,
too, carried M-26 fraggers, and he decided to use the explosives before the
killers chose that option.

     The Executioner yanked the pin from a grenade and popped the spoon.
Gripping the M-26 in one hand, he fired the rifle with the other, the
barrel jammed against the side of the statue.  Using his rifle fire to
discourage his opponents from closing in or fanning out, Bolan hurled the
grenade at the enemy.

     He ducked behind the marble figures as the bomb exploded.  The force
of the blast knocked off chunks of white marble, and dust rained onto
Bolan's back and shoulders.  He shook off the debris and swung around what
remained of the statues.

     One Juggernaut lay on his back, his breastplate smashed in like a
dented tin can.  The man's helmet was gone, and so was most of his face.
Another vigilante lay sprawled on the ground, his arm ripped off at the
shoulder.  The third Juggernaut was on his hands and knees.  He had lost
his submachine gun and although stunned by the explosion, he didn't appear
to be mortally wounded.

     Yet another armored figure emerged from the house, a sack of loot
slung over a shoulder and a submachine gun held in his hand.  The dazed
Juggernaut began to rise, but Bolan swung his FAL toward the newest and
potentially more serious threat.  He snap aimed for the man at the head of
the stairs and squeezed the trigger.  Nothing happened.  He glanced at the
open chamber port and realized he had exhausted his ammunition.

     The Juggernaut who had been knocked down by the explosion was on his
feet, and he realized Bolan's rifle was empty.  He bellowed and charged,
fists balled, prepared to beat his adversary to death with his steel
gauntlets.  The hardman on the stairs took in the scene below and discarded
his booty to grip his weapon with both hands.  He descended the stone
steps, his subgun aimed at Bolan, but held his fire as his comrade launched
himself at the Executioner.

     Bolan didn't have time to reload the FAL or draw the Desert Eagle from
hip leather.  He quickly adjusted his hold on the rifle, gripping the
barrel and frame.  The fist-wielding Juggernaut drew closer and threw a
wild right at the Executioner.  Bolan parried the attack by bringing the
rifle's steel barrel to the outside of his attacker's forearm, turning the
shaft in a circular motion and slipping it inside the crook of the man's
elbow.

     The Executioner stepped to the right of his opponent and shoved the
FAL higher in a rapid motion.  The startled Juggernaut suddenly found his
arm twisted back in a hammerlock, secured by the rifle's barrel.  Despite
the fancy body armor, the joints inside remained human, and Bolan had
gotten control of his adversary's arm.  He gripped the barrel near the
muzzle with one hand to hold the FAL like a bar and increased the pressure
on the limb trapped behind the Juggernaut's back.

     The man on the stairs advanced as fast as his armor would allow, and
tried to move into position to get a clear shot at Bolan.  He aimed his
subgun and the soldier turned sharply, forcing the captive Juggernaut to
move with him.  The submachine gun snarled and Bolan felt his prisoner
convulse.  The gunman had shot his fellow Juggernaut in the breastplate
with at least three 10 mm armor-piercing rounds.

     Swiftly Bolan drew his .44 Magnum with one hand as he shoved the dying
hardman toward his comrade with the other.  The Executioner dropped to one
knee and fired the big pistol the instant he saw the gunman's metal torso.
The .44 roared and the special Magnum load hit the Juggernaut in the center
of his breastplate.  The powerful round drove back his adversary, and Bolan
shot him again with a .44 left of center.  The Juggernaut went down hard,
his body twitching inside the metal shell until he lay still.

     The roar of a car engine penetrated Bolan's ears over the ringing
aftereffects of the battle.  Two bright white lights appeared, advancing
rapidly.  Bolan hit the ground and rolled away from the onrushing vehicle,
coming up in a kneeling stance as he saw a black Mercedes bolt for the
driveway.

     The Executioner fired at the fleeing vehicle.  The .44 Magnum round
burst the trunk latch and it popped open, but the Mercedes kept on going.
Suddenly a metal sphere was hurled from the car's window, landing by the
abandoned vans.  Bolan ducked just before the grenade exploded.  The blast
tore apart one van, igniting the fuel tank.  Burning wreckage quickly
covered the driveway, and soon the second van was shrouded in flaming
gasoline.

     Bolan had lost sight of the Mercedes, and he realized that by the time
he got past the fiery debris to reach the Ford Taurus, the escaping vehicle
would be long gone.  He knew he could radio Able Team to try to cut off the
Mercedes, but as he didn't know which direction the big black car had
taken, their odds of finding it would be no higher.

     "Well," Bolan said to himself as he glanced about the combat zone,
"most of them didn't get away this time.  The rest just got a reprieve."


                                    18


     John Kissinger raised a muscular arm, his hand, wrist and forearm
covered by a Juggernaut's gauntlet.  He clenched his gloved fist and swung
it like a hammer into a thick pine board set between a pair of sawhorses.
Wood cracked and the board snapped in the middle.

     "An instant karate expert," Hal Brognola commented.

     Mack Bolan looked on as Kissinger removed the gauntlet and handed it
to Brognola.

     "This thing turns your hand into a steel war club," Kissinger said.
"This Juggernaut body armor is pretty impressive.  Their submachine guns
aren't shabby, either.  Good craftsmanship went into the design of those
weapons, although they are heavy, what with all the reinforcement needed to
handle those superhot 10 mm rounds, and the rate of fire is slow.  Still,
the Juggernauts have a decent firearm.  The 10 mm is a nice touch.  Haven't
I said that caliber has the potential to be the top choice in the future?"

     "I think we've heard you mention that before," Brognola replied in a
weary tone, "but Striker didn't bring this stuff back from Miami so you
could start a Juggernaut fan club.  We want you to help us take out these
clowns."

