Mack Bolan
Stony Man #36: Stranglehold

PROLOGUE

The closest William "Bobcat" Buchanan had been
able to come to describing the contradictory atmo-
sphere in the editorial offices of the Retained Warrior
magazine was straight out of Dickens. "'It was the
best of times,'" he finally said out loud, "'and it
was the worst of times.'" In the dim glow of the
reading light on the desk, he watched Colonel Sam-
uel K. White nod silently.
    For a moment, neither man spoke. Buchanan
turned away to the wall, pondering the joy and sor-
row that seemed to fill his heart simultaneously. The
joy, he knew, came from the fact that he was about
to embark on a mission. The sorrow was the result
of what had happened to the last man who had un-
dertaken that mission, a man who had been a friend
to both Buchanan and White.
    Buchanan crossed his legs and looked back at the
gray-haired man behind the desk. Colonel White
opened a drawer, produced a large Jamaican cigar,
struck a kitchen match and rolled the flame over the
tip. Buchanan studied his face in the light from the
match. Colonel Samuel L. White, ex-Marine, looked




exactly like what he was--an aging, battle-scarred
warrior. A much decorated officer, the colonel had
seen combat during World War II, Korea and the
early years of Vietnam. When the Corps had forced
his retirement in the late 1960s, the battle-hardened
old warhorse had hit the mercenary trail in Africa
and South America, then returned to the States to
become publisher of his own magazine. He'd been
sitting behind this same desk, in this same office
where he published the Retained Warrior, ever since.
    Thick blue clouds of smoke came from the long
cigar as White dropped the match into an ashtray. He
smiled, then leaned back in his chair. "Spence was
a good man, Bobcat. All of us will miss--" The
sudden purr of an automobile engine on the quiet
street outside the window caused him to halt in mid-
sentence.
     Both men's eyes shot to the windows. The mag-
 azine's offices were in an isolated industrial section
 of Boulder, Colorado. With the exception of the
 nighttime goings and comings that the magazine it-
 self generated, traffic in the neighborhood this late at
 night was an unusual occurrence.
     Buchanan watched a set of headlights flash onto
 the office windows, remembering the old adage
 "One man's paranoia_is another man's caution." A
 glance at White showed even more lines than usual
 on the wrinkled face. Both Buchanan and White had
 made enemies over the years, and it never paid for
 men with enemies to ignore unusual occurrences re-

 gardless of how insignificant they might seem at the
 time.
    Buchanan turned back to the window in time to
see a light-colored panel van pass by and keep on
going.
    White looked back to his companion as soon as it
was obvious the vehicle wasn't stopping. "Spencer
Kiethley was a good man," he said. "We'll all miss
him. I understand you're stepping in where he left
of~"
  Buchanan nodded.
    The colonel took time for another puff on the ci-
gar, then narrowed the ice blue orbs below his crin-
kled forehead. "See if you can find out more about
what happened to him while you're them, Bobcat.
The whole thing stinks to high heaven, if you ask
me."
"Agreed, sir," Buchanan said. "On both counts."
White clamped the cigar between his teeth and
spoke around it. "As far as the magazine goes, you
ought to get several good stories out of this gig.
You'll be in charge of what, a dozen Gurkha training
officers?"
  "Thereabouts, sir."
    The colonel chewed on the end of his cigar. "Any
new angle on the Gurkhas is always good for three
thousand words or so. And we could use a story on
the weapons the Sierra Leones are using. Russian,
aren't they?"
    Buchanan nodded again. "Mostly. Old AKs, Mak-
arovs, the like."





      "Well, do me a story on that. And write up any
missions you go on yourself, of course."
  "Anything else?" Buchanan asked.
    White puffed the cigar again and shrugged. "Your
call," he said, letting the blue gray smoke drift out
of his mouth and upward toward the ceiling. "You're
an experienced writer and a good soldier. Whatever
you think will sell magazines."
    Buchanan glanced at his watch, and White caught
the movement. "What time is your flight?" the pub-
lisher asked.
    "It's at 2305. I'd better get going." He stood,
walked to the ancient wooden coatrack in the comer
and pulled on his trench coat. With a quick salute,
he reached out and grasped the doorknob.
  "Bobcat," White said.
  Buchanan turned back toward the desk.
    "Be careful down there. Spencer Kiethley was
more than just a good man. He was one smart, well-
trained, tough son of a bitch." He paused for effect.
"Whatever got him could get you." Buchanan nod-
ded, opened the door, stepped into the hall and
headed for the street. He paused at the door to the
sidewalk to button his coat and buckle the belt
around his waist. Instinctively he conducted a mental
inventory of the weaponry on his person. In the right-
hand pocket of the trench coat he carried a 2-shot
.32-caliber Davis derfinger loaded with Winchester
Silver-Tip hollowpoint bullets. In the left-hand
pocket was one of Cold Steel's massive new five-
inch Voyager folding knives. Buchanan reached into

 his pocket and ran his thumb over the opening stud
 on the thick clip-point blade. He was researching the
 new knife for a future article.
     Light snow began to fall outside as Buchanan
 pushed the bar on the glass door and stepped out onto
 the sidewalk. He paused, making sure the door
 swung shut again and the lock clicked, then per-
 formed another personal ritual. Reaching into his
 open collar, he grasped the woman's wedding ring
 suspended around his neck. He thought briefly of the
 woman who had wom it when alive, and the memory
 brought both love and sadness.
    "I am with you, Ellen," Buchanan said. "And
you are with me." His voice was a whisper so low
that even if someone had been next to him on the
sidewalk, he wouldn't have been overheard.
    Forcing his mind away from his wife, whom breast
cancer had claimed two years earlier, Buchanan
headed toward the parking lot on the comer. He
breathed deeply as he walked along in the cold Col-
orado night. Then the sound of footsteps behind
him--almost inaudible--registered suddenly in his
brain. He resisted the urge to immediately whirl; he
could tell by the sound that the feet were still too far
away for their owner to be a threat.
    And they might be a diversion for something
ahead.
    Squinting under the streetlights, Buchanan
scanned the night as he walked on. He saw nothing
out of the ordinary. Finally he glanced over his





shoulder. As he turned, he saw a flash of movement
in the doorway to his side.
    He turned back toward the dark figure with the
grace and speed that had earned him his nickname.
The Davis derringer leaped into his hand. His thumb
found the hammer, but before he could cock the sin-
gle-action weapon a fist slammed into his sternum.
    Air shot up from Buchanan's lungs and out his
mouth. He pushed out hard with his belly, trying to
correct the vacuum that had been created in his chest,
as the derfinger was ripped from his fingers. His left
fist jabbed out, striking what felt like a jaw. He heard
a crunch and then a grunt, but his punch slowed his
attacker for only a moment. The shadowy form drove
another fist into Buchanan's abdomen, and he bent
double.
    Gasping for air, Buchanan fished into the trench
coat for the knife as a second shadowy figure joined
the first. Buchanan lashed out at the dark form with
a front snap kick that caught the second man in the
shin. He heard another grunt, but the shadow kept
coming.
    An arm wrapped around Buchanan's neck. He
flipped his wrist to open the knife but something--a
hand, arm, shoulder--got in the way and stopped the
blade halfway out of the handle. The knife snapped
back closed.
     Another fist struck Buchanan's ribs. A moment
 later, the blade was pried from his fingers like the
 derringer had been.
  Buchanan heard the footsteps again. Running now,

 they were close. As he continued to gasp for air, a
 shoulder struck him squarely in the back and then
 he, the two men in front of him and whoever had
 blindsided him from the rear went pummeling to the
 sidewalk.
     "Better give him the gas," a voice said. "He's
 not being very cooperative."
     "Would you be under the circumstances?" an-
 other voice answered.
    Buchanan rolled hard to his side, trying to get out
from under a tall shadow that was reaching into the
pocket of a plaid sport coat. He kicked blindly up
into the air and felt his foot meet flesh. Another grunt
echoed down the street, then one of the other men
chuckled as he pinned Buchanan's shoulders to the
concrete. "He doesn't give up easy," the chuckler
said. "I'll say that much for him."
    "If he gave up easy, we wouldn't want him," the
tall man in plaid answered. Buchanan caught a brief
glimpse upward and saw that he now held some kind
of canister. "Hold your breath," the tall man ordered
the other two as he stuck the can under Buchanan's
nose.
    Buchanan held his breath, too, as a sharp spray
exited the canister. But the tall shadow had posi-
tioned the nozzle directly under his nostrils, and the
stinging fumes shot up his sinuses anyway.
    His muscles went instantly limp. Soft, fluffy
clouds glided over his brain as he entered another
world. The man on top of him stood, then stepped
back. Buchanan tried to look up--to see their faces--




to see which of the enemies he had made over the
years had finally caught up to him. But his eyes re-
fused to focus.
    Closing his eyes, he relaxed and let the gas take
effect. As if from somewhere far away, he heard a
voice ask, "Want us to load him in the van, Iron-
man?"
  Ironman? Buchanan thought.
    William "Bobcat" Buchanan's last conscious
thought was that he couldn't recall ever making an
enemy of anyone called Ironman.

CHAPTER ONE

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

It was a no-nonsense room, a room that had every-
thing it needed and nothing it didn't. It was a room
in which decisions were made, the repercussions of
which rippled across the globe as sure and unstop-
pable as ocean waves. Indeed, it was a room in which
history was written, a place where the fate of the
world often hung in the balance.
  It was Stony Man Farm's War Room.
    Hal Brognola, director of the Sensitive Operations
Group, heard the door swing shut behind him as he
walked to his chair at the head of the conference
table. Seated to his right was Phoenix Force leader
David McCarter. Next to the Briton were the other
members of Phoenix Force: Rafael Encizo, a square-
faced Cuban exile; Gary Manning, a Canadian ex-
plosives expert; Calvin James, the team's medic and
edged-weapon aficionado; and Gulf War veteran
Thomas Jackson Hawkins, the youngest, and newest,
member of the counterterrorist squad.
 The men of Phoenix Force had just returned from




a mission in South America and still wore the dirty,
sweat-stained camouflage fatigues in which they had
arrived. They were workers to a man, and along with
the trio of warriors who made up Able Team--Stony
Man's domestic counterterrorist unit, Brognola had
eight of the nine best operatives in the world. Hand-
picked from units such as the U.S. Army Special
Forces, Delta Force and the Navy SEAL, they were,
quite simply, the best of the best.
    The big Fed took his seat and glanced to the far
end of the table. A tall man, lean yet muscular, with
dark hair and even darker features, sat staring his
way. The man wore gray slacks and a short-sleeved
black polo shirt that stretched tight over his chest and
biceps. Here and there along the forearms that rested
on the table in front of him, Brognola could see dark
round spots--bullet scars--the marks of battles past.
    The man's name was Mack Bolan, and he was also
known as the Executioner. A lone wolf by nature but
a leader of men by demand, Bolan was the ninth in
the nine best warriors in the world. And the best.
    Faintly, from the other side of the door, Brognola
heard the sound of someone tapping the access code
into the digital lock. A moment later a buzzer
sounded, and the door swung open.
     Able Team leader Carl Lyons, known to the
 Farm's personnel as "Ironman," led the way into the
 room. Following him was Rosario "Politician"
 Blancanales, Able Team's psychological-warfare
 specialist. Hermann "Gadgets" Schwarz, the team's
 electronics wizard, brought up the rear. In front of

 :Schwarz was a blindfolded man whose hands were
 tied behind his back.
    The door behind Schwarz had swung halfway shut
when an arm was jammed between it and the frame.
A moment later a burly man in a wheelchair threw
it open and wheeled into the room. Aaron "the
Bear" Kurtzman, Stony Man's computer genius and
head of the Farm's cybernetics team, wheeled toward
the empty space to Brognola's left. A computer key-
board sat on the table in the space that had no chair.
Kurtzman rolled up, set the brake on his wheels and
immediately began to type.
    Lyons and Blancanales took seats at the end of the
table next to Bolan while Schwarz helped the blind-
folded man into a chair.
    Brognola broke the silence. "Let's get started,"
he said.
    He nodded to Kurtzman, then turned toward
Schwarz. "Take the blindfold off."
    As Kurtzman continued to tap the keyboard,
Schwarz untied the knot in the black cloth at the back
of the bound man's neck. His wrists still cuffed be-
hind his back, William "Bobcat" Buchanan opened
his eyes, then closed them again against the bright
lights of the War Room.
    Brognola studied the man. By the looks of his
clothing, he had to have put up quite a fight. Most
of the buttons on his shirt had been torn away, and
the man from Justice could see a woman's white-
gold-and-diamond wedding ring suspended from a
chain around his neck. He wondered what it meant.




Schwarz glanced at Buchanan's handcuffs, then up
to Brognola.
    The big Fed shook his head. "Not yet. Let's wait
and see what kind of temperament he's in when he
comes out of it."
    The director didn't know what the men of Able
Team had drugged Buchanan with, but it hadn't all
worn off yet. Bobcat was still groggy, but that wasn't
necessarily bad. He had gotten his nickname as much
for his fast temper as for the speed that had made
him famous within the shadowy world of mercenar-
ies, and letting him gradually warm up to what was
happening might not be a bad idea.
    Kurtzman suddenly quit typing. He sat back in his
wheelchair, then reached forward and tapped one
more button. The large wall screen behind Able
Team lit up. Lyons and Blancanales swiveled in their
chairs to face the screen. Schwarz spun Buchanan
that way, then joined them.
    "Where...the hell am IT' Buchanan slurred qui-
etly. He closed his eyes, then opened them again.
    "Item one," Brognola said as the screen focused
on a subway station filled with Oriental men and
women hurrying toward the trains. "The Tokyo sub-
way." Suddenly an explosion sounded on screen,
and a cloud of fumes began to fill the subway station.
The cameraman taping the events switched angles to
focus on an abandoned suitcase against a wall. The
top of the suitcase had blown off, and clouds of gas
streamed from a metal canister that had been con-
cealed inside.

     The sound of the explosion had stopped the crowd
 in its tracks, but that lasted only a moment. The men
 and women of the Tokyo subway system were all
 too familiar with what was happening. Panic took
 over. The fast-paced walks became death sprints for
 the exits. Screams and curses rose from terrified
 mouths. Those who stumbled, fell, and those who fell
 were trampled.
  Then the screen went black.
    Brognola turned to the men at the table. "The Fol-
lowers of the Truth cult, thought to be inspired by
the Aum Shinrikyo, whose leader was arrested back
in 1995 after his devotees released nerve gas in the
subway. This tape was mailed to all the Tokyo tele-
vision stations and newspapers. The Followers of the
Truth set a new record this time--261 killed and an
additional two thousand with lung injuries." He nod-
ded to Kurtzman again.
    The computer genius typed more. The screen
changed to show well-known TV anchorman Augus-
tus Garvey seated behind a news desk and wearing
a dark brown suit. "The Washington Chieftain re-
ported today," Garvey said, frowning into the cam-
era, "that a number of classified U.S. documents has
been discovered abandoned by the United Nations in
Somalia." The scene switched from Garvey to show
UN peacekeepers carrying boxes toward waiting
transport trucks.
    Garvey's voice rolled on. "The source of the dis-
covery, as well as the number and sensitivity of the





documents, has not been disclosed." The tape froze
for a moment, then Garvey disappeared.
    A series of numbers appeared on the whitened
screen, then Garvey returned. He sat behind the same
news desk but now wore a blue pin-striped suit.
"Veteran journalist and adventurer Spencer Kiethley
was reported missing and assumed dead in Sierra Le-
one today," Garvey said into the camera. "He was
on assignment to help train government troops in the
ongoing operations against Revolutionary United
Front rebels, and a convoy in which Kiethley was
riding was reportedly attacked on the road between
Freetown and Marampa." Garvey went on to the
next story, and Kurtzman tapped a button blacking
the screen once more.
    For a moment it was silent in the War Room. Then
Brognola said, "Three apparently unrelated inci-
dents. At least we thought so until two hours ago."
    He turned to Kurtzman. "Want to take it from
here, Bear?"
    Kurtzman nodded and cleared his throat. "Routine
cross-reference of recent events was what tied them
all together," the computer ace said. He wheeled
back from the table a few inches and grabbed the
lapels of his wrinkled white lab coat with both fists.
"Spencer Kiethley is the key. He was in Somalia
doing a story for the Retained Warrior magazine,
found the abandoned documents and blew the whistle
to the Chieftain."
    Buchanan had been gradually coming back to his
senses, and at the sound of the magazine's name his

 eyes finally cleared. "Where the hell am I?" he de-
 manded. "And who the hell are you? And what the
 hell do you know about Spence's death?"
     Brognola tapped Kurtzman on the shoulder as the
 computer man started to speak again. Kurtzman
 waited.
    "I'll answer your questions as best I can," the big
Fed said, looking at Buchanan. "First I can't tell you
where you are. That's why you were blindfolded.
And I can't tell you who we are. Just that we're on
the same side that you're on." He paused, then said,
"Were you awake enough to catch the news items
on-screen?"
  Buchanan nodded. "Yeah."
    "Okay, then. Just keep listening and you'll learn
all we know about your buddy Spencer Kiethley."
    Buchanan fell silent. He looked angry, but even
more than that, he looked confused.
    Kurtzman continued. "Some way, we don't know
how, Kiethley discovered the documents the UN had
abandoned. He evidently turned them back over to
UN authorities, then flew to Tokyo. Sources there tell
us he arranged a meeting with the police investiga-
tors who were working the subway gassing."
    Gadgets Schwarz frowned. "Okay, Kiethley ties
the three things together," the electronics wizard
said. "But what does it all mean?"
    Kurtzman shrugged. "We don't know yet. Any-
way, Kiethley flew straight from Japan to Sierra Le-
one, where he was scheduled to take charge of twelve
Gurkha training officers, which he did." Kurtzman




paused, frowning over his eyeglasses. "Then, phone
records show a half-dozen calls to the Washington
Chieftain during the three days he was in Sierra Le-
one. All but the first call were collect."
    Carl Lyons shook his head. "It doesn't make
sense. The Chieftain is a radical, crybaby, left-wing
rag. Not the sort of paper a guy like Kiethley would
want to talk to unless he didn't have any other
choice. Besides, you said he turned the documents
back over to the UN in Sorealia, Bear?"
    Kurtzman nodded. "I tapped into their computers
and found the report. It's confirmed."
    David McCarter leaned forward and crossed his
arms on the table. "The fact that he contacted the
Chieftain means he wasn't satisfied with the reaction
he got from the UN," the former SAS commando
said. "And where does the Tokyo gassing fit into all
this? Why did Kiethley go to Japan?"
    Brognola shrugged. "Those are the things we need
to determine," he said. "And it's a cinch that Kieth-
ley won't be telling us."
    The big man at the other end of the table hadn't
yet spoken, which was his way unless he had some-
thing important to say. Because of this, and because
of his aura of strength, people listened when Bolan
spoke.
    All heads turned his way as Bolan cleared his
throat. "Why?" he asked quietly.
     Brognola pulled the well-chewed cigar stub from
 the breast pocket of his jacket and shoved it between
 his teeth. "Why what, big guy?" he asked.

     "Why do you say it's a cinch Kiethley won't clear
 all this up himself?." Bolan said.
     For a moment silence fell over the War Room.
 Then Brognola turned to Kurtzman. "That's fight,"
 he said. "We've been assuming that Kiethley is dead
 simply because the news report assumed so. But his
 body hasn't turned up. He could still be alive."
     Calvin James shook his head. "He might be," the
 black Phoenix Force warrior said, "but it's not very
 likely. Those Revolutionary United Front boys are
 nothing more than bandits disguised as revolution-
 aries. They wear blue bandannas and word on the
streets is that they got the idea from the Crips."
  "That true?" T. J. Hawkins asked.
    James shrugged. "Who knows? They're every bit
as dangerous as the Crips. Their primary objective is
to line their own pockets. And they aren't known to
keep prisoners alive."
    Carl Lyons nodded his agreement, then turned to
face Bolan. "I've got to concur, Striker," he said,
using the Executioner's Stony Man Farm code name.
"They've got a history of torture and murder. If
Kiethley's lucky, his death came quick. If not..."
Lyons's voice trailed off, but the implication was
clear.
    Brognola narrowed his eyes. "Striker, do you
think he's alive?" he asked simply.
    Bolan shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. I'm just say-
ing there's no concrete evidence that he isn't."
    "Is there more to this than you're telling us?"
Brognola asked.




    "No. Just a gut feeling I've got. Probably noth-
ing."
    Buchanan was wide-awake now and looking at
Bolan. His hands still behind his back, he leaned for-
ward. "I don't know who you are, big man," he said,
then glanced around the table. "Fact is, I don't know
who any of you are."
    "Like the man said," Bolan said, nodding toward
Brognola, "we're on the same side as you."
    "Is that all you're going to tell me?" Buchanan
asked.
"That's all we can tell you," Brognola said.
"Oh, okay," Buchanan said sarcastically. "So
what I'm to believe is that this is some big-time top
secret government installation that handles the tough
assignments. One of those James Bond deals---even
the CIA doesn't know you exist, right?"
    Brognola didn't smile. "You've pretty much hit
the nail on the head, Buchanan."
      Buchanan's eyes widened. He looked around the
table again, at every face. "You putting me on?"
  "No."
    His gaze finally settled on Bolan. "I must be going
nuts," he said. "Why am I inclined to believe you?"
    Bolan shrugged. "Because you can sense the truth,
maybe."
    Buchanan nodded slowly. "But what do you want
from me? Why did you bring me here?"
    "Does this mean you're willing to help us?"
Brognola asked.
  Buchanan looked Brognola in the eye. "I ought to

be royally pissed," he said. "I've been kidnapped,
drugged to the point where I feel like I just got off
a three-day drunk and for all I know I could be in
Hong Kong, Hog Waller, Arkansas, or Antarctica
right now. But for some reason, I'm not mad. Like I
said, maybe I'm deranged. Maybe whatever you
doped me with killed my reason. Whatever it is...I
trust you."
  He turned to Bolan. "Particularly you."
    James grinned. "The man has that effect on peo-
ple."
    "Yeah, whatever, "Buchanan said. "The main
thing is, if there's a chance Spence is alive...I want
to help."
"We'll give you that chance," Brognola told him.
"Okay," Buchanan acknowledged. "I said I trust
you. Now, how about showing me it's a two-way
street by taking these things off?." He leaned forward
over the table, holding his handcuffed wrists up be-
hind him.
  Schwarz looked at Brognola, who nodded.
    The Able Team commando pulled a handcuff key
from his pocket and unlocked the cuffs.
    Brognola turned to Kurtzman. "What do we know
about the Followers of the Truth?" he asked.
    "In a nutshell," Kurtzman said, "the cult is a con-
veniently contrived cross between Eastern and West-
em religions, with the usual cult aspect of worshiping
a megalomaniac leader."
  "The Great Hikari," Brognola said.
 Kurtzman nodded.




  "Do we know his real name?" the big Fed asked.
  Kurtzman shook his head. "But I'll get on it."
    "Do that," Brognola said. "There may be a link
to the other two events from that end, as well."
    He turned to McCarter. "David, take your men to
Somalia and find out the truth about the abandoned
classified documents. I want to know exactly how
something earmarked classified could be overlooked
like that. If anything is still 'loose,' get hold of it."
    He turned to Lyons. "Carl, you, Gadgets and Pol
are heading for Washington. Turns out that the Chief-
tain reporter who did the story is an old friend of
yours." He couldn't help smiling as he bit into the
cigar stump. "Ira Rook. You remember him?"
    The smile that spread across Lyons's face was
anything but nice. "Oh, yeah," the big ex-cop said.
"And I've wanted a chance to talk to him unoffi-
cially for years."
    Brognola turned back to Buchanan. "What do
your friends call you?" he asked.
    Buchanan was rubbing his wrists. He frowned.
"Depends on who they are," he said. "The guys I
work with, soldiers, it's usually Bobcat."
    The director shifted his gaze to Bolan. "I think if
you look up the word 'soldier' in the dictionary," he
said, "you'll find Striker's picture in the margin.
  "Calling him Bobcat okay with you?"
    "As long as he knows who's in charge," Bolan
replied.
    Brognola nodded. "And you can call him Pol-
lock," he said. "Rance Pollock." He paused, then

went on. "Bobcat, you were on your way to take
Kiethley's place as chief training officer in Sierra Le-
one, right?"  "Right."
    "And you said you trust this guy? The one we've
been calling Striker?"
    Buchanan turned to face the big man at the end of
the table. "Yeah," he said. "I like to think I have a
few talents left as I hit the end of middle age. And
one of them is I know a real man--an honest man--
from a bullshit artist." He stared hard at Bolan. "Un-
less I'm wrong, in which case it's time for me to
check into the old-soldiers' home. Anyway, all of
you guys are for real."
    "I'm glad you feel that way," Brognola said, "be-
cause the big guy at the end of the table that you
trust is going to Sierra Leone with you as your new
assistant in charge of the Gurkhas." He chomped
down on the cigar until it almost broke in two. "But,
Bobcat... ?"
 Buchanan turned back to face the director.
    "Like the man said...just don't ever forget who's
really giving the orders."





CHAPTER TWO

Sierra Leone

Heavy foliage lined both sides of the roadway as the
rest-ridden Jeep CJ-5 made its way along the narrow
route. In the back seat of the vehicle, Mack Bolan
kept the fingers of his right hand wrapped around the
pistol grip of the AK-47.
    The Jeep had arrived on the ranway of Lungi Air-
port, Freetown, Sierra Leone, just as Jack Grimaldi,
Stony Man Farm's number-one pilot, set the wheels
of the SR-71 on the tarmac. Grimaldi and the plane--
commandeered from the USAF by Brognola through
the orders of the President himself--would wait at
Lungi in case the Executioner needed them on short
notice.
    Two Gurkhas had hopped through the open door-
ways of the Jeep. Each man carded a pair of AK-
47s, and before they even offered a greeting they
handed Bolan and Buchanan each one of the rifles.
Which didn't surprise the Executioner. They were in
Sierra Leone now. Violence could flare up at any
time, in any place.

    As the CJ-5 continued down the road, Bolan's left
hand unconsciously patted the lump under his arm.
Since Buchanan had contracted with the Sierra Leone
government to help the Gurkhas train the country's
elite troops, they had encountered no problem bring-
ing weapons into the war-tom West African country.
The Executioner's Beretta 93-R rode in a well-worn
customized nylon shoulder rig, ready to spit 9 mm
death through its attached sound suppressor. At the
other end of the decibel spectrum, and resting in a
hip holster on his other side, the Executioner's trade-
mark .44 Magnum Desert Eagle stood just as ready
for action.
    But the weapons Bolan had chosen for this jungle
expedition didn't stop there. Hanging from his belt
on the left, and tied across his thigh with a sturdy
length of parachute cord, was a black Kydex sheath.
Protruding from the top of the hard space,age plastic
was the black micarta grip of the huge fighting knife
known as the COMTECH Crossada. With a twelve-
inch blade and a seventeen-and-one-half-inch overall
length, the Crossada was a cross between a bowie
knife and an Arkansas toothpick. A hole in the in-
tegral cross guard provided for the optional quillions
the Executioner carried in his jacket pocket. When
screwed into the weapon, these quillions formed a
cross, giving the Crossada its name. Bolan had cho-
sen the spear-point weapon as much for its ability to
chop through thick jungle underbrush as for the fact
that one thrust-and-pump motion would end the at-
tack of the strongest enemy.




    The Executioner tried to stare through the thick
leaves and branches as the Jeep bumped over the
rough ground. They were headed for the Sierra Le-
one Commando Unit training base some forty miles
from the country's capital. To get there, they had to
pass through areas of thick jungle that held almost
as many Revolutionary United Front gunmen as it
did leaves on the trees. And as Calvin James had said
before they left Stony Man Farm, calling themselves
the RUF was a thin attempt at making the men po-
litically respectable.
    In actuality the RUF was composed of cutthroat
opportunists who'd kill their own mothers for a dime.
    Beside the Executioner, Bobcat Buchanan sat
watching the other side of the road. Bolan had been
impressed that the man had immediately known to
watch his side while the Executioner scanned the
other. Buchanan hadn't had to be told, which meant
he was well trained.
    The Gurkhas sat in the front seat, the one who had
introduced himself as Jessie behind the wheel. "That
doesn't sound Nepalese," Buchanan had said, refer-
ring to the Gurkha's nationality.
    "It isn't," Jessie had said. "But you couldn't pro-
nounce my real name."
    The other Nepalese soldier had slid into the pas-
senger's seat and said, "Call me Dax. It isn't my real
name, either, but one I saw in a movie long ago."
  Bobcat had chuckled. "Molornondo."
  "The very one!" Dax had cried.
  Now, as they jolted over the rough terrain, it felt

as if they were riding a stagecoach through the Old
West. Bolan studied the Gurkhas in front of him.
They wore OD green jungle hats with colored bands,
Portuguese camouflage BDUs cut French style and
rubber-soled boots with canvas uppers. The tip of the
leather-covered wooden sheaths of the Gurkhas' tra-
ditional fighting knife, the kukri, could barely be
seen. Both men wore their fierce-edged weapon in a
cross-draw fashion and had pistols strapped to their
green web belts.
    As they continued on in the hot African afternoon
sun, Bolan listened to the chirps of unseen jungle
birds and the laughter of invisible monkeys hidden
in the trees. Every so often a colorful butterfly flew
from one side of the road to the other.
    Jessie slowed the Jeep as they neared a sharp
curve, and suddenly the birds and monkeys fell si-
lent.
    The Executioner's sixth sense--an instinct that
had been honed over the years by too many at-
tempted ambushes to remember--suddenly went on
full alert.
    "Incoming!" Bolan shouted as the first rounds of
automatic fire burst from the trees to the left of the
road. Several rounds struck the front tires of the Jeep,
and the rubber exploded, sounding like more gunfire.
The vehicle swerved, and the Executioner was
thrown against Buchanan. In the front seat Jessie
fought the wheel, valiantly trying to keep the Jeep
upright as more autofire opened up on the other side
of the road. The vehicle was on two wheels as it




whirled around the curve, with Jessie continuing to
wrestle for control.
    Ahead Bolan saw that a huge boulder had been
rolled into the middle of the road. "Jump!" he
shouted, knowing instinctively that the Gurkha driver
would never successfully maneuver the damaged
Jeep around the obstacle. Rising to his feet, he dived
over the side.
    Bolan hit the ground on his shoulder, the AK-47
flying from his fist. His momentum carried him down
into a narrow ditch at the side of the road, then up
the other side into the trees.
    Mud caked the jungle floor, making sick sucking
sounds as the Executioner rolled through it. He felt
something hard strike his ribs and stop his roll,
looked up and saw that he'd come to a halt beneath
the hot barrel of a Russian-made SGMB 7.62 mm
wheel-mounted machine gun. Above the barrel the
RUF gunner, identified as such by the blue bandanna
he wore, looked down in surprise.
    Bolan rolled to his side, drew his Desert Eagle
from the hip holster under his bush jacket and angled
the weapon toward the RUF man.
    The bandit let up on the machine gun's trigger and
clawed for the pistol at his side, but he was too late.
Bolan squeezed the Desert Eagle's trigger. A 240-
grain hollowpoint round struck the man between the
upper lip and nose and blew the back of his head
into the trees.
    The Executioner twisted onto his belly as a flash
of white appeared in his peripheral vision. His eyes

focused quickly on a white T-shirt above a ragged
pair of camouflage trousers. This man, too, wore the
RUF's trademark blue bandanna, tied over his head
pirate style, and held a Soviet SKS. He saw the big
American and dived face forward into the mud.
    Bolan pulled the trigger again. Another big .44
round struck one of the wheels beneath the SGMB,
then whined off into the trees. Correcting his aim, he
angled the weapon toward the RUF hardman, who
had come to a halt less than a yard from his boots.
As the man tried to raise his head out of the wet
earth, the Executioner tapped the trigger again and
took him out with another .44 Magnum hollowpoint
round.
    Bolan kept the Desert Eagle at the ready as he
reached down with his other hand and retrieved the
fallen SKS. His AK-47 had been lost when he hit
the ground upon leaving the jeep, and he could put
a rifle to good use. But just as he feared, the barrel
had been jammed with mud when the man at his feet
had dived under the machine gun. He didn't have
time to clean it out, and to try to fire it as it was
would mean a burst barrel. He stood as much chance
of killing himself as any of the enemy.
    The Executioner dropped the useless weapon. On
the other side of the road, as well as from farther
down the road onXthe same side, the gunfire contin-
ued. He glanced at the wheel-mounted SGMB. The
machine gun was fine for an ambush such as the one
the RUF bandits had planned, but now that the battle
had taken a more traditional jungle-fighting turn, it




would prove far too clumsy and indiscriminate. If he
fired blindly through the trees, he could just as easily
kill Buchanan or the Gurkhas.
    For a brief moment, the Executioner wondered if
his three allies were even still alive, then pushed such
unproductive thoughts from his mind. Wondering
would do no good. What he needed to do was to go
find out.
    Bolan bolstered the Desert Eagle and drew the
Beretta with his right hand. With his left he un-
sheathed the Crossada knife. If he couldn't have the
advantage of superior firepower, he would have to
rely on stealth. The near silent Beretta, and the totally
silent Crossada, would fill that bill quite well.
    The Executioner scanned the area. He couldn't see
far, but sensed he was at the forward line of the am-
bush. If not, anyone the Jeep had passed would have
come up on his rear by now. Cutting deeper into the
jungle, away from the road, he walked silently for
what he estimated to be twenty to twenty-five yards,
cut ten yards farther down the road, then began to
make his way quietly back. With any luck he should
come up on the enemy's rear, now.
    The gunfire on both sides of the road had died
down to sporadic shots by the time he saw the next
bandit. The man in the blue bandanna faced away
from him, kneeling. The stock of another Soviet SKS
rifle was pressed to his shoulder and aimed through
the trees.
    Bolan stopped, squinting through the leaves. He
brought up the Beretta and sighted down the barrel.