     "Mack took out six or seven of them using the ammo I made for the
Desert Eagle and the FAL," Kissinger countered, "so I am doing my job."

     "Yeah," Bolan confirmed.  "They worked just fine."

     The telephone rang in Kissinger's workshop, and he picked up the
receiver.  He listened for a moment, said, "I'll tell them," and hung up.

     "That was Aaron," he announced.  "Says he's got something for you, and
he'll meet you two in the War Room."

     Bolan and Brognola headed for the Farm's War Room, where Aaron
Kurtzman was already waiting for them.  He had another stack of papers and
faxes in front of him.  Brognola stuck an unlit cigar into his mouth and
slumped into his chair.

     "First," Kurtzman began, "we've got some reports from the Miami
police.  Quite a slaughter at that Chicama's place.  Of course, you already
know the Juggernauts killed everybody there--Daddy Inca, his bodyguards and
a couple of high-priced ladies.  Add on the seven Juggernauts Striker took
out, and the total comes to twenty-two.  That's a lot of body bags for one
place."

     "What do the police think happened?" the big Fed asked, chewing on his
cigar.

     "They think it was about drugs, one way or the other.  They found
sacks filled with money and figured it was an attempted rip-off.  They seem
to think the Juggernauts and Chicama's people killed each other."

     "Is that what they're telling the media?" Brognola asked.

     "The Miami cops are in touch with the FBI and Justice.  They know this
is a concern for the federal government and that the Juggernauts have
struck all over the nation.  The police have agreed to keep a lid on the
Juggernauts' involvement for the next twenty-four hours to give the Feds
time to consider if this Is a matter of national security and how to handle
it."

     "That's quite a stack of information you've got there," Bolan said,
nodding at Kurtzman's files.  "Is it all police reports, or is there
anything more useful in there?"

     "Glad you asked," Kurtzman replied as he sorted through his papers and
selected several faxes.  "We've got positive IDs on five of the dead
Juggernauts in Miami.  The other two were either mangled by explosions or
burned pretty bad.  The FBI is still working on them to be sure."

     "Good," Brognola said.  "Now we get to find out what kind of nut cases
would join a terrorist outfit, dress up in body armor and run around the
country carrying out murder, mayhem and attempted blackmail of the U.S.
government."

     "The answer isn't a big surprise," Kurtzman said.  "Three of these
guys had served time for criminal assault.  One got two years for
manslaughter in Maryland.  He beat a guy to death with an ax handle in a
parking lot outside a bar in Baltimore.  The other two Juggernauts were
also once charged in assault cases, but they managed to plea-bargain down
to misdemeanors."

     "All assault cases?" Bolan asked.  "No robbery, burglary or fraud?"

     "None.  There's an interesting trait all these guys seemed to have had
in common.  Just about all of them seemed to have gotten into trouble over
hate crimes with racial motives.  One guy had participated in beating up a
Vietnamese immigrant, and one real macho piece of work punched out a black
guy.  The one who beat another guy to death said he did it because the
fella followed him outside to continue an argument they'd had in the bar
over capital punishment.  Witnesses said he called the man he would later
kill a 'goddamn bleeding heart liberal who deserved a good ass-kicking,' or
words to that effect."

     "So these jerks were up-right citizens, except for nasty tendencies
like attacking minorities and killing liberals who disagreed with their
views," Brognola growled.

     "I imagine that's how they thought of themselves," Kurtzman replied.
"it gets better.  Four of these characters were veterans of the United
States Army and happened to serve under the same company commander by the
name of Captain Zachary St. John.  This same captain resigned his
commission and left the service after several accusations of racism and
beating the hell out of an enlisted man because he caught the soldier
smoking some grass in a latrine."

     "You seem to think St. John is still connected to these other
misfits," Bolan remarked.

     "That's because he is," Kurtzman stated.  "It turns out that St. John
came from a rather rich family in Georgia who left him a few million
dollars, a nice chain of businesses and some pretty valuable property.  He
sold all the businesses and the property to acquire more money before he
bought some land not far from Atlanta.  There he set up his own private
training camp.  Guess who he invited to join him?"

     "Some of his favorite fellow bigots from the Army?"

     "Right.  The FBI, Justice and BATF all took an interest in St. John's
group awhile back, but they didn't poke too hard because St. John came from
a well-to-do, respectable family and he claimed his camp was training
professional bodyguards.  Still, the Feds kept some of the results of their
investigations on record.  This included the names of known members of St.
John's group at the time."

     "And the dead Juggernauts are among them?" Brognola asked.

     "Everybody except the killer who served time for manslaughter,"
Kurtzman answered.  "I suspect he might have been there, too, using an
assumed name.  It wouldn't surprise me if the other two corpses turn out to
be his pals after the FBI manages to ID them."

     "We might have hit the mother lode," Bolan remarked.

     "Yeah," Brognola agreed, "but we still don't know how St. John came up
with this advanced body armor or managed to do all the fancy computer links
and data gathering.  That requires considerable expertise and knowledge
about federal Intelligence networks.  Does his background or that of any of
his comrades suggest that they'd be capable of anything this
sophisticated?"

     "Not that I've found," Kurtzman replied.  "St. John was an Airborne
Ranger--lots of commando skills, an expert with an M-16 rifle, grenades,
pistol, M-60 machine gun.  He has a second ddegree black belt in karate and
is big on fitness and parachuting.  He's certainly not an engineer,
inventor or computer whiz.  Of course, who knows what a man might learn on
his own.  But it's more likely he brought in some people with those
skills."

     "I'll let you know what I find when I check out the place," Bolan
announced as he consulted his wristwatch.  "Do you figure Grimaldi can be
ready to fly me out of here within an hour?  I want to get to Georgia as
fast as possible."

     "That might be rushing it, Striker," Brognola said.  "We can get you
down there, but Able Team is still in Miami, so I can't promise you we'll
have them there for backup."

     "Jack can work backup if I need it," Bolan replied.  "We don't have
time to waste, Hal.  The Juggernauts aren't stupid.  They had to leave
their dead cohorts behind, so they'll know they can be identified and
investigated.  They'll be sure to haul out if they suspect we've located
their base."

     "I don't like the idea of your going into a site crawling with
armor-plated lunatics.  Who knows how many of them are at that place."

     "The number of St. John's followers was estimated to be about twenty
when the Feds investigated him," Kurtzman stated.  "There might be a few
more or a few less by now, but we know that they're definitely minus seven
of their members."

     "Minus eight," Bolan said.  "Don't forget the one in Detroit.  Look,
Hal.  I'll try to go in with a soft probe to confirm that it is the
Juggernauts' headquarters.  We can figure out how to handle them then, and
whether to call in the FBI, BATF or the National Guard.  If nothing else, I
want to find out if those guys have any women or children at that camp so
we can do our best to avoid injuring them."

     "Okay," Brognola agreed reluctantly.  "I'll get Leo down there, too,
in case we need to smooth over things with the local police or Feds
stationed in the Atlanta area.  Be careful, Striker.  These Juggernauts
have already proved they're crazy and dangerous as hell.  If they feel
cornered, they'll be even worse."

     "I'll bear that in mind," the Executioner said dryly.


                                    19


     Zachary St. John had been forced to make concessions to the state
authorities.  Plans to set up an electrified fence around the compound,
even with signs posted, were vetoed because it was considered a potential
risk to citizens, especially children too young to understand warning
signs.

     He'd also had to alter training exercises that used live ammunition
and explosives that were declared too hazardous to public safety.  A roving
patrol of armed guards was permitted to drive around inside the area, but
not outside the fence.  Several surveillance cameras were posted on the
property as well as some motion detectors.  Two sentries were on duty by
the gated entrance.

     Bolan had infiltrated places with much tighter security.  He dealt
with the human security simply by avoiding them, waiting for the roving
patrol to pass by the part of the fence he had selected for his entrance.
Spotting the location of the cameras and motion detectors wasn't difficult,
as they were covered with plastic to protect them from the weather.

     With the aid of an entrenching tool, the Executioner dug a shallow
hole at the base of the fence large enough to crawl through.  Using the
surrounding bushes and trees for concealment he crawled for at least three
hundred yards, avoiding detection from the roving patrol and the motion
detectors.

     His method of entry was successful, but it had also been
time-consuming, so that darkness had descended before he approached the
buildings at the center of the compound.  Dressed in his blacksuit, the
Executioner advanced, armed with the Beretta 93-R pistol--sheathed in a
special holster designed to accommodate a sound suppressor--and the
modified Desert Eagle, loaded with the special .44 Magnum rounds.  He also
carried a pack of lock picks, a compact pocket camera and a
sound-magnification device.  Three fragmentation grenades, a smoke grenade
canister, and the Ka-bar fighting knife and garrotes rounded out his
arsenal.

     The heart of the compound was a typical paramilitary setup.  Two long
single-story structures appeared to be billets for the troops.  The motor
pool consisted of two pickup trucks, a pair of Jeeps and a
two-and-one-half-ton military-style transport truck.  A large house
probably functioned as the headquarters.

     The only structure that seemed to be out of place was a barn, painted
red from roof to base.  There were no farm animals, or evidence of any
agricultural activity at the camp.

     Bolan didn't waste time speculating about the barn.  Instead, he
watched as several men, dressed in camouflage fatigues and wearing boots,
labored by the billets and the rear of the house.  They hauled crates,
loading the cargo onto the back of the big truck.  If they were getting
ready to flee, they certainly seemed to be taking their time packing their
gear.  The population at the camp didn't seem very large.  If there were
less than a dozen men at the site, that would be fine with Bolan.  The
fewer eyes to see him and the fewer opponents to contend with, the better.

     The Executioner stealthily circled the base, using available cover.
The men in paramilitary garb didn't seem alert to a possible threat and
concentrated on their chores.  Bolan didn't see or hear evidence of women
or children at the compound.  If violence erupted, he wouldn't have to
worry about innocent bystanders.

     He approached the house from the east wing and searched for an
entrance.  He found one--an open window with only a screen to deal with.
There didn't seem to be any wires to an alarm as he carefully probed the
edges of the screen with a lock pick.  Removing the barrier, he climbed
into the room.  In the gloom, he could just make out a bed, a wall locker
and a small desk.

     Moving to the door, he carefully opened it just enough to peer into
the corridor.  It was empty and he opened the door wider.  The narrow
hallway was almost bare.  Tube lights on the ceiling illuminated drab gray
walls and a black-and-red checkerboard tiled floor.  He stepped into the
corridor and edged his way toward the rear of the building.

     Voices at the end of the corridor caused him to halt, his back pressed
against the wall.  He heard two men talking, their voices growing clearer
as they drew closer.  Silently he slid the Beretta from shoulder leather.

     "Zach isn't going to like this idea," a voice declared.  "He's already
furious that seven of the men didn't come back from Miami.  He said he was
lucky to get out of there alive."

     "None of us guessed anyone would have ammunition that could pierce
your body armor," the other man replied.  "Hell, Andy, I'm as shocked as
you and St. John are that this happened.  The fact is, it did, and now we
have to come up with a new plan of action, pronto."

     "But robbing armored cars is pretty contrary to what we intended to do
with the Juggernauts.  Have you lost sight of our reason for starting this
in the first place?"