 His finger was already moving back on the trigger
 when another flash of blue caught his eye, then two
 others.
     At least three more RUF hardmen were hidden in
 the thick leaves and branches, both within six feet of
 the target in his sights.
    Slowly, cautiously, he lowered the Beretta, then
holstered it. The sound suppressor was just that--a
suppressor, not a silencer as it was often mistakenly
called. It would go a long way toward quieting the
9 mm blast, but at such close range the noise might
still be heard by the other bandits. There might only
be the three more RUF men he had seen. Then again,
there might be thirty more stretched shoulder to
shoulder nearby. No matter how many there were,
Bolan couldn't afford to alert them.
    Bolan transferred the Crossada to his right hand.
He no longer needed quiet: he needed silence.
    Letting the bulky leaves and branches keep him
hidden, the Executioner moved slowly in behind the
nearest RUF bandit. In one swift motion he reached
around the man's face with his left hand and covered
his target's mouth. Bolan jerked the head in his hand
backward, exposing the throat. At the same time the
Crossada came around on the other side.
    The spear-point blade had a primary sharpened
edge of ten inches. The "false" edge measured eight.
For all practical purposes the weapon was a double-
edged fighting knife.
    Bolan drew the false edge across the hardman's
throat, severing both arteries and veins in one smooth




slice. The larynx separated with the other compo-
nents of the neck and turned what the man had in-
tended to be a scream into a soft, wet gurgle.
    The Executioner lowered the corpse to the ground.
With a swift and silent lateral movement, he was on
the next man in line. Wrapping a hand around the
mouth again, he thrust the point of the Crossada deep
into the bandit's left kidney. Pumping twice, the Ex-
ecutioner withdrew the blade and inserted it into the
other side of the man's lower back.
    The second bandit collapsed to the muddy grass,
as dead as the first.
    Bolan paused as shots rang out down the tree line.
More gunfire came from the other side of the road,
then the jungle fell silent once more.
    The third RUF hardman Bolan had spotted raised
his rifle to his shoulder, sighting down the barrel at
some target the Executioner couldn't see through the
leaves. The big man lunged forward, thrusting the
Crossada up and out. The tip of the massive blade
entered the bandit's floating ribs, cracking bone and
carving cartilage as it shot on through to the heart.
The SKS fell from his fingers.
    Bolan saw a new flash of blue as he withdrew the
knife and let the corpse fall of its own accord. Two
heads turned simultaneously, and for a moment the
Executioner wished he'd kept the Beretta in his op-
posite hand.
    He moved in, quickly closing the gap between him
and the nearer RUF hardman. He brought the Cros-
sada high over his head as the man tried to spin and

bring a Russian-made PPSh submachine gun into
play. But the bandit had only partially made the turn
when the twelve-inch blade came chopping down
onto his scalp.
    The heavy steel didn't stop until it had reached the
bandit's shoulders. Bolan jerked it out and turned on
the man to his side.
    The RUF hardman saw what had happened to his
companion and froze, his AK-47 aimed at the Exe-
cutioner's chest but held in hands paralyzed with
fear. Bolan took advantage of the momentary pause
to plunge the Crossada into the bandit's sternum. The
point punctured the soft tissue and kept going. Bolan
felt the blade pause momentarily as it encountered
the spine, then it slipped off to the side and emerged
through the bandit's back. Bolan rode the body down
to the ground as it slumped to its back.
    The Executioner's eyes searched the jungle for
more of the telltale blue bandannas as he tried to jerk
the Crossada free. But the blade was lodged firmly
in the man's chest and wouldn't budge. Bolan's hand
shot to the Beretta in the shoulder holster. He paused
long enough to make sure no more of the enemy
were in the immediate vicinity, then left the 93-R
holstered and grabbed the Crossada's grips with both
hands and pulled. Finally the blade began to move.
Slowly at first, it finally exited from the body. Wip-
ing the blade across the man's shirt, the Executioner
stuck it back in the Kydex sheath and grabbed the
AK-47 as the gunfire across the road picked up again.





CHAPTER THREE

Ethiopia

    David McCarter glanced out the window as Char-
lie Mott, Stony Man Farm's number-two pilot,
guided the converted C-17 Globemaster III across
Ethiopia's Ogaden Desert. The large McDonnell
Douglas transport plane had been chosen to deliver
the men of Phoenix Force to Somalia for two rea-
sons. First McCarter and his fellow commandos were
bringing along enough equipment to be totally self-
sufficient in the war-torn nation, and they needed the
storage area the modified C-17 provided. And second
the Globemaster was serving as partial cover. Mott
also had a load of Peace Corps provisions that he
would deliver to make it appear that was the real
reason the transport plane had arrived.
    McCarter continued to stare out of the window.
The Globemaster was low enough now that he could
see the checkpoint at Dolo. A moment later they had
passed over the border village and entered Somalian
airspace on their way to Mogadishu.
  The Phoenix Force leader felt a twinge of sadness

for the people of Sorealia. For the past five hundred
years Somalia had been its own worst enemy. Until
the early sixteenth century, Mogadishu had been a
thriving stopover in the Arabs' Indian Ocean trading
network. Then the Portuguese had come to destroy
both ports, and in turn to seal the fate of the country.
Somalia~ had declined rapidly after that, lapsing into
anonyn~ity on the world scene.
  And there it had stayed ever since.
    The Phoenix Force leader sighed as the big en-
gines quieted further. The roll of the dice, the draw
of a card. The student of history soon began to sus-
pect that history itself was that--a game of chance.
A crapshoot, so to speak. Random occurrences
seemed to set into motion the events that divided
flourishing nations from those that became impov-
erished. The wrong attack by the wrong enemy at the
wrong time could bring destruction to a country for
centuries. Drought, famine, pestilence--they could
end a flourishing culture just as fast. Sometimes the
enemy was man, sometimes nature. Somalia had seen
its share of both, and together the two adversaries
had conspired to keep the country destitute.
    McCarter closed his eyes for a moment. A card
game. A crapshoot that busted many nations while
bankroiling others. With the right chain of events,
with Lady Luck smiling on certain soil, a formally
unorganized or defeated people could become a
world power. The absence of war for a period of time
that enabled the buildup of military strength rather
than its depletion, favorable weather to ensure that




crops sprouted plentifully and with regularity and a
few decades free of serious disease could build a Ro-
man Empire, a Great Britain or a United States of
America.
    Charlie Mott spoke up, breaking into McCarter's
brief reverie. "Two minutes to drop."
    Behind him McCarter heard boots moving across
the cargo area. At first the Phoenix Force leader had
considered just jumping his team into Sorealia with
their weapons and other equipment. But their primary
mission was to find out about the abandoned UN
documents, and that meant they'd be working at least
some of the time in public. A good cover would be
necessary, and an illegal entry into the country would
mean they'd be on the run after landing.
    They couldn't afford that complication. Not on this
type of mission.
    Therefore, the Phoenix Force leader had decided
that only their equipment would descend via para-
chute. They would continue on to the airport at Mog-
adishu and deplane using false passports provided by
Stony Man Farm. The passports listed them as a team
of journalists and photographers who had hitched a
ride on the C-17. The story should also give them
good reason to be touring the country.
    McCarter glanced at Mott. The pilot wore his
usual mirrored sunglasses and green-and-yellow
baseball cap. The faded leather bomber jacket that
was equally part of his rarely changing wardrobe was
draped over the back of his seat.

    "Thirty seconds," Mott said. "Get it in gear,
guys."
    The plane kept a steady speed and altitude as
McCarter turned to see T. J. Hawkins and Calvin
James slide open the cargo door. Gary Manning and
Rafael Encizo hurried up. Both men wheeled a dolly
ahead of them that bore several crates. Cargo chutes
had been affixed to each box.  "Fifteen seconds."
    Quickly and efficiently Encizo and Manning began
to hand the static lines to James and Hawkins. The
two commandos at the door quickly snapped the
lines to the door frame, then stepped back.
  "Ten... nine... eight..."
    As soon as Mott reached zero, the men of Phoenix
Force began to shove the crates through the doorway.
McCarter shifted his gaze back to the window,
watching the chutes open as each box in turn hit the
end of its static line. The top of each crate was
marked with a bold red number designating its con-
tents. As box number 4 hit the end, it snapped the
line. The chute remained closed, and the crate began
an end-over-end tumble toward the ground.
    McCarter frowned. "What was in number four?"
he called back into the cargo area.
    Manning pulled a list from the pocket of his khaki
safari vest. "MREs," he said. "Looks like we'll be
sampling the native cuisine on this one."
    "Looks like," McCarter agreed. He turned back
to the window, continuing to watch as the chutes
floated the rest of the cargo earthward. Along with




the other equipment they had brought, the crates con-
tained pistols and dries for each man. Until they re-
trieved them, Phoenix Force was armed only with
small folding knives. The knives looked more like
working blades but could kill if pressed into service
by an experienced hand.
    Fifteen minutes later Mott set the wheels down on
the tarmac in Mogadishu. McCarter grabbed his cam-
era bag, opened the cabin door and dropped down.
He heard the cargo door open, then the boots of the
other four commandos fell to the runway behind him.
    The heat of the war-torn African country was
sweltering, and McCarter felt it rise from the tarmac
through the rubber soles of his hiking boots. He
glanced over his shoulder. Hawkins and Encizo car-
ried briefcases that contained laptop computers.
Camera bags hung from Manning's and James's
shoulders, and the big Canadian was further bur-
dened with a tripod. All of the men of Phoenix Force
wore blue jeans or khakis and either photojournalist
vests or safari jackets.
    The Briton grinned. The warriors from Stony Man
Farm looked more like newsmen than newsmen, like
something straight out of a Banana Republic or Eddie
Bauer advertisement. McCarter started toward the
terminal and a sign that read CustomsmPrivate Craft
in several languages, including English.
    Reaching the glass door under the sign, McCarter
swung it open and stepped back, letting the others
pass through. He followed.
  If the heat had been bad outside, it was worse in

the small customs office. A lone ceiling fan twirled
overhead, too slow to circulate the hot air. McCarter
pulled the canvas hat from his head and used it to
mop his brow.
    Behind the counter at the end of the room stood a
thin black man in a Somalian customs uniform with
lieutenant's bars on the shoulders. Manning was the
first to reach the window, and he plopped down his
passport and shoved it through the opening.
    The lieutenant used deft and well-practiced fingers
to riffle through the pages of the passport. He glanced
up quickly, comparing the picture to the man who
had posed for it, then brought his stamp down hard
and said, "Next."
    Encizo stepped up, and the procedure was re-
peated. One by one the men of Phoenix Force cleared
Somalian customs and stepped to the side of the
room to wait.
    McCarter came last, opening his passport to the
picture and handing it through the window. The doc-
ument claimed he was a British freelance photogra-
pher. The customs officer brought the stamp down
with a thud and handed it back.
    The Briton walked over to join the rest of the
team. Their entry had gone smoothly--not that he'd
expected it to be otherwise. Stony Man Farm utilized
the best team of forgers in the world for such doc-
uments. But in addition to the slick credentials, Brog-
nola had been able, through his position in the U.S.
Department of Justice, to call in a favor from a friend
in the CIA. The friend had contacted a friend in So-




malian customs and the path had been prepared in
advance. They should have no trouble.
    He glanced back at the lieutenant behind the win-
dow. The man grinned, and McCarter nodded back.
It seemed unusual that a man with any rank would
be working the window, and McCarter now sus-
pected that he wasn't a regular. In fact he was prob-
ably the CIA contact Brognola had utilized to ensure
a smooth entry.
    Yes, David McCarter thought as he lifted his lug-
gage, things were going smoothly. Too smoothly?
    As if to answer McCarter's doubts, the door to the
terminal proper suddenly opened, and a brawny,
bearded black man wearing the uniform of a customs
captain blocked the doorway. He glanced from one
man to the next, eyeing their luggage and equipment
at the same time. "You are newsmen?" he asked in
heavily accented English.
 McCarter and the others nodded.
    "I learned English in London," the man said with
a smile, "and I have visited America. There I learned
certain slang or colloquial terms." He paused.
"Would you like to hear my favorite?"
    McCarter stiffened. Something wasn't quite right.
He nodded. "Certainly. Give us your favorite."
    "Bullshit," the captain said, his smile fading. He
then drew a Tokarev pistol from the holster on his
Sam Browne belt.
    The door through which the men of Phoenix Force
had entered the terminal opened, and McCarter

turned to see four more customs men, all carrying
submachine guns.
    "Bullshit you are newsmen," the captain said
again. "He nodded toward the door. "My name is
Captain Berber. And now, you will all come with
me."

Washington, D.C.

THE FLIGHT from Stony Man Farm in the Blue Ridge
Mountains of Virginia to Washington, D.C., never
took long. Particularly when you had at your disposal
an AV-8B Harder II Plus, the world's only in pro-
duction WSTOL--vertical or short takeoff and land-
ing-aircraft. Flown by a Stony Man blacksuit pilot
trainee, the craft had barely risen into the air when
it set the men of Able Team down again in the U.S.
capital.
    Carl Lyons had rented a Chevy Conversion van at
the airport, and they had actually spent more time in
the ground vehicle on their way to the Washington
Chieftain building in downtown D.C. than they had
in the air.
    Lyons propped the empty cardboard refrigerator
box against the white trash bin in the alley behind
the Chieftain building. He leaned the dolly against
the brick of the building's rear wall. The Able Team
leader's eyes rose to a window several floors up. It
was a bad angle, but just over the sill, he thought he
could see the bald spot on the back of a brownish-
gray-fringed head.




Ira Rook had begun going both bald and gray dur-
ing the years since Lyons had last seen him.
    Lyons closed the garbage bin's lid, brushed the
dust off the sleeves of his plaid sport coat, then
turned and walked to the end of the alley. Gadgets
Schwarz and Rosario Blancanales were waiting back
on the sidewalk.
    "You still want to try this straight, Ironman?"
Blancanales asked. "We could just snatch him off
the street like we did Buchanan."
    "No, let's give him every opportunity to cooperate
first," he said.
    The three men turned the corner and entered the
main entrance of the building, stopping briefly to
flash their U.S. Justice Department credentials at the
security desk. Brognola provided all Stony Man
Farm operatives with such ID for those times when
missions required the illusion of police authority and
covert action.
    The security man at the desk wore a powder blue
uniform shirt two sizes too small for his bloated
torso. His darker blue slacks were even tighter and
threatened to burst at the seams. He looked up at the
Justice Department IDs thrust down into his face
with awe. "Can I give you directions?" he asked
around a mouthful of doughnut.
    Lyons shook his head. "We know where we're
going," he said. Before the man could reply, he led
the way into the busy newsroom.
    The clicking of computer keyboard keys filled the
air as Lyons led the way through a maze of desks

separated from each other by clear plastic dividers.
Men and women occupied the tiny office cubicles,
typing with both hands and trapping telephone re-
ceivers between their shoulders and ears. Most were
too busy to even look up as the three strangers
passed.
    The Able Team leader reached the elevators on the
far side of the newsroom and pushed the Up button,
staring at the door. The sight brought back memories.
Ira Rook. Elevators. As Lyons waited for the car to
appear, he let his mind travel back over the years.
    Suddenly he was a young rookie LAPD cop again.
He was in a black-and-white cruiser and had just let
Wally Dobbs, his middle-aged training officer, out in
front of the four-story apartment building where
Dobbs's girlfriend lived. The older man would be no
more than thirty minutes, he had promised Lyons.
    A moment later Lyons had heard the first scream.
Looking out the window, he saw an elderly woman
point up in the air with one hand and cover her
mouth with the other.
    Lyons stepped out of the cruiser and followed the
woman's gaze. Teetering near the edge of the roof
of the apartment building was a scantily clad young
woman. She looked down at the sidewalk as a crowd
began to gather, men, women and children taking
advantage of the free entertainment.
    The old woman who had screamed suddenly
grabbed Lyons by the arm. "Do something!" she
demanded. "It's your job!"
 Lyons looked back up at the young woman on the




roof. As a rookie fresh out of the academy, he was
forbidden to take any serious action without his train-
ing partner present. Turning toward the front steps of
the apartment building, he took them three at a time
and stopped just inside the first-floor door.
    It was at that point that Lyons realized he didn't
know either the apartment number of Dobbs's girl-
friend or her name.
    Through the glass door Lyons saw that more peo-
ple had gathered. Someone shouted, "Jump! Jump!"
and the rookie cop fought the urge to race back out-
side and beat the ghoul with his fists. Instead, he
hurried to the elevator and took it to the top floor,
then sprinted up the final set of steps to the roof.
    The door at the top of the stairs had been left ajar,
and Lyons eased it open quietly. Not wanting to star-
tle the young woman, he emerged onto the chat-
covered roof slowly and saw her standing just he-
yond an air duct, facing the street. The diaphanous
pink nightgown she wore fluttered in the breeze with
a gentle peacefulness that defied the urgency of the
situation.
      Lyons moved slowly toward her, stopping twenty
feet away. "Hello," he said as softly as he could.
  The girl never even turned to look at him.
  She jumped.
    The elevator door at the Washington Chieftain
building suddenly opened, bringing Lyons back to
the present. He stepped inside, waited for Schwarz
and Blancanales to follow, then pushed the third-

floor button. As the car rose, his mind drifted back
to the past again.
    As the girl had fallen and the crowd screamed be-
low, the young Lyons had rushed instinctively to the
edge of the roof. Looking back on it now, he knew
he had been only partially aware of a snapping sound
and lights flashing behind him. He had reached the
edge of the roof in time to see the girl hit the ground.
Another flash of light to his rear finally caused him
to turn, and he'd done that in time to catch yet an-
other flash bulb in the face. As his pupils readjusted
after the flash, Carl Lyons got his first glimpse of Ira
Rook behind the camera.
    Rook had been a stringer for the Los Angeles
Times in those days. He had also, Lyons would later
learn, lived in the same apartment building as Wally
Dobbs's girlfriend and from which the girl had just
leaped to her death. When the call had come into the
Times that there was a jumper on the roof, the editor
who answered the phone recognized the address and
immediately called Rook.
    The Chieftain's elevator stopped on the third floor,
and Lyons, Schwarz and Blancanales stepped off.
The Able Team leader led the way down a tiled hall,
but his mind was still on that night so many years
ago.
    Wally Dobbs had arrived on the roof ten minutes
after the girl had jumped. His face as white as a
ghost's, he had pleaded that Lyons save his marriage
by telling their captain that the training officer been




down the street buying cigarettes instead of in his
girlfriend's apartment.
    As for Ira Rook, he'd been doing his best to make
a name for himself and land a big-time news job.
Over the next few days the Times had run his pictures
of Lyons, and the girl diving over the edge of the
roof. Each day a new Rook story accompanied the
photos, and each story questioned the way Lyons had
handled the incident. Rook called the young cop "in-
sensitive, callous and uncaring" and made an art out
of turning fact into fiction. He took tiny details of
the incident and twisted them into whatever he
wanted them to imply. When he couldn't find any-
thing to be twisted, he simply invented things. The
fact that Lyons was a rookie who had violated de-
partment policy by acting without his training officer
present was stressed in each article.
    For a while Lyons was the most hated cop in L.A.
The end result was that he received sixty days with-
out pay and narrowly escaped being fired altogether.
    A frosted-glass window in the top of the door read
Washington Chieftain, Ira M. Rook, Senior Editor.
Lyons stopped, curled his hand around the knob, and
took a deep breath.
    A year after the girl's death Ira Rook had his own
column at the Times, and the public had long ago
forgotten Carl Lyons. Lyons went on to make a new
name for himself as one of the best detectives the
City of Angels had ever produced. The city forgot
the girl who had jumped.
  Carl Lyons didn't.