     "No, I'm just being practical.  We still need a lot of cash to
continue our operations.  Somehow, someone second-guessed us in Miami.  We
have to use a tactic they won't expect, and they won't expect us to rob
armored cars instead of dope dealers."

     "How can we get the public to support us as a national police force,
Ray?  We're becoming common thieves who aren't even choosing criminals as
our targets."

     "We'll disguise our armor and use a different type of helmet.
Something smaller that can be concealed under a stocking mask.  No one will
know the Juggernauts are responsible."

     The two men came into view.  Bolan remained motionless as the pair
stood at the end of the hallway, less than three yards from his position.
One guy was tall, blond and athletic.  The other wore a loose-fitting lab
coat and thick glasses.  He carried an instrument that resembled a
remote-control unit.

     Suddenly the blond man turned his head and his gaze locked on Bolan.
His eyes widened, and he reached for the pistol in a side-draw holster on
his belt.  The Executioner had the muzzle of his Beretta fixed on the man
before he could unleather his weapon.

     "Make a move or raise your voices, and you're dead," Bolan warned.
"Face the wall and spread them."

     "What the hell are you doing here?" Raymond Stylles began.  "I thought
I killed you when I blew up that shoe store in Detroit."

     "Wrong, but then you guys have been wrong about a lot of things," the
Executioner replied.

     Andrew Gallow held the remote-control unit low in his hand and
suddenly depressed a button with his thumb.  Without warning, a fiery pain
shot through Bolan's feet, into his legs and up into his body.  His arms
convulsed out of control, and the Beretta flew from his grasp.  His muscles
contracted, and a black mist began to descend upon him.  Then all his
senses seemed to shut down.  He felt nothing when he fell to the floor.



     "He's coming around," a voice said as if from the end of a dark
tunnel.

     As Bolan regained consciousness, the cobwebs of confusion began to
disappear from his mind.  His body felt numb, but he didn't seem to be
injured.  He tested his limbs before he tried to open his eyes.  His legs
were sprawled in front of him on the floor, and he moved one foot, then the
other.  Nothing seemed to be broken.

     His arms didn't respond as well.  They were behind him, and he
realized he was handcuffed.  Without warning, a hard blow struck the side
of his face, sending his head rocking.  He slitted his eyes, but his vision
was blurred so that the figure appeared to be shrouded in a gray fog.

     "Easy, Captain," a voice urged.  "You'll knock him out again before he
comes fully to."

     The fog lifted.  Bolan recognized the features of Zachary St. John
from the file photographs, but the former Airborne Ranger's face hadn't
burned with hatred in those pictures.  The man who glared down at Bolan
appeared ready and willing to tear his head off with his bare hands.

     Bolan was relieved when St. John stepped back, rising to his full
height.  Dressed in Army fatigues, paratrooper boots and a holstered side
arm, he looked every inch the military man.  His companion in the lab coat
stood with his arms folded across his narrow chest, peering down at Bolan
through his thick glasses, as if examining a specimen under a microscope.
A third figure lurked behind the pair.  He sported full body armor.  The
only thing missing was his helmet.

     As the Juggernaut leaned forward, the Executioner recognized him as
the second guy he had encountered in the corridor.  A cruel smile slithered
across Raymond Stylles's lips as he nodded at Bolan.

     "Can you talk?" he asked.  "Didn't get your vocal cords shocked into
paralysis, did you?"

     "You're probably wondering what happened," the man in the lab coat
said.

     "Yeah," Bolan admitted, his tongue thick in his dry mouth.  "I thought
I had the drop on you two."

     "Not after I used this," Gallow announced as he waved his
remote-control unit.  "I activated a security system in the floor.  You
were hit by at least seventy thousand volts.  Nonlethal electricity, no
amps.  Otherwise you would have been burned to a crisp."

     "Electricity?  But my boots have rubber soles."

     "It doesn't matter," the scientist replied.  "The electrodes in the
floor extend electric currents similar to certain types of hand-held stun
guns on the market.  Your feet were caught in a crisscross of electrical
currents."

     "Clever," Bolan had to admit.  "But why did you have it installed in
your own headquarters?  Are you worried about a possible mutiny by your
troops?"

     "You'd better worry about yourself," St. John snapped.

     "As you can tell, Zach is upset with you," Stylles commented.  "He
says you took out a number of his men in Miami.  Now, that fascinates me
because I saw you in Detroit.  So who the hell are you, some crazy lone
wolf chasing after us all by yourself?"

     "Do you think I'm the only one who knows about your base?" Bolan
challenged.  He even managed a faint smile.  "So you just relax and figure
you're safe.  After all, you guys are smarter than everybody else, anyway.
That's been your attitude from the start."

     "You don't understand what we're trying to accomplish," Gallow said.
"Crime is out of control in this country.  We can establish a national
police force that can deal with the worst, most dangerous criminal elements
in society.  We've proved that already."

     "The only thing you've proved is that your Juggernauts can break down
doors and kill a lot of people, including law-enforcement officers trying
to do their job," Bolan replied.

     "We didn't plan that to happen," St. John insisted.  "It had to be
done because they got in the way."

     "Got in your way?" Bolan said.  "Who else will have to die when they
'get in your way'?  Anyone who objects to your tactics?  Anybody who
believes stormtroopers aren't the way to deal with crime?  Anybody who
thinks giving up our rights and freedom is too high a price to be 'safe'
under a police-state dictatorship?"

     "That's quite a speech," Stylles said, sneering.  "So we should just
let the savages run free?  Let them tear America apart, poisoning it with
drugs and terrorizing it with threats of gang violence?"

     "I don't think murderers and terrorists should be allowed to prey on
innocent people," Bolan replied.  "And that includes your Juggernauts.  Use
whatever excuse you want to justify your actions, but you're just a bunch
of armor-plated thugs with a gangster mentality who want permission to
carry out any sort of brutality against anyone you choose."

     "This debate isn't accomplishing anything," Stylles said.  "I'm going
to search the area with some troops to see if you have any reinforcements
hiding out there.  It's hard to imagine anyone would come against us alone,
although you seem to have tried it before.  Still, you couldn't have
managed all this by yourself."

     "While Stylles is looking for your friends," St. John said, "I'm going
to interrogate you.  That is going to be a pleasure.  I'm looking forward
to making you talk."

     "It's really too bad," Gallow said.  "A man with such obvious courage
and skill should be on our side.  I'm actually sorry it has to end like
this."

     "Don't worry, it's not over yet," the Executioner replied.

     "Try not to kill him before he talks," Stylles told St. John.
"There's a lot we need to know, such as how he showed up at our target
sites and how he came up with ammunition that can pierce our armor."

     "Rest assured, he'll tell us everything he knows," St. John answered.
"Hallaron and I know how to make people talk."

     "Too bad we don't have truth serum," Gallow commented.  "I think it
would be more reliable than trying to beat the truth out of this man."

     "But not nearly as satisfying."

     Stylles left the room.  Gallow prepared to follow, but St. John
stopped him.  The captain drew a .45 Colt from his hip holster and handed
it to the scientist, saying "Standard procedure for interrogation.  The
bastard won't get an opportunity to get his hands on this weapon, but let's
not take any chances."

     Gallow accepted the pistol and departed.  The Executioner glanced
around the room.  It seemed to do duty as a storage area and was stocked
with camping equipment, tents and various tools.  Apparently the compound
didn't have a cell block, so they had to improvise.

     A stocky man with a heavy brow entered the room.  He hefted a large
armchair, and a length of rope was coiled around his shoulder.  He set the
chair in the center of the room, tossed the rope onto the seat and closed
the door.

     "This is Sergeant Hallaron," St. John announced.  "He has a special
talent for inflicting pain, and a very strong stomach to go with it."

     Hallaron turned to Bolan and waved a Ka-bar knife at him.  A smile
appeared on his wide face as he approached the Executioner.

     "Do you recognize this?" he asked.  "This is your own knife, and I'm
going to use it on you.  Ironic, isn't it?"

     "And we brought you a chair," St. John added, patting the armrest.
"Have a seat.  You're in for a long, hard night."


                                    20


     The enforcers had confiscated Bolan's weapons while he'd been
unconscious, but they hadn't taken his belt or his boots.  Stealthily,
while his captors were busy getting organized, his fingers probed inside
the belt at the small of his back.  They closed around the handcuff key in
the hidden compartment in the leather, and he carefully eased it out.

     Avoiding as much movement of shoulders or arms as possible, he
inserted the key into the steel cuff attached to his left wrist.  Most
handcuffs were universal in design, taking a standard key.  Bolan hoped the
Juggernauts hadn't used some unusual model that required a different type
of key.

     "You guys must realize this scheme is down the drain," he said, more
to distract his captors and stall for time than with any hope of changing
their minds.  "If you cooperate, you might be able to turn state's
evidence-"

     "Shut up!" St. John barked.  "We're not about to betray our cause!"

     "Hell, sir," Hallaron said with a chuckle, "let him whine.  It'll be
sort of fun to listen to him go from being reasonable to crying like a
goddamn baby."  The renegade sergeant leaned over Bolan and pointed the
blade of the knife at his face, inches from his left eye.

     "Get up, you piece of dirt!" Hallaron ordered.

     Bolan nodded, starting to get to his feet as Hallaron moved back
slightly.  In the same instant, the Executioner swung his left arm forward,
the unlocked handcuffs in his fist.  Before the sergeant could react, Bolan
had snapped the steel bracelet onto the man's knife wrist.

     Even as his right arm rose, delivering an upper-cut blow to Hallaron's
broad mouth, the soldier twisted the cuffs, applying pressure on Hallaron's
captive wrist.  The knife slipped from the man's fingers.  Grabbing his
dazed opponent's right arm, he quickly snapped the cuffs to Hallaron's
other wrist.

     He heard St. John curse, and from the corner of his eye saw him charge
forward.  Without releasing his hold on the sergeant, Bolan whirled and
shoved Hallaron toward the Juggernaut.

     St. John had already launched a karate kick, and he was unable to stop
himself when Hallaron appeared in his path.  The captain slammed his boot
into his NCO's abdomen, dropping him to the floor, where he lay, too winded
to move.

     The captain turned and took up position, one hand held forward, his
other fist balled at hip level.  "Now let's see what you've got," he
declared.

     He jerked his right arm in a feint, shooting his left fist at Bolan's
face.  The Executioner blocked the man's attacking arm, already swinging
his left fist in anticipation of St. John's next move, striking his
opponent's forearm before the man could land another punch attack.

     Bolan smashed the heel of his palm into the side of St. John's jaw,
and the Juggernaut staggered but didn't fall.  He turned his head, spit a
gob of blood, then faced the Executioner again.  He was breathing heavily
as he snapped a short kick at the soldier's groin.  Bolan managed to block
the stroke, but then St. John altered the kick to a high roundhouse aiming
for Bolan's head.  The Executioner wasn't caught off guard.  Grabbing the
man's extended leg and shoving hard, he sent St. John toppling.