    The former Los Angeles PD detective opened the
door and stepped inside, followed by his teammates.
The chubby, balding man behind the desk looked up,
his face a mask of surprise and anger. Lyons closed
the door and turned back to Rook. He didn't speak;
he just looked.
    "I don't know who the hell you think you are,"
Rook said, "but people knock before they come into
my office."
    Lyons walked slowly to the desk, still staring at
his old nemesis. Besides going gray and losing much
of his hair, Rook had put on weight. But he was as
short as ever. He wore striped suspenders over his
white shirt, and the knot in his tie had been loosened.
"You happen to remember me, Rook?" Lyons
asked.
    The man leaned forward over his desk, cradled his
flabby chin in his hands and snorted. "Well, no," he
said sarcastically. "But then you don't look impor-
tant enough to remember. Who the hell are you?"
    "We're special agents with the U.S. Department
of Justice, Mr. Rook," Schwarz said politely.
"Wooo!" Rook said, pursing his lips obscenely.
Lyons looked at the floor, chuckled and shook his
head. "Guys," he said over his shoulder, "you re-
member that I said we should try this the easy way
first?"
  "I remember," Blancanales said.
  "That's what you said," Schwarz agreed.
    "I changed my mind." Lyons drew back his fist
and drove it into Rook's jaw.


    The man flew back against his chair, closed his
eyes and lapsed into unconsciousness.
    Able Team went to work like different compo-
nents of one highly efficient, well-maintained ma-
chine. Blancanales walked to the window behind
Rook's desk and slid it open as Schwarz unbuttoned
the blazer he wore to expose a long length of rope
coiled around his waist and chest. He began to un-
wrap it as Lyons lay the unconscious Rook on the
floor and bound his hands and feet with plastic hand-
cuffs.
    Blancanales moved to the hall door, grasped the
knob, then turned back. "He really didn't remember
you, did he?" he asked Lyons.
    Schwarz echoed Rook's words, chuckling. "Iron-
man's not important enough to remember."
    Blancanales disappeared into the hall, closing the
door behind him. Lyons finished binding Rook and
helped Schwarz fashion a harness around the editor's
shoulders with the rope. When they had finished,
they dragged the man to the window.
    Lyons looked down in time to see Blancanales
fishing the refrigerator box out of the trash. He stood
the cardboard container on its end under the window
and opened the flaps at the top.
      Schwarz looked at Lyons. "I better go down with
him. We don't want him banging his head."
  "Might do him some good," Lyons said.
  Schwarz laughed. "Rook's obnoxious, repugnant
  and belligerent. He lies in his stories, and he's rep-
  resentative of the worst journalism has to offer."

 Able Team's electronics expert paused for breath.
 "But he's not a criminal, Ironman. He's not a ter-
 rorist, and he's not plotting to overthrow the govern-
 ment of the United States of America."  "Don't be so sure," Lyons said.
    Schwarz went deadpan again. "So...I suppose we
better kill him, then?"
    Lyons snorted. Schwarz knew he had no intentions
of harming Ira Rook--at least not seriously. The shot
to the jaw had been deserved, and a long time com-
ing. But Schwarz was making a point--a point that
Lyons might already understand but that could never
be emphasized too much: none of the warriors of
Stony Man Farm ever let personal feelings interfere
with their work. They never had, and they never
would. It simply wasn't the way a professional be-
haved.
    The Able Team leader wrapped the rope around
the desk several times for support, then helped
Schwarz lift Rook over the windowsill. The elec-
tronics whiz stuck one leg though the opening after
him and then the other. With Rook held securely be-
tween him and the wall, Schwarz wrapped his arms
around the man and let Lyons lower them to the box.
    Schwarz swung out and dropped to the ground as
his feet drew even with the top of the box. He and
Biancahales guided the unconscious editor inside,
closed the flaps, then lifted the box onto the dolly.
    Upstairs, Lyons unwound the rope and dropped it
to the ground. He closed the window, left the office
and walked back down the hall to the elevator. Two




minutes later he had joined his teammates in the
alley.
    "He's liable to wake up, Ironman," Schwarz cau-
tioned as they wheeled the box down the alley to the
street. "And we forgot to gag him."  "I didn't forget," Lyons stated.
    "But if he comes out of it, he's going to make
noise," Blancanales said, glancing up and down the
busy sidewalk as they emerged from the alley.
  "No, he won't."
  Schwarz and Blancanales glanced at each other.
    As if to straighten out the confusion himself, Rook
suddenly started to move inside the box.
      Lyons reached up, opened the flap, then drove a
fist out of sight inside the cardboard.  The movement stopped.
    "We can't kill him," the Able Team leader said,
"but I couldn't resist one last shot."
    Able Team rolled the boxed newspaper editor
down the sidewalk to the corner, crossed the street
and wheeled him up to the van. Schwarz slid the door
open and Lyons and Blancanales tossed the boxm
not too gently--inside.
    A moment later the van was speeding away from
the Washington Chieftain building.

CHAPTER FOUR

Sierra Leone

The Executioner paused, listening, trying to decide
exactly where the gunfire on his side of the road was
coming from. It wasn't easy in the cacophony of ex-
plosions that echoed through the trees.
    Then, as suddenly as the rifle fire had started
again, it stopped.
    Slowly, carefully, Bolan made his way to the tree
line, dropping to one knee as he peered through the
entangled branches, vines and leaves. On the road,
stalled and with the right front tire hanging in shreds
from the rim, was the Jeep CJ-5. Blood covered the
front seat and behind the vehicle he could see the
deep channels the tires of the fishtailing vehicle had
carved into the muddy road.
    Bolan squinted into the sun, trying to focus his eye
on a dark lump on the far side of the vehicle. He
knew it was a body, but he didn't know whose. As
his eyes cleared, he made out the lines of a small,
bent and misshapen man wearing a large kukri knife.




Jessie. Blood still poured from the wounds in his
chest and neck, but his eyes had closed in death.
    The Executioner scanned the roadway and tried to
look deeper into the trees on the other side. He saw
no sign of Bobcat Buchanan or Dax.
    Neither man had taken cover on his side of the
road. If they had, he would have encountered them
by now as he moved along the line of RUF men.
And they hadn't been hit with Jesse or they'd be on
the road, dead. Which meant they had to have taken
refuge in the trees on the other side. The fact that
there appeared to have been return fire earlier told
Bolan they had weapons---either the AKs they'd had
in the Jeep or other rifles they'd taken from the RUF
bandits.
    At least they had been alive and in possession of
weapons a few moments ago, before the firing sud-
denly stopped again. Did they still have the guns?
Were they still alive? Or was that the reason the road
had quieted?
    The Executioner stayed just inside the tree line,
trying to maneuver toward a spot across from a break
in the trees on the other side of the road. Maybe he
could see more from there. He had taken less than
ten steps when a patch of blue rose directly in front
of him.
    Bolan had no time to bring the sights of the AK-
47 in line with the body that held the Russian Mak-
arov 9 mm pistol. In one swift and smooth motion,
he brought the stock around and up against the RUF
gunner's jaw.

    A loud crack echoed through the jungle as the man
slumped to the ground unconscious. The Executioner
uprighted his rifle, aiming at the man. His index fin-
ger was moving back on the trigger when a flash of
movement caught his eye on the other side of the
road. He paused.
    Peering through the dense foliage, Bolan saw Bu-
chanan step from the trees across the road, followed
a moment later by Dax.
  Bolan frowned. Neither man was armed.
    A second later the reason became obvious. The
barrels of two AK-47s appeared through the
branches, then two men in blue bandannas. Another
armed man stepped from the trees on the other side
of the road.
    The man directly behind Buchanan was over six
feet tall and 240 pounds. He stuck two fingers into
his mouth and cut loose with a long shrill whistle.
    Farther down the tree line, on Bolan's side of the
road and in the direction he'd been heading, another
RUF hardman stepped out of hiding onto the road.
    The bandits directly behind Buchanan and Dax
jammed their rifle barrels into their prisoners' kid-
neys and prodded them along. The other two men
met in the middle of the road, standing back to back
as their eyes scanned the trees on both sides.
Bolan knew why. They were looking for him.
The two men in charge of Buchanan and Dax
grabbed them by the shoulders and turned them. Bu-
chanan's captor instigated a staring contest as sweat
dripped from the bandanna around his forehead.




More moisture stained the armpits of his tight khaki
military tunic. Finally tiring of the contest, he
screamed in English, "Where is he? Where is your
friend?"
    Buchanan shrugged, held his hands out palms up,
then snorted. "That is an incredibly stupid question
to ask under the circumstances. How the hell should
I know?" Hooking a thumb across the road, he
shrugged. "In the trees, maybe?"
His insolence earned him a rifle butt in the gut.
Buchanan twisted toward Bolan as he fell to his
knees. He leaned forward, emptying his stomach. But
as he did, the American mercenary-journalist winked
at the tree line.
    Beneath his feet, the Executioner heard the man
he had butt-stroked begin to stir. He looked down to
see the man's eyes open and trying to focus.
    In a moment the bandit would remember where he
was and what had happened. His natural instinct
would be to shout a warning, which would give away
the Executioner's location. But if Bolan shot him, the
round would lead the RUF hardmen to him just as
surely.
    Bolan drove the stock down into the man's head,
rendering him unconscious. He looked across at Bu-
chanan and Dax as the heavy man in front of Bu-
chanan turned to the two men still standing back to
back.
    He barked orders in Krio, the local language.
Then, turning back to Buchanan and Dax, he spoke

 in English again. "Change the tire on the Jeep! Do
 it now!"
    Bolan watched the two men break position and
start toward his side of the road. The big man kept
his rifle on Buchanan and Dax as they moved to the
spare tire mounted on the rear of the vehicle. The
other man turned to face the trees across from Bolan,
his rifle pressed against his shoulder and ready.
    The Executioner knew they were ninety-nine per-
cent sure he was on the opposite side of the road
from which they'd been. But that one percent of
doubt was enough to keep one man preoccupied.
    Good. It was all the advantage the Executioner
would need.
    Bolan drew the Beretta 93-R with his left hand and
flipped the selector switch to semiauto. He watched
the two men in blue bandannas enter the tree line ten
yards down. They would split up if they knew what
they were doing. One would head toward him, the
other away. When they'd satisfied themselves he
wasn't in the first "sphere" of the search, they'd
move deeper into the jungle, then head back to meet
each other in the middle of the search area again. A
good search plan. The only problem with it was that
the Executioner was in that first sphere.
    And the RUF hardmen about to enter it would
never leave it alive.
    The big American dropped to a crouch, moving
five feet farther from the road and into a thick growth
of brush. He paused for a moment, setting the Beretta
on a clump of grass and drawing the Crossada knife.




Pulling the quillions from his pocket, he swiftly
threaded them through the hole at the base of the
blade to form the cross guard, then jabbed the huge
piece of steel into the soft mud. With both hands he
scooped the wet earth onto his face, then arms. More
mud went over his bush jacket and trousers until they
were the same color as the jungle floor. Grabbing
fistfuls of the vegetation around him, he pressed them
into the sticky mess that now covered his face and
clothes. Most of it fell off, but enough stayed to ef-
fectively break up his outline and further camouflage
him.
    He had barely finished his camouflage when he
heard the quiet footsteps enter hearing range. The
RUF hardman headed his way was moving along the
exact line Bolan had predicted and, unless the thick
foliage was distorting the sounds, was less than
twenty feet away.
  The Executioner waited.
    The man's blue bandanna, easy to spot in a jungle
of browns, greens and yellows, appeared first. Ten
feet to his right and five feet in front, Bolan remained
still, letting him come. If the bandit didn't spot him
before he got into knife range, he'd use the Crossada.
If the RUF man did see him, he'd be forced to use
the Beretta and hope they were far enough from the
other bandits that the quiet 9 mm cough would go
unheard.
    The RUF man moved on with painful slowness.
As he neared, the Executioner could make out the
whites of his eyes beneath the blue. The brown orbs

in the center of the white darted nervously back and
forth as the hunter searched for his prey, never know-
ing that the prey was stalking him, as well.
    Bolan dropped even lower, to all fours, resting his
weight on his wrists as his hands held both knife and
gun up and pointed toward the target. Like a cat,
patient yet anxious to spring, he continued to wait.
    When the gunner drew directly across from him,
he struck.
    The Executioner flew through the air, the Crossada
extended in front of him. As the spear point made
contact with the RUF man's ribs, he threw his op-
posite arm back and around in a classic saber-fencing
counterbalance move.
    The knife buried itself to the quillions in flesh as
the man turned shocked eyes toward his attacker. He
opened his mouth to scream but a fire-hydrant spray
of crimson poured forth instead.
    The Executioner reached out, wrapping his arms
around the man and lowering him silently to the
ground.
    Through the trees he could hear the sounds of Dax
and Buchanan changing the Jeep's tire. Deeper in the
jungle and many yards ahead, he could barely make
out the sounds of feet moving quietly through the
grass.
    Bolan dropped deeper into the thick growth again,
moving silently along toward the footsteps. Twenty
yards catemorner from where he'd left the last man,
he saw the other RUF bandit, who faced the opposite
direction.




    Three feet behind the man, Bolan rose to full
neight. He brought the Crossaria up behind his right
car and around in a horizontal arch.
    For a moment it looked as if the twelve-inch blade
had missed the RUF man completely. The bandit
froze in place, then a thin red ring appeared, encir-
cling his neck. A moment later the man toppled to
the muddy jungle floor.
    bolan unscrewed the quillions and dropped them
back into his pocket. Sheathing the Crossaria, he
turned back to the road.
    The Executioner transferred the Beretta to his fight
hand as he made his way back through the trees,
walking as fast as possible without making enough
noise to be heard from the road. When he reached
the tree line he saw Buchanan and Dax stand up.
Buchanan still held the tire iron he'd used to replace
the lug nuts.
    The heavyset RUF bandit still covered the two
men with his rifle. He barked something in Krio to
the man guacding the other side of the road, and the
bandit turned and jogged to his side. "We can wait
no longer," he told the two captives in English.
"Your comrade has deserted you." He stuck his fin-
gers in his mouth and whistled again.
    Bolan flipped the Beretta to 3-round-burst mode as
the heavy bandit raised the AK-47 to eye level and
sighted down the barrel at Buchanan and Dax. He
stepped to the very edge of the tree line as the bandit
growled, "And now you die."
  "Wait a second!" Buchanan said.

  The bandit lowered the rifle momentarily.
    As quick as a flash, Buchanan brought the tire iron
back and threw it.
    The makeshift missile struck the RUF hardman
square between the eyes, and the man hit the ground
like a felled oak.
    But the final gunner was too far away, and as he
turned toward Dax, Bolan could see an expression of
resignation on Buchanan's face. The man was a sol-
dier who was prepared for death, and now would face
it honorably and without showing fear.
    The RUF man swung his rifle toward Buchanan
and the Gurkha and flipped off the safety.
    Bolan stepped out of the trees, aimed the Beretta
at the bandit's head and drilled him with a 3-round
burst.
    Both Buchanan and Dax turned toward the Exe-
cutioner. Dax opened his mouth in a wide grin that
showed two even rows of white teeth.
    Buchanan shook his head. "I'm liking you better
and better all the time, Pollock," he said. His eyes
traveled up and down the Executioner, taking in the
mud, leaves and twigs that had served to camouflage
him. "Although I've been meaning to talk to you
about your personal hygiene."