     The captain hit the floor with a thud and the soldier stepped in,
delivering a boot heel between the fallen man's splayed legs.  St. John
screamed in agony.  Bolan swiftly grabbed the man's left ankle with his
right hand, and, still holding onto his other leg with his left hand,
twisted his captive's legs.  He succeeded in turning St. John onto his
belly.  Immediately the Executioner dropped onto the man's shoulder blades,
his fists still locked around his opponent's ankles.  A version of the
"Boston crab," the hold caused terrible pressure on the Juggernaut's lower
vertebra as his spine was violently bent backward.  Bone crunched and St.
John's body went limp.

     Hallaron was beginning to recover, and he started to rise from the
floor.  He got to his knees, extending his cuffed wrists as he clawed for
the knife on the ground.

     Bolan jumped off St. John's still form and raced toward the sergeant,
swinging a kick under Hallaron's ribs before his adversary could grab the
knife.  The NCO convulsed from the blow as the Executioner moved behind
him.  Thrusting his arm between the man's legs, Bolan grabbed the short
chain that linked the handcuffs.  He yanked hard, pulling both Hallaron's
arms between his own legs.

     Hallaron found himself folded in two, his head down, arms immobilized
and legs hampered by the hold.  Bolan held on to the cuff chain with one
fist and grabbed the back of the Juggernaut's belt with the other.  He
charged for a wall, and Hallaron's skull connected with the unyielding
brick surface.  Bolan heard the crack of bone, and he dropped his opponent
to the floor.  He knew Hallaron would no longer be a problem.

     The Executioner didn't waste time congratulating himself.  He picked
up the Ka-bar combat knife and headed for the door.  He opened it slowly
and peered into the deserted hallway.  The floor was concrete, not the
treacherous tiled surface that concealed Gallow's electrical shock system.
Bolan carefully stepped forward.

     He hugged the wall as he advanced along the corridor, the knife held
low.  He heard voices as he approached an L-shaped bend.  Cautiously he
ducked his head around the corner.

     A thick steel door stood ajar, a sign proclaiming ARMS ROOM in large
red letters.  Apparently St. John ran his camp in the traditional manner of
a military base--his troops were assigned weapons for use, but the hardware
was kept locked away the rest of the time.

     Bolan crept toward the door.  Flattening against the wall, he peered
around the edge of the door to see inside.  A figure stood with his back to
Bolan, clad in Juggernaut armor, a weapon in his hands.  His helmet sat on
a table beside him.  Another man, dressed in fatigues, had unlocked a gun
rack that contained several 10 mm submachine guns.  A pile of loaded
magazines for the guns lay on the table.  Bolan also spotted his .44 Magnum
Desert Eagle and the Beretta 93-R beside the Juggernauts' arsenal.

     The Executioner knew he couldn't hope for a better situation.
Gripping the knife's handle in one hand, he placed his other palm over the
butt to reinforce his blow.  The Juggernaut half turned, but before he
could raise his weapon, Bolan drove the knife blade into the back of the
man's unprotected head, sinking it deep into his brain.

     The armor-clad figure collapsed across the table, scattering gun
magazines onto the floor.  The man in fatigues gaped first at Bolan, then
at the knife jammed in the head of his slain comrade.  Panicked, he dived
across the table, reaching for the Desert Eagle.  Bolan grabbed the
Juggernaut's helmet, and as the man's fingers closed over the pistol, the
Executioner slammed the steel headgear into the center of the guy's face.
The man dropped to the floor, blood oozing from his nose and mangled mouth.

     The Executioner picked up his Desert Eagle, ejected the magazine to be
sure it was loaded, then chambered the first round.  He decided to take one
of the 10 mm subguns, as well.  The weapon was similar in design to an M-3,
firing only on full-auto.  He loaded the subgun and stuck two spare
magazines in his belt.

     Bolan resisted the temptation to take the Beretta.  He couldn't see
the shoulder holster rig, and he knew it would be too awkward to carry the
pistol in addition to the other weapons.  Sudden footfalls in the hall
warned him that he wouldn't be alone for much longer.

     Two armed figures, clad in full Juggernaut body armor and helmets,
appeared in the hall, headed for the arms room to draw their weapons.  The
pair came to an abrupt halt when they discovered the Executioner, subgun up
and leading.  Bolan squeezed the trigger.  The recoil drove the subgun into
his arms and hip, but the heavy frame and barrel reduced the climb of the
weapon.  One Juggernaut stopped three projectiles with his breastplate.
The soldier hit his companion with another short burst, scoring lethal hits
in the Juggernaut's armor and visor.

     With his ears ringing painfully from the weapon's report in the
enclosed area, the Executioner stepped over the corpses.  He continued
through the hallway, aware that any hope of stealth had been destroyed.
Only one option remained: he had to keep moving and take out anyone who got
in his way.

     Another Juggernaut appeared as he emerged from the basement level.  He
drilled the enforcer's body armor with 10 mm piercers, and the corpse
toppled sideways, crashing down the basement stairs.

     Bolan moved into another corridor.  He looked down at the checkerboard
floor, realizing the danger as he advanced through the narrow passage.

     An armored figure appeared at the end of the corridor.  The Juggernaut
held a subgun in his gloved fists, but the Executioner triggered his weapon
faster.  The subgun spit three rounds and the enemy gunman fell across the
checkered tiles.  Bolan ejected the spent magazine and reached for a full
one in his belt.

     Andrew Gallow stepped out from around the corner, the remote-control
unit aimed at the checkerboard by Bolan's feet.  The Executioner dropped
his weapon and sprang into the air as electricity crackled from dozens of
tiny electrodes in the floor.

     Bolan thrust both feet against one wall and shoved his back against
the other, the narrow space allowing him to wedge himself between them.
Gallow cursed and tossed aside the remote control, clawing at his lab coat
pocket for the .45 pistol St. John had given him.