CHAPTER FIVE

Somzzlia

David McCarter trailed Captain Berber out of the
customs room into the main terminal of the airport.
The other members of Phoenix Force followed. The
armed guards accompanying the burly black captain
brought up the rear.
    McCarter studiedthe man as he walked. Berber's
arms were held Wide like those of bodybuilders,
whose latissimus dorsi muscles have been highly de-
veloped. His back was wide, the trapeziUs muscles
shooting at a forty-five-degree angle from the comers
of his shoulders to his head, almost completely elim-
inating his neck. The man lifted weights. Lots of
weights. That was clear.
    They turned a comer in the terminal and started
down what appeared to be a little-used hallway. The
captain reached in his pocket as they walked, fished
out a large key ring, then stopped in front of a steel
door. Inserting the key, he swung the door open,
stepped back and motioned McCarter to enter.
 The other customs officers stayed in the hall. Let-

 ting their subguns fall to the ends of the slings around
 their shoulders, they took up positions against the
 wall.
    McCarter stepped into the room, followed by
James, Hawkins, Encizo and Manning. He glanced
around, and saw a combination office-gymnasium. At
one end of the room was a battered metal desk. Pa-
pers were scattered across the top, and a clear plastic
photo cube showcased pictures of Berber, a woman
McCarter assumed to be his wife and at least a half-
dozen children of varying ages.
    The Briton's suspicions about the captain's weight
training were confirmed by the contents of the rest
of the room. Thousands of pounds of weights were
scattered across the floor, on plate trees, benches and
other equipment. One bench lay inside a steel power
rack, a seven-foot Olympic bar resting over it.
McCarter quickly counted up the plates in his head
as he waited for the captain to enter. The bar held a
full basic Olympic set--310 pounds.
    The captain entered the room, nodded the other
men toward a bench along one wall, then waved
them toward it.
    McCarter led the way again, taking a seat at one
end of the bench. Manning dropped down next to
him with Hawkins on the Canadian's other side. En-
cizo and James took seats on the other end of the
bench.
    The captain marched to a position directly in front
of them and stopped, flexing his pectorals. The ma-
terial of his shirt threatened to rip across his chest




before he relaxed. He looked at each of the Phoenix
Force commandos in turn, for some reason giving
Manning a longer once-over than the others, then ad-
dressed the team as a whole. "You will give your
passports to this man," he said, nodding to Mc-
Carter, "who will then give them to me."
    McCarter took the passports as they came to the
end of the bench and handed them to Berber. By now
he had figured out what all this was about, and it had
nothing to do with improper passports or their not
being journalists. It was a simple case of the captain
"shaking them down." McCarter was now certain
that the lieutenant they had dealt with earlier was the
CIA man. It was clear that Berber was not, but the
captain outranked the lieutenant.
    The Phoenix Force leader wasn't surprised then,
when the captain glanced quickly at the first two
passports and said, "These documents are not in or-
der."
    "The hell they aren't," Hawkins growled. "Lis-
ten, you self-important--"
    Berber's eyes flamed as they jerked toward Haw-
kins.
    McCarter cleared his throat, silencing Phoenix
Force's youngest member. "Captain Berber," he
said evenly, "we apologize. We thought we had the
correct documentation of our arrival and departure."
    Berber turned his attention to the end of the bench
and smiled. "Ah, a more reasonable man."
    "I try to be," McCarter replied. "Tell us...exactly
what needs to be done to rectify our mistake? How

do we get our documents into a presentable fash-
ion?"
    Berber lowered his eyes to the ground and sighed
dramatically. "I am afraid it is impossible," he said
sadly. "That would require a complete background
check on each of you--a costly procedure and we
are such a poor nation." He shook his head again.
"Then we would have to contact your governments
and request they reissue you each new documents.
More cost to us. And the procedure is painfully slow.
You might have to remain in custody for several
weeks."
  Hawkins mumbled something under his breath.
    Berber's eyes shot to Hawkins again and nar-
rowed.
    McCarter turned to Manning. "Tell T.J. to quiet
down," he whispered out of the side of his mouth.
He turned back to the front, but in his peripheral
vision he saw the big Canadian elbow Hawkins
lightly in the ribs.
    "Captain Berber," McCarter said, "surely there
must be some way to handle this situation. We can't
afford several weeks. We are journalists who have
come to show the world the suffering Somalia is ex-
periencing." He paused, then went on. "That's our
only objective. We aren't criminals, Captain. We are
honest men who simply made a mistake in our pa-
perwork."
    Berber turned to the side, clasping his hands to-
gether behind his back. His back was so broad they
almost didn't reach. He paced back and forth in front




of the bench several times, his face a mask of con-
cern. Finally he stopped and turned to face them
again. He laced his fingers together, turned his hands
downward and cracked his knuckles.
    Huge horseshoe-shaped triceps muscles popped
out on the backs of his arms as the joints popped.
    "Perhaps there is a way," Berber said. A thin
smile played at the lips nearly hidden behind his
thick beard. He shifted his eyes from McCarter to
Manning again, studying the Canadian closely.
    For a moment McCarter wondered if the captain
might be a homosexual who was attracted to the big
Canadian. Then the truth dawned on him. Berber was
proud of the body he had developed with the weights
in this room, and Gary Manning was Phoenix Force's
resident weight lifter. Berber had taken note of the
Canadian's own barrel chest and heavily muscled
thighs.
    Quite simply Berber was wondering who was
stronger, him or Manning. It was no different than
one bull encountering a new one and wondering if
he still had first pick of the cows. Or a rooster grown
complacent in the bamyard, and wanting to make
sure he was still cock of the walk.
    Berber wanted to know who was stronger, all
right. But that wasn't his primary reason for detain-
ing them. Not by a long shot.
  "I have an idea," McCarter said.
  Berber's head shot back to him.
    "I realize the procedure to correct our documents
will be expensive. So why not let our newspapers

defray the cost? And while the procedure is in prog-
ress, we could operate on the passports we have now.
With your permission, of course." He cleared his
throat. "I mean, Captain, we will need our passports
at hotels and other places. No one will spot the dis-
crepancies--it took an expert such as yourself to do
that. Even your lieutenant thought our papers were
in order." He smiled pleasantly.
    Berber frowned as if considering such an arrange-
ment for the first time. "I do not know," he said.
"It is highly irregular." He paced back and forth a
few more times, then suddenly his face lit up with
sudden thought. "I have it."
  "Yes?" McCarter said, leaning forward.
  "We will leave the decision to Allah."
    For a moment the room fell into silence. Then
Manning said, "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't under-
stand."
    Berber smiled happily. "We will let Allah show
us a sign as to whether I can trust you," he said.
"The price for each of you--to correct your pass-
ports, of course--will be 350,000 shillings." The
captain's face gleamed with greed.
    McCarter had to fight not to shake his head. The
price itself was illustrative of just how poverty-
stricken Somalia had become. For all of them--the
whole team--it would cost less than roughly fifty
dollars.
    "You will give me the money now," Berber said,
holding out five thick fingers.
 McCarter reached into his pocket and pulled out a




roll of Somalian bills. He peeled off the appropriate
amount and stuck them in the captain's hand. He
stood as Berber pocketed the money. "Thank you,"
he said, and started toward the door.
    Berber reached out and grabbed his shoulder. He
shook his head violently back and forth. "No!" he
said. "We must wait for Allah's sign."
    McCarter stopped. "And what exactly will that be,
Captain Berber?" he asked.
    Berber's eyes returned to Manning. "Allah has
spoken to my heart," he said, glancing to the east.
"He has said that if this man--" his eyes returned
to Manning "--can beat me in a bench-press contest,
then you are to be trusted."
    McCarter looked at Manning. The Canadian was
big, but not as big as the Somalian customs captain.
Then again, size wasn't always the determining fac-
tor as to strength.
    "Let me get this straight," McCarter said. "If our
man wins, we can go on with our business in Somalia
while our background checks are conducted and new
passports issued. But if you win, it means Allah says
we can't be trusted and we have to stay in custody
until we're cleared?"
  "Or not cleared," Berber said, nodding.
    "What about the money I just gave you?" Mc-
Carter asked.
    Berber smiled. "Allah has ordered me to keep it
regardless of who wins."
    "Surprise, surprise, surprise," Hawkins said in a
fairly good Gomer Pyle voice.

 Manning looked at McCarter and shrugged.
 "Well, we might as well find out," he said.
     Berber's face looked like he'd just won the lottery.
 He began to unbutton his shirt.
    McCarter turned to the wall, considering his op-
tions. He had grown weary of the captain's games,
and was tempted to simply knock the man uncon-
scious, do the same to the guards in the hall and lead
Phoenix Force out of the terminal and on to the mis-
sion. But that would mean that as soon as Berber
awakened, Phoenix Force would be hunted by au-
thorities for the rest of the mission in Somalia--a
complication he wanted to avoid if at all possible.
    Turning back, he saw the captain naked from the
waist up. Muscles rippled like tiny tidal waves under
his ebony skin.
    "We will both take two warm-up sets," Berber
said to Manning. "Then there will be three lifts."
He grinned. "I will give you the advantage of going
last, since you are my guest."
    Phoenix Force watched as Berber walked to the
bench and slid under the bar. He lifted the 310
pounds, and began pumping out reps as if he were
lifting feathers.
    McCarter watched the captain hit his twentieth
repetition and set the bar back in place, aware that
he had to make a decision. He didn't know if Man-
ning could out lift Berber, but two things he did
know.
    First the men of Phoenix Force couldn't afford to
remain in custody for any extended length of time--




they had a mission to perform. Second McCarter
knew that if they overpowered Berber and simply
knocked him out, they'd soon be wanted men. So if
he chose escape as the best option, they would have
to silence the captain more effectively.
    Berber rose to his feet and grinned, stretching his
chest muscles as he walked away from the bench.
McCarter reached into his pocket, his fingers slipping
around the plastic handle of the Spyderco Delica
knife as he made his decision.
    It wasn't a decision he liked. But it was one that
had to be made. Phoenix Force couldn't afford to
remain in Berber's custody. But neither could the
Phoenix warriors afford to be pursued. So if they had
to fight their way out, they would have to make sure
Berber, the guards in the hall and even the lieutenant
they had dealt with earlier were in no condition to
report the incident.
    The Phoenix Force leader withdrew his hand from
his pocket, leaving the Delica where it was for the
time being. He turned to Gary Manning as the big
Canadian slid under the bar for his first warm-up set.
"Beat him, Gary," McCarter whispered under his
breath. "You'll be saving his life."

Washington, D.C.

ROSARIO BLANCANALES SAW the sign on the other
side of the intersection as he waited for the traffic
light to turn green: U-Lock Self-Storage.
  As soon as the light changed, he pulled the van

past the comer, paralleling the ten-foot chain-link
fence that circled the storage facility. He turned into
the driveway and guided the van through the open
gate.
    Blancanales scanned the concrete driveway. Half-
way down one of the lines of storage sheds he saw
a Datsun 300Z parked along the fence. Several other
vehicles had been parked in front of the rental ga-
rages, but none was close to the Datsun.
    He glanced over his shoulder, and the glance
brought a smile. It didn't really matter how close the
other vehicles were--Lyons's last punch had ensured
that Ira Rook would stay asleep a while longer. When
the men of Able Team unloaded the cardboard box
in a few minutes, it would appear to anyone watching
that they were simply dropping off something in their
storage space just like any of the other renters.
    Blancanales pulled to a halt just behind the Dat-
sun. He waited as a dark-complected man in a light-
weight suit stepped out of the smaller vehicle. Leo
Turrin, Stony Man Farm's top undercover operative
and Washington lobbyist, grinned as he walked to-
ward the van.
    Turrin approached the driver's side as B!ancanales
rolled down the window. Handing over a key, the
little Fed said, "Number 307, my psy-op expert
friend. We've got the place set up like you wanted."
He paused. "Need anything else?"
    Blancanales shook his head as he took the key.
Without looking, he handed it over his shoulder into
the back of the van. An unseen hand took it.




    Turrin leaned in the window a little farther, nod-
ded to Lyons and Schwarz, then returned to the Dat-
sun and sped away.
    Blancanales threw the transmission into Drive and
guided the van past the numbered doors along the
rows of storage compartments until he reached 307.
Behind him he heard the side door of the van slide
open, and a moment later Gadgets Schwarz was in-
serting a key into the padlock that secured the cor-
rugated overhead entrance.
    Blancanales killed the engine and pulled his walk-
ing stick from where he'd wedged it between the
passenger's seat and console. An expert in the stick-
fighting art of bo-jitsu, he had also studied the Fili-
pino stick-fighting systems and many of the Euro-
pean stick-and-dagger arts. That was because he had
found the cane to be an invaluable tool over the
years. Low-key and unobtrusive, it differed from
most weapons in that it could be carried openly in
polite society without eyebrows rising.
    His fingers wrapped around the cane's brass duck-
head grip as he got out of the van and closed the
door behind him. Schwarz had already returned to
the van and was helping Lyons unload the box by
the time Biancanales got around to the sliding door.
It was a two-man job---a third just got in the way--
so he stepped to one side.
    Besides, he had other matters to attend to at the
moment.
    Turning away, Blancanales took a deep breath.
Soon Ira Rook would return to the land of the con-

scious, and it would be time for the act to go on.
Which meant Blancanales needed to get into char-
acter. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened
them again. He looked out at the street, letting his
vision focus on a yellow Ryder rental truck in front
of a storage garage several tiers away. Half-
consciously he saw a young man and woman strug-
gling to unload a mattress. Breathing deeply again--
in through his nose and out through his mouth--he
leaned forward on the duck-head grip of the cane and
continued staring at the rental truck, seeing it and yet
not seeing it, his mind focused inwardly on the part
he was about to play.
    As the team's expert in psychological operations,
it had fallen on Blancanales to oversee this leg of the
mission, Ira Rook's interrogation. It was an interro-
gation that would be tricky to put it mildly.
    He continued to get into character and mentally
outline the path he wanted the next few hours to take.
His objective was to extract information from
Rook--information that the obnoxious little editor
wouldn't give up willingly. If Rook had been a crim-
inal, that would be no problem; Blancanales had
ways to make him talk. But as Schwarz had pointed
out to Lyons, Rook wasn't a criminal. A perfectly
disgusting human being perhaps, but no criminal.
    The bottom line was that Rook was a citizen of
the United States who wasn't guilty of any crime. He
didn't deserve to be harmed. Which meant a physical
interrogation was out.
 Blancanales shook his head. What he was about to




do might well be construed as mental torture, and
that bothered him. He had always had a concern for
people, and he wished there was some other way to
obtain the information he needed. But if there was,
he didn't know it. The greater good had to be con-
sidered, which made some compromise necessary.
    The Able Team psy-op expert jerked his mind
away from the moment of self-doubt. Such overin-
trospection was never productive once the decision
to use a certain tactic had been made.
    Blancanales took one last deep breath, then turned
toward the open overhead door. Inside he saw Lyons
and Schwarz standing on the sides of the refrigerator
box. The rectangular room had been furnished to
look like an office. Wall-to-wall carpeting covered
the concrete floor. A divan rested against one wall,
a matching stuffed easy chair against the other.
Bookshelves lined two of the walls, and at the far
end of the cubicle stood a desk with papers piled and
scattered across the top. Several filing cabinets stood
behind the desk, and Blancanales could see a paint-
ing or two.
    The Able Team psychological-operations man
couldn't help but smile. Leo Turrin had done a ter-
rific job of making the storage compartment look like
an office, and he had pulled out all the stops to create
a convincing atmosphere. "Windows" had even
been attached to the walls in several spots around the
room--the blinds, of course, were pulled down as
the apertures led to bare concrete.
  Blancanales stepped into the garage and pulled

down the overhead door behind him. As it de-
scended, he saw that wood panelling had been af-
fixed to it to make it look like a permanent wall. The
photograph of a door stood just to the left of center.
    He leaned his cane against the wall and looked
around. It all looked phony right now, but it would
look real enough as soon as he dimmed the lights
Tun-in had installed.
    The sound of something scraping against card-
board sounded from inside the box, followed by a
low moan.
    Lyons nodded to Blancanales, who looked at
Schwarz. The electronics whiz gave him a thumbs-
up. Lyons and Schwarz reached into their pockets
and produced panty hose. Pulling them down over
their faces to obliterate their features, they headed
for the divan and took seats.
    Blancanales dimmed the lights with one hand as
he pulled his own panty hose over his face with the
other. The room fell into a dull, eerie glow that sim-
ulated nighttime. When Rook came to in a few sec-
onds, he would get the feeling he had been uncon-
scious for several hours rather than minutes.
    It was all part of the scenario Blancanales had
worked out to disorient the man.
    Blancanales walked to the cardboard box, reached
up and opened the flaps. Without further ado he
pulled down on the flaps while one foot swept the
bottom into the air.
    For a split second the cardboard box was airborne,
then it slammed into the carpet with a dull thud.




Grabbing the bottom of the box, Blancanales jerked
hard like a magician sweeping a tablecloth from be-
neath a table of dishes.
Ira Rook shot out of the box with a timid yelp.
Blancanales wasted no time. Squatting in front of
the belligerent newspaper editor, he grabbed the man
under the arms and jerked him to a standing position.
With one swift motion he swept Rook off his feet
again and hurled him into the overstuffed armchair
directly across from Lyons and Schwarz.
  "What's--" Rook started to whine.
    "Silence?' Blancanales shouted at the top of his
lungs. His voice held an odd, indiscernible accent.
Maybe French, maybe Italian, maybe something
else--it was impossible to make out.
      "You guys..." Rook said uncertainly. "You
aren't Justice Department--"  "I said silence!"
Rook followed the order; his lips slammed shut.
Blancanales stepped in front of the chair. Reaching
down, he hooked a thumb under Rook's jawbone and
pulled up.
    Rook looked like a fish on a hook as his eyes
opened wide in horror.
    "You're correct that we aren't with the Justice De-
partment," he said in a low, threatening voice. "But
from now on you'll speak only when spoken to." He
paused. "Is that clear?"
    Rook nodded as best he could with Blancanales's
thumb jammed halfway into his head.
  Blancanales leaned down, pressing his nose into

Rook's. His voice dropped even further, becoming a
sinister, barely audible whisper. "Good," he said.
 "If you forget it, you'll die."  Rook began to tremble.
    Blancanales straightened and turned toward Lyons
and Schwarz on the other side of the room. Using
his body to block Rook's line of vision, he gave the
other two Able Team men a thumb's-up to let them
know Rook was responding as hoped. Then, twirling
dramatically, he shoved his nose into that of the man
in the chair again. "What is your full name?" he
demanded.
    "Rook," the newspaper editor whispered. "Ira
Rook. ' '
    "Your full name!" B!ancanales yelled at the top
of his lungs.
  Startled, Rook screamed back. "Mason!"
    "Do not raise your voice to me!" Blancanales
thundered. "Mason what?"
    "Ira Mason Rook," Rook whispered. "That's
my...full name?..." His voice trailed off as if he
weren't sure.
    Blancanales stepped in and raised his hand as if
he were about to strike the fat little man. Rook
winced.
    Able Team's psychological expert dropped his
hand and laughed sardonically. "Where do you
live?"
    Rook started to answer, but Blancanales inter-
rupted him. "Where do you work?"




    "The... Chieftain," Rook whined softly. "The
Washington Chieftain."
    "You live at the Washington Chieftaint" Blan-
canales roared. "You live at a newspaper? Don't play
games with me, Ira Mason Rook! You will regret the
day you tried that!"
  "I...I'm sorry...I thought you asked--"
  "Answer the question! Where do you work?"
  "Work? The Chieftain. I--"
    Blancanales reached down, grasped Rook by the
collar and hauled him to his feet. Shoving his face
into the other man's again, he shouted, "You have
already told me that! I asked you where you live!"
He dropped the editor back into the chair.
    The questioning went on in that vein for a good
five minutes with Biancahales always keeping Rook
off balance as he fired one query after another. At
first the newsman had been frightened. Then he had
become terrified.
    By the end of Blancanales's first series of ques-
tioning, he had become little more than a whimpering
bowl of jelly.
    Blancanales suddenly quieted and began to pace
back and forth across the room in front of Rook. He
kept watch on the man out of the corner of his eye.
At first Rook followed him back and forth like a cat
watching a table tennis game. But gradually his in-
terest shifted to the men across the room on the sofa.
    Blancanales shot a glance that way in time to see
Schwarz draw a Cold Steel Peacekeeper II fighting

knife from under his jacket. Slowly, deliberately~he
began to clean his tingemails.
    Rook's gaze was locked on Schwarz. Blancanales
studied the man's face and posture trying to get a fix
on just how disoriented Rook was.
    Was it time to get down to the real questioning?
There was no way to be completely certain, and if
he played his hand too soon it could blow all
chances. But everything about Rook--his voice,
body language and the terror in his eyes--told Blan-
canales the time had come.
    "Tell me about Spencer Kiethley," Blancanales
demanded.
    Ira Mason Rook looked up into Blancanales's
panty-hose-covered face and began to talk.

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

AARON KURTZMAN'S primary objective during this
mission was to identify and locate the Great Hikari.
The self-professed god had been in hiding since his
cult's first subway gassing over a year ago, and nei-
ther the Japanese police nor military--both of whom
were working on the caseinhad had any luck finding
him. Earlier in the day Kurtzman had broken the
codes and hacked his way into Japanese police files
only to find that the police knew little more than he
about the cult leader. He had finally worked his way
into the files of Japanese military intelligence and
initiated a scan to access any intel on Hikari.
  Kurtzman settled into his chair. The search had




come up with something--but he didn't know what.
At the top of the monitor he saw a picture of the
Great Hikari. The man wore a bright Japanese cere-
monial robe. His long hair was pulled back into a
braid, and wispy chin whiskers fell from his face.
But beneath the photo the file entry was all in the
Japanese characters known as kanji.
    Kurtzman's fingers flew across the keyboard, typ-
ing in the words Quick-Cross. A moment later he
had accessed a language-translation program of his
own recent creation. Faster than any of the previous
such programs on the market, Quick-Cross also held
the capacity to maintain 188 complete, separate lan-
guages, even given the complexity of Chinese, Rus-
sian or English. Within seconds it would eventually
be able to translate an entire document written in
Hebrew or Swahili into Japanese, French or whatever
language one preferred.
    So far Kurtzman had found time to enter only a
few of the world's most common tongues into the
computers at Stony Man Farm. But English and Jap-
anese had been among the first.
    He stopped typing and sat back against the padded
backrest of his wheelchair. As he watched the screen,
it divided into two parts. The photo of the Great Hi-
karl and the kanji beneath it shrank and shifted to
the left-hand side of the monitor. On the right-hand
side an identical picture of Hikari appeared. But be-
low this photo the words were in English.
    The computer genius shook his head in mild dis-
gust as he read. It wasn't much. Like the police, Jap-

anese military intelligence had the picture of the man
in his ceremonial kimono and a few speculations on
who the Great Hikari might actually be. But they had
no solid evidence, or even any good leads to go on.
    Kurtzman closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.
In the blackness he saw the picture of the Great Hi-
kari that both police and military had in their files.
If it was the only picture either agency could come
up with that meant photos of the cult leader were
scarce.
    He opened his eyes and looked again at the pic-
tures of the Great Hikari on both sides of the monitor.
Somewhere there was a key to learning the man's
identity. Somewhere there was a clue that would get
him on the right path to discovering who the cult
leader really was.
    Twirling his wheelchair to the side, Kurtzman
looked down the ramp to where the rest of his cy-
bernetics team worked. At the far end of the bank of
monitors sat Huntington Wethers, a tall well-
proportioned black man with graying temples. Weth-
ers was creating a personality profile of the average
police officer killed in the line of duty in the hope
that the results would help keep more cops alive. The
results he was finding weren't particularly encour-
aging-it seemed that the friendlief and nicer an of-
ricer was the more likely he was to be shot.
    Next to Wethers a lively redheaded woman was
tapping the keys of her own keyboard. Carmen De-
lahunt was in the process of using Kurtzman's prob-




ability program to narrow down a list of suspects in
a rash of serial killings up and down the East Coast.
    On Delahunt's other side, and closest to Kurtzman,
was the young man the computer genius needed to
talk to. Akira Tokaido was busy, too. The young Jap-
anese American was monitoring all incoming and
outgoing communiqu6s of the Japanese police and
military using the Quick-Cross program.
    Kurtzman smiled, unconsciously nodding his ap-
proval of all three members of his team. So far, he
hadn't needed their help on this mission. They had
stayed busy with other projects. His people always
stayed busy but were ready to leave their other proj-
ects and help with the mission as soon as Kurtzman
said the word.
  They were flexible, and flexibility was the key to

Success.
    The computer wizard wheeled his chair to face
Tokaido. "Akira," he called out.
    Tokaido's hands stopped in midair over the key-
board. He twisted sharply in Kurtzman's direction.
"Yes, bossman?"
  Kurtzman waved him up the ramp.
    Tokaido jerked the earplug from his ear and let it
fall on the portable CD player on the console next to
his monitor. He bounded up the ramp in three quick
strides.
    "You glean anything about Followers of the Truth
or the Great Hikari in the Japanese news reports?"
Kurtzman asked, pointing at the twin pictures of the

Great Hikari on his monitor screen. "Do we have
any other photos?"
    "Let me see." Tokaido leaned across Kurtzman,
cleared the screen and linked Kurtzman's computer
to his own. A moment later a menu appeared. Frown-
ing, the young man worked the cursor down the list
until his face suddenly lit up. "Only one item. But
it is a television news report. Filmed right before the
first subway gassing. Right before the Great Hikari
went into hiding."
  "Let's see it," Kurtzman said.
    Tokaido tapped several keys, then straightened as
the computer clicked and beeped, linking into Stony
Man Farm's vast library of videotapes. A moment
later the monitor became a moving television screen.
    Kurtzman watched the short segment. It showed
the Great Hikari coming down the steps that led to
a Buddhist shrine, surrounded by his disciples. He
wore the same kimono as in Japanese police and mil-
itary intelligence files, and Kurtzman decided that
picture had to be a still lifted from the news tape. He
watched Hikari stop at the street as one of his glassy-
eyed followers opened the door to a limousine, then
disappear inside the vehicle. A second later the limo
drove away, and the news report went on to some-
thing else.
  "Let's see it again," Kurtzman said.
    Tokaido ran the tape back, then played it once
more. This time Kurtzman noticed that all of Hikari's
followers had the same distant look in their eyes.
Something about the look bothered him.




    Kurtzman felt his eyebrows lower in thought.
What did he expect? he asked himself. These men
and women were cult members, after all. They had
been brainwashed. A distant look in their eyes was
to be expected.
  So why did it bother him?
    He had Tokaido rewind the tape again, then
watched once more. He got the same uneasy feeling
as he stared into the obscure eyes of the cult follow-
ers. Only this time the feeling was even stronger.
    It was during the seventh viewing of the video
segment that Kurtzman suddenly saw what it was
that bothered him. This time his eyes chanced to fall
on a short man in the background who followed Hi-
kari down the steps. As soon as they reached the
ground, the man circled the cult leader and got into
the limo on the far side of the screen.
    Kurtzman ran the tape back again. "Watch the guy
in the red kimono," he told Tokaido. Together they
walked through the Great Hikari's celebrated descent
down the steps one more time. When the car drove
away this time, Kurtzman leaned forward, tapped a
key and froze the frame. "Notice anything different
about that guy in red?" Kurtzman asked.
    The young man nodded. "Yes. His eyes. They're
clear and sharp. He doesn't look drugged----or brain-
washed--like all the others."
    Kurtzman nodded. That had been what bothered
him before he figured it out. Not that the other mem-
bers of the cult looked like they'd been brainwashed.
But that this one man didn't. "That man isn't a fol-

lower of the Great Hikari," he said. "He's a confed-
erate."
 Tokaido nodded. "I have to agree."
    Kurtzman turned back to the screen. "And I've
got a gut feeling that he's the key to finding out who
your Great Hikari really is."




CHAPTER SIX

Japan

Toshiro Ohara straightened the lapels of his kimono
and studied his reflection in the mirror. His hair was
pulled tight against his skull and fell in a braid be-
hind his back. The round rimless eyeglasses, and the
pudginess of face he had developed since reaching
prosperity, lent a serious demeanor to his features.
    Ohara smiled into the mirror. He looked official
yet kind, competent but compassionate, wise and lov-
ing.
    The smile became a laugh. It was exactly the look
he wanted. He looked like the perfect man-god.
    Ohara turned away from the mirror and walked
across the bedroom to the bed. Life was truly good,
he had decided during the past two years. Before that
he hadn't been so sure. He took a seat on the edge
of the bed to wait for the new converts he was about
to meet. Had it only been two years since he and
Ichiro Murai had founded the Followers of the Truth
cult? A little less, in fact. Before that they had been
nothing more than small-time criminals--petty bur-

glars, drug dealers, and for a short time numbers run-
ners for the Yakuza.
    The cult leader's smile broadened. He and Murai
had been con men, too, running the usual hustles and
making a little money here and there. Then they had
stumbled onto the best con of all.  Religion.
    Ohara lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. He
and Murai had come upon the idea for the cult by
accident, really. A stranger in a saki bar had started
them down the path. In a drunken stupor the man--
a Buddhist by faith--had mumbled that Eastern re-
ligions all had one shortcoming: they concentrated
too much on the here and now, offering no salvation
or clear reward in an afterlife. They offered no im-
mortality.
    Ohara opened his eyes, and the smile returned. He
had already learned that the most successful con
games offered people something they wanted but
didn't think they'd ever get. He and Murai were
about to create their own religion, when they were
lucky enough to receive one ready made, when the
Aum Shinrikyo--Supreme Truth---cult was exposed
in 1995, all its followers were suddenly in need of a
new leader and fresh direction.
    Ohara chuckled deep in his chest, remembering the
nights he and his partner of so many years had stayed
awake plotting strategy, researching the Aum Shin-
rikyo so that their own cult would seem the logical
successor--and Ohara would be presented as the di-
vinely appointed leader.




    Sitting up, the cult leader continued to grin at how
simple it had all been. Yes, the Followers of the
Truth had given people what they wanted. And in
doing so he and Murai had gotten what they wanted,
too--power and money.
    Not that it all didn't have its downside. Ever since
the first subway gassing, he had been a wanted man,
and he and Murai had been forced to hide out in this
ancient castle formerly owned by one of his converts.
They had decided on a light security force to protect
them, knowing that a large army would draw atten-
tion and that no matter how many men he employed
the Japanese government would have more. So he
had relied more on anonymity than force, utilizing
only a half dozen of what they referred to as "lower
angels" to guard the doors at night.
    Ohara smiled. All of which would change soon
enough. Soon he would walk freely wherever he
wished. The world would kiss his feet if he asked,
or his ass if that was his preference. Or they would die.
    Ohara glanced at his watch. That he should be-
come the leader and figurehead of the cult had been
a mutual decision due to Murai's criminal record. His
friend hadn't promsted. During the years he and Mu-
rai had worked the streets, Murai had been arrested
more than a dozen times, but Ohara, ironically, had
always managed to escape detainment.
    The leader of the cult would be in the public eye,
and the police would be interested. Therefore Ohara
had become the figurehead.

    Ohara had sensed a small amount of resentment
on Murai's part--after all, who wouldn't have
wanted to lead a multimillion-dollar empire like
theirs? But that resentment hadn't stopped the man
from contributing to the plan. It had been Murai's
idea to call Ohara the Great Hikari, "the Great Nat-
ural Light."
    The power of their cult had grown quicker than he
and Murai had ever dreamed it would. Thanks to the
demise of Aum Shinrikyo, they had hundreds of
thousands of converts on three continents, and they
hadn't yet even begun to reach their full potential.
  But they would soon.
    The Great I-Iikari clasped his hands behind his
head. He had done his homework well before he be-
gan to recruit followers. As well as his thorough re-
search of Aura Shinrikyo, he had studied the meth-
odology and tactics of several famous and successful
American evangelists. Then Ohara had spent six
months following the Reverend Sun Yung Moon,
learning more. The final chapter in his studies had
been an intense examination of Jim Jones and the
People's Church in Guyana. He had wanted the an-
swer to one important question: what had it taken to
convince so many people that mass suicide was the
only answer?
    The answer to the question had come back just as
Ohara suspected it would. Although on a much
grander scale, the basic premise had been little dif-
ferent than those used in the small-time street hustles
he and Murai had run. First Jones had convinced his




recruits that the established Christian denominations
had lost sight of their purpose, stripping away their
illusions of salvation and creating the opening the
false prophet needed. The people still wanted salva-
tion, but now they didn't think they'd get it. So Jones
had stepped in with a new twist and offered it right
back to them and they'd jumped on it.
    Jim Jones had offered the people something they
wanted but didn't think they'd get. Ohara knew he
could do the same thing. And he did.
    The phone next to the bed rang shrilly, startling
Ohara from his thoughts. He rolled to his side and
lifted the receiver from the cradle. "Yes?" he said.
    "Your Reverence," Ichiro Murai said sarcasti-
cally, "I thought you would want to know. We have
just received word that we've broken into the Ca-
nadian market. An order for five hundred vials of
your blood has come in from Vancouver."
    Ohara chuckled. Among other schemes, the Fol-
lowers of the Truth sold bottles of swine blood that
they represented as coming from the guru himself. It
went for one million yen per vial, and drinking it
was said to guarantee salvation and the highest pos-
sible rewards in the afterlife. The blood sold so well
that had it really been drawn from Ohara's veins he
would have bled to death during the first week it was
on the market.
    "Very good," Ohara said. "And my bathwater?"
For those unable to afford the first-class ticket to
heaven, the cult offered an economy flight. Ohara's
bathwater, also to be consumed, sold for only two

hundred dollars per eight-ounce bottle. It might not
provide followers as many jewels in their crowns af-
ter they went on to their heavenly rewards, but at
least it got them through the gate. The water was as
phony as the blood; the cult leader never bothered to
dip his body in the vats where the solution was man-
ufactured.
    "We are processing an order for two thousand bot-
tles at the moment," Mural said.
    Ohara nodded. Money from Canada and the
United States was coming in steadily, but it was
nothing compared to what he'd have soon. Under the
leadership of a man named Carver, he already had
followers spread across the two North American
countries. Not many, but enough.
    The Great Hikari smiled again. At least enough for
what he was planning. If things went well, he would
soon have the technology to gas millions of people
at a time rather than thousands. Which would mean
he could hold the entire earth hostage and name the
amount of ransom he wanted.
    But enough business, the cult leader thought. It
was time to reap the benefits of being the Great Hi-
kari. "Where are the two new converts you men-
tioned, Ichiro?"
    Ichiro Murai breathed in disgustedly. "You are
growing too fond of the perks of this business, To-
shiro," he said. "But they are on their way up. I
believe you will be pleased. Particularly with the
shorter one. She is top-heavy the way you like
them."