     Gallow was no gunfighter.  Bolan drew his .44 Magnum pistol, aimed and
fired before Gallow could clear the barrel of the Colt from his white coat.
The armor-piercing bullet punched through the scientist's chest as if he
were made of tissue paper, the force of the slug sending his body sliding
across the floor to connect with a wall.  Gallow's corpse barely twitched
as a scarlet stream began to spread across his chest.

     The electrical sizzle from the floor had ceased, rendered inactive the
moment Gallow had taken his thumb off the button.  Or so Bolan hoped, as,
with a deep breath, he dropped down.  His boots met innocuous flooring.
Scooping up the subgun, he hurried from the corridor.

     Bolan reloaded as he headed for the rear door of the building, and
emerged from the house.  Five figures in Juggernaut armor had assembled by
the motor pool.  Only two carried submachine guns or side arms.  Then a
Jeep, with two armed men dressed in fatigues, roared up.  The roving patrol
had heard the gunfire and rushed to the scene.

     The Executioner dealt with the immediate threat first and hosed the
patrol with a salvo of bullets, the force of the high-velocity rounds
sending them spinning.  Blood sprayed from numerous bullet holes as their
bodies fell to the ground.  A Juggernaut gunman fired back at Bolan's
position, but the Executioner had already dropped to a kneeling stance by
the doorway.  The bullets splintered wood and pierced plaster above his
position.

     He stayed low, thrusting the gun's barrel around the corner to return
fire before the enemy gunman could adjust his aim.  The subgun-wielding
Juggernaut marched forward, either accustomed to the invulnerability the
armor had afforded him, or unaware that Bolan was armed with one of the
Juggernauts' weapons.  The soldier triggered his weapon, stitching the
opponent's breastplate with a line of bullet holes.

     One of the pickup trucks roared to life and bolted from the motor
pool.  Only three Juggernauts remained.  Apparently deciding to follow the
example of their comrade who'd fled, two of them charged for the other
pickup, while the remaining Juggernaut fired his weapon at Bolan.  The
Executioner was forced to retreat behind the doorway again.  He returned
fire blindly, trying to keep the enemy from attempting a better plan of
attack.

     Bolan's subgun hit empty.  He swapped magazines and loaded the weapon
with the last of his armor-piercing rounds.  The enemy gunfire had ceased,
and the Executioner peered from the entryway to see the second pickup about
to flee.  The Juggernaut with the subgun was in the back of the rig, the
other two having climbed into the front seat.

     The truck rolled from the area as the soldier took aim.  He saw the
armored figure in the rear of the vehicle raise his weapon.  Bolan blasted
the gunman with a short salvo, the tumblers knocking the enforcer sideways
to topple from the edge of the truck bed and crash to the ground.  The
pickup kept going, racing for the front gate to the compound.

     The Executioner sprinted toward the roving patrol's Jeep.  He sprung
behind the steering wheel and fired the engine.  Setting the submachine gun
on the seat beside him, he shifted gears and roared after the two fleeing
pickups.  The gates stood open wide, the sentries long gone.

     Dust churned behind the vehicles as they raced into the night.  The
trucks had a head start, but Bolan's borrowed Jeep caught up fast.  He was
trailing the second vehicle, perhaps fifty yards behind, as the
three-vehicle caravan headed for an old wooden bridge that spanned the
Chattahoochee River.

     Bolan aimed his weapon at the rear of the closer truck as the rig
rolled across the bridge, triggering a long burst.  The bullets raked the
fender and tore into a rear tire.  Rubber burst and the axle split from the
armor-piercing rounds.  The truck spun out of control, crashing length-wise
into the rail.  The wooden barrier gave way on impact and the pickup
tumbled into the river.  Water washed over the bridge as the Executioner
continued his pursuit of the remaining vehicle.  He knew the two
Juggernauts in the river wouldn't escape: full body armor had a lot of
advantages, but preventing a person from drowning was not one of them.

     Wailing sirens erupted behind Bolan, and he saw flashing lights in his
rearview mirror--a state highway patrol car had joined the chase.  The
soldier didn't want the cop on his tail, or the local law getting involved.
He believed only one Juggernaut was in the truck, but he couldn't be sure
that the fugitive was unarmed.  In any case, even without a weapon, a lone
Juggernaut still posed a lethal problem to police unable to shoot through
the body armor.  The desperate man could still kill with his steel
gauntlets and murderous fists.

     The Executioner needed to stop the enemy before the truck reached the
city.  He drew closer to the speeding vehicle and unleashed another salvo.
Bullets tore into the road and punctured the metal gate at the rear of the
pickup.  A chunk of rubber spewed from a tire, and the truck swerved before
it was brought under control.

     Bolan noticed that the highway patrol car had pulled onto the shoulder
of the road some distance behind him, the cop probably deciding not to
tangle with someone firing a submachine gun at a moving vehicle.  The enemy
truck kept going, even though it appeared to be hobbled by a flat tire.
Smoke rose from the torn tire, but the rig still raced toward the city
lights.

     A cluster of trees briefly blocked Bolan's view, but then he caught
sight of the truck as it screamed onto an exit ramp.  The soldier made the
turn and followed the pickup's path.  It had pulled into the parking lot of
a minimall, halting near the self-serve gasoline pumps in front of the
small store.  Bolan followed, stopping the Jeep behind the truck.  The
subgun was out of ammo.  He climbed from the vehicle and drew the Desert
Eagle from hip leather.

     With the pistol up and leading, he approached the rig.  No one
appeared to be in the cab of the vehicle.

     He circled the rear, but that, too, was clear.  He scanned the area,
noticing an air pump near the pickup and a column of decorative shrubs that
extended to the corner of the minimall.