    "Ichiro," Ohara said, "do not worry about me. I
have not lost sight of our objectives."
    "Of course not, Your Reverence," Mural almost
spit. "Perhaps I find you annoying only because I
remember when we were both street bums. Before
you became a god."
    Ohara started to answer, then decided to simply
hang up. Mural and he had been friends since child-
hood. They had grown up together, and worked the
streets as a criminal team as they grew older. Now
his fight-hand man, Murai was the only follower who
held Ohara's complete trust, and certainly the only
member of the cult who knew that the cult was a
complete sham. Even the men like Carver--unbe-
lievers who were retained to conduct the cult's dirty
work--believed the Great Hikari was serious about
what he preached.
    A soft knock sounded on the door, and Ohara rose,
slipping his feet into a pair of zofi by the bed. He
cast a final glance to the mirror, padded across the
room in the straw sandals and opened the door.
  The two women were extraordinary.
    Ohara studied them silently as they dropped their
eyes to the floor. The taller of the two--Reiko, Murai
had said her name wasmwas slender and had long
ebony hair that fell past her shoulders like a black
waterfall. The shorter woman--Yoshikty---was heav-
ier. But pleasingly so, her breasts unusually large for
so small a frame. Ohara felt his pulse quicken. Both
women wore the simple white kimonos that new con-
verts were given during their initial induction.

     And beneath the kimonos, the Great Hikari knew,
 they would wear nothing.
 "My daughters," Ohara said. "Please enter."
 He reached out to take each woman by the hand
 and guide her into the room. He closed the door be-
 hind him, then led them to the bed, positioning one
 on each side of him.
  "Your Reverence," Reiko said, "may I speak?"
  "Of course, my daughter."
    "I wish to extend my gratitude that you have met
with us personally."
    Yoshiko nodded enthusiastic agreement. "We un-
derstand you are so very busy," she said. "That you
greet few new followers yourself." She dropped her
eyes. "You honor us."
    Ohara looked down at the woman's chest and
smiled. "I greet those whom time permits," he said.
Yoshiko's kimono had parted slightly, and Ohara
strained to see more. "The spirit guides me as to
whom should be chosen." The woman drew a breath,
and the kimono parted farther, revealing a hint of a
shadowed nipple.
    Big breasts would always get a woman a meeting,
too, Ohara thought to himself.
    "Your Reverence," Reiko said, "may we ask a
question?"
  "Of course."
    "We have done as you directed, Your Reverence.
We have turned all of our worldly possessions over
to your staff to be destroyed. We have forsaken
friends and family, Your Reverence." She paused,




looking down at the floor. "I am single," she went
on. "But' Yoshiko has a husband..." Her voice
trailed off meekly, then came back. "He has no idea
where she is and will worry about her. She is shy
and will not ask a favor for herself, so I must ask for
her. Could her husband be informed that Yoshiko is
safe? That she is in the arms of God?"
    Ohara twisted his face into his best fatherly smile.
"It shall be done," he said. Reaching for the phone,
he tapped several buttons. "Ichiro," he said into the
instrument, "please inform the husband of Yoshiko
that she is safe." Then he hung up.
    Turning back to Reiko, he smiled. "Your concern
is a sign of the compassion in your heart," he said,
then turned his attention to Yoshiko. "And your ti-
midity in asking a favor demonstrates selflessness."
Slowly he reached out with both hands, parted Yosh-
iko's kimono and placed a palm on her chest between
her breasts. Beneath his hand he felt her heartbeat
quicken. His own chest pounded, as well.
     Ohara looked into Yoshiko's eyes but stared at her
 breasts in his peripheral vision. He left his hand
 where it was and twisted to face Reiko. He opened
 her kimono to reveal a set of smaller, yet beautiful
 breasts. Placing his other hand over her heart he said,
 "The heart is the center of love. Breathe deeply. Feel
 the love that passes between us." He watched both
 women as their chests heaved in and out. Their eyes
 took on the glazed fanatical look of the zealot.
     "Reach out, my daughters," Ohara said, "touch
 each other. Feel each other. Feel not only the love

that passes between you and myself, but the love
between the two of you. It is the key to your salva-
tion." The cult leader moved his hands to the sides,
cupping one of the small breasts and one of the large
as the women both reached up to touch each other.
He leaned down, kissing Reiko first, then turned to
place his lips on Yoshiko.
    "Some drink my blood," Ohara said as he slowly
slid the women's kimonos the rest of the way off,
"and others my bathwater. But there is another path
to the afterlife through me, and because of the love
you have exhibited, you shall experience it now."

THREE HOURS LATER Toshiro Ohara awoke and noted
that the sun had gone down outside the window. He
glanced to his left and saw Yoshiko. To his right lay
Reiko. Both women slept the peaceful sleep of the
righteously saved.
    Ohara smiled. Yes, life was good. It was good to
be a god, and soon he would be a god who held the
entire world in his hands.
    Slowly, careful not to disturb either of the women,
Ohara reached across Reiko and lifted the phone
again. "The husband has been taken care of?." he
asked Mural.
  "Oh, yes," he replied. "He is quite dead."

Sierra Leone

BOLAN WATCHED the deep purple sky lighten to a
soft, airy gray as the sun poked its nose over the




Loma Mountains. Beyond the plateaus lay the eastern
edge of Sierra Leone, and beyond that, Guinea.
    The Executioner reached around the Desert Eagle
hanging from his web belt and pulled a bandanna
from the hip pocket of his cargo shorts. Rolling it
quickly into a sweatband, he tied it around his fore-
head. It was still fairly cool, but even as high up as
they were, the Sierra Leone climate was hot and hu-
mid. By the time the sun had fully risen, Bolan knew
sweat would be breaking out on his face to sting his
eyes. Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned to see
Bobcat Buchanan approach.
    "Company...assemble!" Buchanan shouted be-
hind the Executioner.
    Turning, Bolan rested his right hand on the grips
of the Desert Eagle, the other on the hilt of the Cros-
sada knife strapped to his left leg as he watched four
hundred handpicked Sierra Leone Commando Unit
candidates line up on the large parade ground. The
men, all eager to earn their place in the newly formed
elite division, stood stiffly at attention. Walking
through the lines, inspecting uniforms and checking
gear, were the Gurkha training assistants the Sierra
Leone government had hired to help Buchanan.
    Bolan had to smile. He had worked with Gurkhas
in the past, and they had always earned his respect.
They were tough little soldiers from the peaks of
Nepal, and he suspected they took to the Loma
Mountains like mountain goats. The Executioner
watched them as they moved through the ranks in
their baggy shorts, loose BDU blouses and rubber-
soled canvas boots. Each man carded an AK-47

 such as the Sierra Leone Commando Unit would use,
 and a pistol of one type or another hung from their
 web belts on the right side.
     But on the left side of each Gurkha hung a weapon
 that had brought terror into the hearts of their ene-
 mies for centuries--the kukri.
    Bolan studied the reverse-curved fighting knife. It
was capable of chopping off hands, heads and feet,
and had done so many times in the past. Over the
years the blade, and the Gurkhas' proficiency with it,
had taken on mythical proportions. In the Falklands,
Argentine soldiers had thrown down their firearms
and deserted when word had come down that the
Gurkhas had arrived and unsheathed their knives.
    Buchanan took a place next to Bolan in front of
the men and turned to face them. Like Bolan, he
wore khaki cargo shorts, a black tank top and light-
weight nylon hiking boots. But instead of a Desert
Eagle, a Colt Government Model .45 pistol hung
from the web belt around his waist on his right hip,
A Cold Steel Black Bear Classic subhilt fighting
knife hung-on the left side.
    Bolan glanced for a moment at the wedding ring
around Buchanan's neck and wondered whose it had
been. A wife? Mother? He didn't know. But it was
none of his business, and he wouldn't ask. It was
obviously a personal thing, and if Buchanan wanted
him to know, he would tell him.
    "All right, gentlemen!" Buchanan yelled. "After
PT we'll break into two teams. Team A will follow




me to the firing range, where I'll do my best to teach
you which end of the rifle the bullet comes out. Team
B will stay here with Colonel Pollock and work on
close-quarters combat. But first, let's see who's in
shape and who isn't!" He turned to Bolan. "Colonel,
if you'd be so kind?"
    Bolan led the men through a series of stretches and
calisthenics that had them sweating profusely by the
time he turned to Buchanan and nodded.
    Buchanan reached up and grasped the whistle sus-
pended around his neck on a lanyard. "All right,
ladies, you think that was hard? At the first whistle
you will run in place, lifting your knees high enough
to blacken both eyes! At the second whistle you will
dive forward onto your bellies! The next whistle will
bring you back to your feet running, then we'll start
all over again! Are there any questions?"
    Roughly three dozen hands shot up in an attempt
to delay the torture.
    "No questions?" Buchanan said, ignoring the
hands. "Good." He hooked a thumb over his shoul-
der toward the barracks. "Anyone failing to keep up
will return to the racks and pack your bags. Any
other questions?"
    The last query had been rhetorical, and Buchanan
didn't wait for a response. He immediately blew the
whistle.
    The commando candidates began to run in place
for all they were worth. Buchanan whistled again,
and they fell forward onto their faces. No sooner had

 they hit the ground than the whistle had them bound-
 ing back to their feet.
    Bolan studied the men as they continued the con-
ditioning drill. All were in good shape and with the
proper training could make the grade. But the Sierra
Leone Commando Unit was budgeted to consist of
less than a hundred men, which meant three-fourths
of the hopefuls he saw before him now would be
unhappily returning to their regular units.
    As the men ran and dived, the Executioner moved
through the ranks, trying to get a feel for each man's
endurance and courage. He had no idea what twists
and turns the mission upon which he was embarking
might take, and he might be called upon at any time
to recruit a small army. Silently he picked out several
men who looked to be in extraordinary condition and
who showed good reflexes and coordination. One of
them, however, caught his eye for a different reason.
    The man was tall and slender with wiry muscles
and a thin pencil mustache, and the name tag on his
left breast pocket read Margai. He was fit, all right--
as fit as any of the men on the parade ground, and
that's why the Executioner noticed him to begin
with. But the reason Bolan kept looking his way was
because Margai kept glancing toward a spot in the
foliage that surrounded the parade ground. The man's
face showed concern. But what gave him away was
that twice he saw Bolan looking at him and shot his
eyes back to the front.
 The Executioner's sixth sense went into high gear.


Something was going on with the man, and he would
bear watching.
    Buchanan kept them at the running and diving for
close to an hour. Nearly fifty men had fallen by the
wayside by the time he blew the whistle a final time
and called a halt to the exercise. The losers were
ordered back to await the bus that would take away
the failed candidates each evening.
    The rest of the troops sagged in exhaustion, sweat
dripping from their pained faces. Buchanan didn't
seem to notice. "Team A move out!" he ordered.
"Double time!" He turned and led the men away at
a trot.
    Bolan watched the men of Team A disappear over
the berm that separated the parade ground from the
rifle range, then turned to his own Team B. "Every-
one loosened up, or should we get a little more ex-
ercise before we start?"
    A few nervous groans sounded from inside the
ranks. "All right, form a circle around me!" he or-
dered.
    The Executioner studied the men as they hurried
into place. Each of the candidates wore the govern-
ment-issue Portuguese camouflage BDUs, leather-
and-canvas combat boots and black web belts and
battle harnesses. A 9 mm Makarov pistol hung from
each man's left side. Applegate-Fairbairn double-
edged fighting blades had been issued to each poten-
tial commando, and the men wore them proudly, ei-
ther opposite the Makarovs or upside down on the
suspenders of their harnesses.

    Bolan cleared his throat. "Your government has
provided you with one of the finest fighting knives
ever designed," he said by means of opening. "It's
my job to teach you to use it." He leaned forward
and pulled the blade from the sheath of the nearest
man. "You have a six-and-one-quarter-inch-long
blade made of 440-A steel. It's three-sixteenths of an
inch thick and weighs 8.6 ounces. The ergonomically
designed handle is made of Lexan, and has lead
weights strategically positioned inside it to ensure
proper balance." He paused and glanced across the
men, making sure they were paying attention. All
were---except Margai, who was again looking into
the trees.
    "What you have, gentlemen," Bolan said, "is a
near perfect killing tool. The blade on your side has
no other function but to kill men. Do not use it to
clean your fingernails, or as a tent stake, or to open
a can of corned-beef hash. It was designed as a
fightertpure and simple."
    Flicking his eyes back to Margai, he saw the man
return his attention to the front.
  What was he looking for in the foliage?
    "When you face a man and you are both armed
with a knife," the Executioner went on, "there are
eight planes of motion, twelve angles. Your body
opens or closes with each movement. Let's try them.
Draw your blades."
    Bolan handed the knife in his hand to the man
from whom he had taken it and drew the Crossada.
Close to two hundred Applegate-Fairbairn blades




came out of their sheaths. He led the men through
the twelve thrusts and slashes several times, then had
them pair up and work together. He watched care-
fully as the men parried or avoided each attack, not-
ing whose movements were cleanest, most natural.
    Margai was one of the better knife men--when he
wasn't looking off into the forest.
    At noon the Executioner heard a whistle blow in-
side the barracks. The men of Team A came jogging
back over the berm behind Buchanan.
    "Chow time!" Buchanan called out. "Reassemble
on the parade ground as soon as you've eaten!"
    Bolan stood watching as the grateful men hurried
toward the mess hall, all eyes focused in the direction
of the food.
  All except Margai's.
    As he walked toward the mess hall, the tall slender
man with the pencil mustache was again looking into
the trees.

Somalia

GARY MANNING WAS was in no mood to play games,
but it didn't look like he was going to have any other
choice.
    He watched Captain Berber strut across the office-
gym flexing his muscles. It was obvious that the man
was more than just a little proud of both his body
and the strength he'd developed with the weights in
this room.

  Berber was an egotist, being fueled solely by nar-
cissism. And right now his fuel tank needed filling.
  The way Manning saw it, he and the other men of
  Phoenix Force had two choices. One, he could beat
  the captain in the bench-press contest, and assuming
  the man kept his word, they'd be free to go. Or, as
  McCarter had already insinuated, they could kill the
  cocky SOB and go on about their mission.
    Manning watched Berber slide under the bar and
begin pumping out warm-up reps. The problem with
killing Berber was twofold. On a moral plane, not
Manning, McCarter nor any of the men of Phoenix
Force wanted to kill anyone they didn't absolutely
have to kill. Being a nuisance didn't mean a man
deserved to die. Taking life for trivial reasons not
only violated everything Phoenix Force and Stony
Man Farm stood for, but it also violated the personal
code of each of the men.
    But there was also a practical reason for putting
up with Berber's narcissism and taking time out to
play this bench-press game. Leaving the airport with-
out legal sanction would be a problem Phoenix Force
didn't need. The men had their work cut out for them
on this mission without the added complication of
being hunted as fugitives by the Somalian govern-
ment.
    Manning watched Berber rack the bar and stand,
then moved to the bench himself. Sliding under the
310 pounds, he lifted it and lowered it to his chest.
    Manning knew that weight lifting was as much
mental as it was physical. The big Canadian needed




to "get his mind right" if he intended to beat Berber.
And if possible, he needed to get Berber's mind
wrong. Manning took a good look at Berber as he
pumped out the practice reps. So far, the captain had
no down side to this situation. If he won, he kept the
men of Phoenix Force captive. If he lost, he let them
go. Big deal. Either way, he lost nothing personally.
    That needed to change. Berber needed something
to worry about. Something that would not only dis-
tract his mind from the task at hand, but physically
drain him of strength at the same time.
    Manning cranked out fifteen warm-up reps and
stood. He looked at the shirtless Somalian captain
who had watched him closely during the set and
smiled. Then he chuckled. "Captain," he said, "you
suppose we ought to put a little money on this just
to make it more interesting?"
    Berber moved toward the bench for his final
warm-up set, his face suddenly turning more serious.
Manning felt satisfaction, knowing he'd hit home.
"How much do you wish to wager?" Berber
asked as he slid under the bar. His face had turned
to stone now, and Manning could see the concern in
his brown eyes. Berber's purpose for forcing the con-
test had been ego, not wageting. But he'd been
backed into a corner now; he wouldn't come off
looking quite as sure of himself as he wanted to ap-
pear if he didn't agree to a bet of some kind.
    Manning glanced to the family picture on the desk.
On the other hand, Berber couldn't afford to risk
much, either. The Phoenix Force warrior didn't know

how much a Somalian customs captain got paid, but
in an impoverished country such as this, it couldn't
be much. That meant any money Berber lost would
take food right out of his children's mouths.
    "How much?" Berber repeated as he swung under
the bar.
    Manning stalled a moment, trying to come up with
the perfect amount. He needed a number that was
high enough to create stress in the captain's mind----
stress that would drain Berber's strength, as well as
keep his mind off balance. On the other hand the
wager couldn't be so high that Berber was forced to
refuse.
    "Oh, say around one hundred thousand shil-
lings?" Manning said as Berber reached up to grasp
the bar.
    The captain's forearms tensed, and he hesitated.
"Yes," he finally said. "All right." He lifted the bar
and began his reps.
    Manning watched closely as the bar went up and
down. Berber didn't use quite the same smooth mo-
tion he had before. That amount was less than what
McCarter had already given Berber for their "bad
passports," and a mere pittance to Phoenix Force,
but enough to ensure Berber's kids went hungry for
a couple of days if the captain lost.
    Berber racked the weights and stood, the slightly
worried look still on his face. Manning slid under the
bar, whistling happily. Berber's spirit was down, so
it was time for the Phoenix Force commando to keep