     Bushes rustled and suddenly parted.  The Juggernaut rushed forward,
and Bolan swung his pistol toward him.  A long, flexible black object
streaked out, striking Bolan's hand.  The .44 Magnum pistol fell from his
grasp, and the Juggernaut raised his arm to deliver another stroke with his
improvised weapon.

     Bolan jumped back to avoid the attack.  He glimpsed the weapon in his
opponent's gloved fist.  It was a length of hose, probably ripped from the
air pump.  The Juggernaut approached, featureless behind the visored mask
of his helmet.  Light from the glass doors and windows of the store fell
across the combatants as the Juggernaut swung the hose again.

     The Executioner ducked his head and raised his arms to meet the
attack.  The rubber whip connected, stinging his forearm.  Bolan's hands
flashed and he snared the hose, pulling with all his strength.  The
Juggernaut was jerked forward, before he reacted, tugging with equal might.

     Bolan suddenly released his hold on the rubber tubing.  The Juggernaut
staggered backward, propelled by his own momentum.  He released the hose
and flailed his heavy arms as he tried to maintain his balance.  The
Executioner charged, leaping forward and driving a boot into the center of
his opponent's chest.  The Juggernaut crashed through the door of the
store, glass shattering as he toppled inside and fell onto the floor.

     "Sweet Jesus!" a voice exclaimed.

     Bolan barely glanced at the astonished youth behind the counter.  A
woman customer dropped a container of milk and retreated to the end of the
store.  A man with a straw Stetson hat stood frozen by a magazine rack, his
eyes wide and mouth agape.  The armored figure rolled onto all fours and
tried to rise as Bolan stepped through the opening that had been the door.
Pieces of glass crunched under his boots as he stepped forward, delivering
a hard kick to the Juggernaut's helmeted head.

     His foot seemed to bounce off the metal surface.  The Juggernaut's
head barely moved.  Bolan slammed a boot heel to the center of the visor,
the impact jarring the muscles of his leg.  Instantly the Juggernaut
slashed a steel-covered arm at Bolan's legs, but he whirled out of reach
and swung his boot again.

     "Get out of here!" the clerk yelled.  "I mean it!  Take it outside!"

     Bolan ignored them as he circled his opponent.  The Juggernaut had
managed to get one foot flat on the floor, and the soldier knew that he
would be upright in a second.  He slammed his heel into the riveted top of
the visor.  The Juggernaut's head snapped back and the helmet flew off.
Raymond Stylles stared up at the Executioner.

     "Now it's my turn, Stylles," Bolan said.

     Stylles suddenly thrust his left arm forward, driving his fist into
Bolan's abdomen.  The punch felt like a battering ram, and it sent the
Executioner crashing backward into a display of plastic soft drink bottles.
Bolan staggered across the room, winded by the punishing blow.  He felt
something wet and warm under his torn shirt, and he realized he had been
cut by the steel spikes on the Juggernaut's fist.

     "It might be over for me," Stylles snarled as he rose from the floor,
"but it's the end of the line for you, too."

     He stepped toward Bolan and drew back a deadly steel fist.  The
Executioner swiftly jabbed with his left, smashing into Stylles's face and
drawing blood from his nose.  Furiously, the Juggernaut swung a left hook,
Bolan weaving away from the studded fist just in time.

     "I triggered the alarm!" the clerk shouted.  "The cops are coming!"

     Stylles threw a right cross.  His armor-heavy limb was dangerous, but
slow.  Bolan dodged the punch and hooked his left, hitting the Juggernaut
on the cheekbone.  The renegade groaned as he lashed out, his arm extended
in a wide sweep.  His steel-encased limb hit Bolan with enough power to
force the soldier against the glass-fronted door of a refrigerator.

     Stylles charged and launched a kick for Bolan's abdomen.  At the last
second, Bolan sidestepped, and the Juggernaut's steel boot crashed through
the glass, exploding a couple of cans of beer.  Stylles cursed as he tried
to dislodge his foot.

     Bolan moved behind his opponent, and, swinging his arms forward,
locked them together in a vise-like grip around the Juggernaut's neck.

     Bone crunched as Bolan twisted his captive's head, then let him crash
to the floor.  His head lay at an impossible angle, his eyes glassy, a
dumbfounded expression on his face.

     Bolan headed for the door.  He gestured to the clerk as he stepped
through the shattered threshold.

     "The police will take care of the mess."



     A green Honda Accord rolled to a stop by the curb on Martin Luther
King Jr. Drive, and Bolan emerged from the shadows.  Leo Turrin opened the
passenger-side door, and the Executioner slid into the seat beside the
little Fed.

     "How'd it go?" Bolan asked as he shut the door.

     "The security camera in the minimall filmed your fight with that
Juggernaut," Turrin replied.  "Pretty exciting stuff.  Bet I could sell it
to one of the tabloid news shows for a bundle."

     "So have you got it?"

     Turrin picked up a videocassette tape from the floor and handed it
over.  "I convinced the clerk and the local police to let the Justice
Department have it.  Unfortunately it'll get erased when somebody gets an
electromagnet too close to the tape.  We can't have your face showing up on
the evening news.  By the way, Hal contacted me about a report from a NSA
SIGINT satellite that passed over the compound.  Apparently the sensor
surveillance gear detected a very high heat level in a building toward the
center of the compound.  It appeared to be some sort of industrial
furnace."

     "The barn," Bolan replied, "of course.  They needed somewhere to forge
metal for their weapons and body armor."

     Turrin glanced at the spots of blood on Bolan's shirt, and asked, "You
okay, Striker?"

     "Hell," Bolan said, "I've had a lot worse than this.  I'm just ready
to go home."

     "That's exactly where we're headed," Turrin assured him.