it there by exhibiting his own confidence and enthu-
siasm.
    Manning cranked out twenty reps, then bounded
to his feet, clapped his hands and said, "All right!
Let's do it!" Turning to Hawkins, he said, "T.J.,
want to spot us? Rare, how about you and Cal work-
ing the plates?" Then, turning back to Berber, he
added, "That is, if all that's all right with you, Cap-
tainT'
    Berber nodded as McCarter took up a position be-
hind the bench and James and Encizo moved to the
ends of the bar.
    "How much do you want, Captain?" Encizo
asked.
    Berber's confidence was fading fast, falling victim
to Manning's fervor. "Add ninety pounds," he said.
"I will begin easy--with four hundred." He glanced
at Manning, then quickly added, "I always make my
first lift easy."
    "Me, too," Manning responded. "But not that
easy."
    Berber frowned at the comment, then dropped onto
the bench. Reaching up, he grasped the bar, and took
two deep breaths. "Okay," he said.
    Hawkins gave him a "lift off." Berber lowered
the bar to his chest, pushed it up and handed it back
to Hawkins. He sat up.
    Manning reached down, grasped him by the hand
and hauled him to his feet. "Make it 450, guys," he
said.
  Encizo and James each added a twenty-five-pound

plate as Manning slid under the Olympic bar. He
reached up, nodded to Hawkins and took the bar.
    The big Canadian kept a smirk on his face as he
lowered the bar to his chest, paused a second, then
shot it back up. He racked the weight without help,
then stood again. Looking to Berber, he saw the
doubt had doubled in the customs man's eyes. "Hey,
I'm almost warmed up," Manning said.
    Berber took a seat and leaned back again. "Put
two more twenty-fives on," he said. "Five hundred
pounds."
    Manning felt a quick stab of unease in his belly.
He had hit five hundred only twice in his life, his
best lift being a one-time high of 510. And he had
been too busy to train properly in the past few
months, which meant he might not be able to do so
today.
    As quickly as the doubt had come, Manning
pushed it from his mind. He didn't necessarily have
to hit five hundred. He just had to beat Berber. And
if his psych-out plan had worked as well as he hoped,
Berber might well miss this lift. Manning might al-
ready have won without knowing it.
    The big Canadian's hopes for an easy victory
evaporated as Berber lowered the bar, then pushed it
back up.
    Manning kept up his front of confidence as he took
a seat on the bench. He closed his eyes, thinking, but
kept the arrogant grin on his face. Berber had strug-
gled with his second lift. The five-hundred-pound lift




had taken its toll, and he didn't have that much left
in him.
    "Let's still keep it light," Manning said.
"Say...oh, 510." He waited while Encizo and James
each added five-pound plates, then moved under the
bar. With a deep breath he reached up. Breathing in
again, he visualized the bar coming down, then going
back up.
  A moment later, it did.
    Manning sat back up and looked at Berber. The
doubt that had been growing in the man's brown eyes
was now fear. He didn't know what the captain's all-
time best push was, but it had to be about the same
as his.
    It was time for Berber's final lift, which meant it
was also time for Manning to play his psychological
hole card.
    Before Berber could take his seat, Manning
walked casually over to the desk. Picking up the plas-
tic photo cube, he looked at the pictures of the smil-
ing children. "Hey, Captain," he said, "these your
kids?"
  Berber looked across the room and nodded.
    "Nice," Manning said. "You've got a nice fam-
ily. You're a lucky man."
Berber's face fell even further as he took a seat.
Manning almost felt sorry for the captain. Berber
was probably a pretty decent man overall. He'd just
let a streak of vanity push him into a corner. He
realized that now, and knew that failure to win the
contest would cost the children in the photo.

  "How much?" Calvin James asked.
  Berber glanced at the bar, then to Manning.
    The big Canadian grinned back. Berber was close
to his limit, whatever that was. He was trying to de-
cide what Manning was capable of. If he chose a
weight for his final lift that was too low, Manning
would top it. But if he attempted too much, he would
fail himself.
"Five hundred fifteen," Berber finally said.
Manning felt his own heart drop. He had been hop-
ing the captain would go higher and miss, and a third
lift on his part would be unnecessary.
    Berber closed his eyes as he lay back on the bench.
His lips moved slightly.
    Manning couldn't help wondering if the captain
was talking to himself, or God.
    The bar went down to Berber's chest, then started
up. The captain's arms straightened partway out, then
reached the point where the lift became hardest. For
a moment it appeared the weights had traveled as far
as they were going. Then, with a mighty grunt, Ber-
ber pushed the bar on to the end of his arms.
    The other members of Phoenix Force shot glances
at Manning as Hawkins helped the captain rack the
bar. The team often worked out together, and knew
one another's capabilities. And they knew Manning
would have to beat his personal record by ten pounds
if they were going to leave the airport without prob-
lems.
    "Five hundred twenty," Manning directed. He
turned away and saw McCarter standing against the




wall. The Phoenix Force leader's hand had disap-
peared into his pocket, and Manning knew he had to
have his Spyderco Delica knife gripped in his fingers.
    The bottom line was easy to understand. If Man-
ning didn't beat Berber, Berber would die. And the
Phoenix Force warriors would be wanted men in So-
malia.
    Manning took a deep breath and looked away from
McCarter. He couldn't think about that fight now--
he had to concentrate on the lift itself, and the time
for tearing down Berber's confidence was over, as
well. Now he needed to concentrate fully on building
up his own assurance, harnessing his strength.
    Slowly Manning breathed in through his nose and
let the air out through his mouth. Again he pictured
the lift in his mind, visualizing it going down, then
up. But instead of iron on the ends of the bar, in his
mind's eye, Manning saw feathers.
    When he had completed this mental exercise sev-
eral times, the big Canadian took a seat on the bench.
His mind focused intently now on the matter at hand,
he barely noticed that McCarter had taken up a po-
sition directly behind Berber.
    Manning leaned back and said, "Let's do it." He
looked up, glancing from the fight end of the bar to
the left. At first he saw iron plates on each end of
the thick Olympic bar. He narrowed his eyes, and the
black plates became fluffy white feathers.
    Manning took the bar from Hawkins and lowered
it to his chest. With all the strength in his pectorals,
deltoids and triceps, he heaved upward. The bar trav-

eled up to the sticking point, hesitated, then shot on
to the top.
The men of Phoenix Force broke out in applause.
Manning caught a glimpse of McCarter's empty
hand coming out of his pocket as he sat back up. The
big Canadian looked at Berber. The man looked as
if he'd just lost his wife and best friend on the same
day. But Manning could see the captain intended to
honor the agreement; Berber was already reaching in
his pocket.
    Manning took the money from the captain, shook
his hand, then took the man by the elbow. Leading
Berber back to his own desk, he lifted the photo cube
and pointed to a picture in which Berber's children
stood facing the camera in front of their mother and
father.
    With the other hand Manning pressed the bills
back into Berber's hand. "This is a present," he said,
"from me to your children."
    Berber looked at him with gratitude for a moment,
then the customs captain's face changed to anger.
    Without another word, the Phoenix Force men
picked up their passports off the desk and filed out
of the room.
    Manning was the last to leave. He took a final
glance at Berber before closing the door behind him
with an arm that wanted to drop off from exhaustion.
The man looked as if he'd like to grind them all up
and feed their bodies to wild animals.
    The big Canadian let his weary arm fall to his side
as he followed the others down the hall. Remember-




ing McCarter's hand in his pocket--the pocket where
the Phoenix Force leader carried his Spyderco De-
lica--Manning realized that regardless of how strong
he was, Berber would never know just how close his
little game had brought him to death.
    The big Canadian sighed. The time for games was
over now. The real mission was about to begin. And
he couldn't help wondering if Berber would be a
player again somewhere down the line.

CHAPTER SEVEN

New York

The rented forest green Probe had been stashed in a
Manhattan parking garage ever since its use a month
earlier in a Stony Man Farm blacksuits training ex-
ercise. It didn't have much power, and it looked like
a nerdmobile in Carl Lyons's opinion, but it would
do for what he had in mind.
    Lyons kept his foot on the accelerator as he guided
the Probe through Brooklyn Heights, keeping his
place in the long train of vehicles heading toward
Prospect Park. Trees lined the road paralleling the
East River, and across the water the Able Team
leader could see one of the most spectacular views
of the Manhattan skyline available anywhere. He
stared briefly, then shot his eyes back to the Datsun
in front of him as the driver slammed on the brakes.
Lyons jerked his foot to his own brake, skidding to
a stop an inch behind the Datsun.
    Ahead and behind the Probe, tempers flared at the
sudden delay. Horns honked; voices screamed and
cursed.




    Lyons made a few rude remarks himself as he
threw the car into Park to wait.
    "Relax, Ironman," Schwarz said from the passen-
ger's seat. "According to Rook we've got at least
two days before they gas the subway."
    Lyons nodded. His mind wondered back to the
unusual but expert interrogation Blancanales had put
Ira Rook through earlier in the day when they'd still
been in Washington. When Rook had broken it had
been as if a dam had burst. He'd answered questions
without hesitation. The unscrupulous newspaperman
had confirmed what they already knew--it had been
Spencer Kiethley who had broken the story about the
abandoned top secret documents. But Kiethley had
told Rook more.
    The Followers of the Truth cult had another plot
under way to plant sarin gas in a subway. But this
time the plot had a small twist to it; the subway
wasn't in Tokyo.
  It was in New York City.
    Traffic began to move again, and Lyons shifted
the Probe to Drive. A few minutes later they were
cruising down Eastern Parkway, then turning onto
Flatbush Avenue at the main entrance to Prospect
Park. Signs outside the park advertised the many fea-
tures inside. The Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, for
one, included a "touch-taste-smell" garden for the
blind, greenhouse displays, a Dutch Colonial farm-
house built in 1777 and a Quaker cemetery that dated
back to 1662. The Probe picked up speed as traffic
thinned slightly.

    Lyons glanced to Blancanales. Able Team's psy-
chological-warfare expert had been strangely quiet
since the interrogation, and now his face reflected
deep thought. "What's wrong, Pol?" Lyons asked.
    Blancanales shrugged. "I don't know," he said.
"Something. Nothing, maybe. Just something about
Rook that bothers me."
"Me, too," Schwarz said. "The man's a jerk."
Blancanales shook his head. "No, I mean about
the things he told us. I don't know. It seems like .... "
His voice trailed off, and he shrugged again. "There
are some holes. Like this American cult member.
Rook said Kiethley told him about the guy. Well,
how'd Kiethley know about him?"
    It was Lyons's turn to shrug. "Who knows?
Maybe the Japanese cops had a line on the man and
told Kiethley when he was in Tokyo. What's it mat-
ter how he knew? It's a good lead."
    The men of Able Team lapsed into silent thought.
Lyons's mind stayed on Casey Balforth, the cult
member they'd been discussing and whose house
they were headed toward now. It was here the Brook-
lyn cell of Followers of the Truth was planning the
subway gassing, and Lyons wondered how heavily
armed they would be. Able Team might be facing
strong resistance or meek compliance. There was no
way to know in advance. But Carl Lyons intended
to take no chances.
    "Weapons inventory," the Able Team leader
called out. It was a technique he had learned years
before as a member of the LAPD SWAT team. Ver-




bally stating what weapons everyone was carrying
served two purposes: it acquainted other team mem-
bers with what equipment was available should the
man carrying it go down and his gear be needed, and
it helped mentally prepare each man for battle.
    Lyons went first. "Colt Python .357 Magnum,"
he said. "Four speedloaders. Colt Government
Model .45. Six magazines."
    Gadgets Schwarz chuckled. "Some things never
change," he said. "Beretta 92 with four extra mags.
Then there's the pop gun." He held up a Smith &
Wesson Chiefs Special airweight. "Two speedload-
ers." He paused. "Oh, yeah, and my blade." A
Benchmade Emerson Spec War CQC7 liner-lock
folding knife came up in Schwarz's other hand. He
flipped it open with the ambidextrous thumb stud,
then closed it again just as quickly.
    "I'm carrying the Beretta, too," Blancanales said.
"Same four-mag setup, but I've got my Walther PPK
for backup. Two extra mags there. And as for cut-
!ery..." He pulled out a Cold Steel Culloden, the
lightweight Scottish "sock knife," then returned it
to its neat weightless nylon scabbard. "And I've got
my walking stick. We taking the Calicos in?"
    In the rearview mirror Lyons saw Blancanales
glance down to the three hard plastic cases that con-
cealed their Calico 960 submachine pistols. The Able
Team leader hesitated before answering. Each case
carried one of the space-age weapons with a 50-
round magazine already mounted on top of the re-
ceiver. The gun itself was suspended in a shoulder

sling, and in an extra magazine carrier opposite the
weapon hung a 100-round backup mag. All the men
of Able Team needed to do to have 150 rounds of 9
mm ammo at their disposal was to open the case and
slip into the rig.
    "Ironman," Schwarz said, breaking into the Able
Team leader's thoughts, "what about the Calicos?"
    Finally Lyons answered. "Let's leave them in the
car for now," he said. He turned off Flatbush Avenue
into a lower-middle-class residential area and pulled
a Brooklyn street map from the inside pocket of his
coat. "Unless we see something that makes us think
the house is crawling with bad guys out for our
blood. Even with the shoulder rigs there's too much
chance of them being eyeballed on our way in by
some good citizen. And we don't need the NYPD
surrounding the house while we're inside."
    The men rode on in silence. Lyons opened the map
and spread it on the seat between him and Schwarz.
Watching it with one eye, he kept the other on the
street. After making two more tums, he slowed the
Probe. "Should be on that side," he said, pointing
across the street. "Right about there."
     All three men stared out the window at a light
green, one-story frame house as the Probe passed.
  "See any signs of life?" Lyons asked.
Schwarz and Blancanales both shook their heads.
Lyons pulled the car to the curb. "We'll get out
here and walk back," he said. "Stay up in the yards
and on the sidewalk. I don't want this Balforth char-
acter seeing us until we're on his front porch."




      "Good idea," Schwarz stated. "He's going to
make you for a cop for sure in that jacket."
  Biancahales chuckled.
    Lyons shot his teammate a dirty look as all three
men got out of the vehicle.
    Lyons led the way down the sidewalk, past a cu-
rious mixture of single family homes and brownstone
tenement houses. A few people sat out on their front
steps, watching the three men curiously as they
passed. More than once, the words "cop," "man"
and "pig" drifted within Lyons's earshot.
    "I'm telling you, Ironman," Schwarz said, "it's
that coat."
    The Able Team leader ignored him, increasing his
pace as he reached the house next to Balforth's ad-
dress. He cut across the grass, taking the steps two
at a time, hearing his teammates behind him. Lyons's
hand shot inside the plaid jacket to the grips of the
Colt Python on his hip as he raised his hand to knock.
    He would give the door one knock, then kick it
in. He didn't want to give Balforth time to get out
the back or decide that they were cops and start
shooting.
    Lyons never got a chance for the one knock he
had planned.
    As his fist started down, the first rounds from in-
side the house came exploding through the door.

Sierra Leone

THE COMMANDO UNIT training center mess hall
smelled like a combination of rice, vegetables, meat

and sweat.
    Bolan and Buchanan leaned back against the rick-
ety wooden wall and let the troops go first, watching
silently as the exhausted special-forces candidates
fell in at the front of the serving line. Roughly half
of the original would-be commandos still remained
in camp, the others having fallen out sometime dur-
ing the day and been returned to their units. The men
Bolan saw now looked ravenous. But after the long
day he and Buchanan had put them through, they
also looked like they might be too tired to lift their
forks to their mouths.
    Bolan watched the men shuffle down the serving
line, pushing their brown plastic trays ahead of them.
Four chow attendants---enlisted men who wore white
shirts and slacksmstood on the other side of the
counter. Also between the men and servers were steel
pots filled with flee, fresh vegetables and meat stew.
The faces of the men in white glistened with sweat
from the steam that rose from the food.
    The Executioner glanced around the mess hall. It
was a strange building, consisting of a main serving
and dining area that looked to have been built from
the scrap wood of other structures. It was closed in
on three sides, but the fourth had been left open and
the roof and walls were of canvas tenting. The long
mess tables extended past the concrete floor of the
main part of the hall and onto the hard-packed dirt
of the tent area. So far, the men who had made it
through the chow line had all stayed on the concrete.




    Turning back to the line, Bolan saw Margai reach
the front and lift a tray. The man looked tired, but
didn't show the almost total exhaustion that most of
the others exhibited. He moved down the line, ac-
cepting dishes and bowls of the native Sierra Leone
fare, then walked through the tables, past the con-
crete and under the tenting. He took a seat alone
about halfway to the far end, facing out into the
quickly dropping sun.
    Every minute or two, Bolan noticed him glance up
in the general direction of the spot he'd been so in-
tent on watching earlier in the day.
    Bolan elbowed Buchanan lightly in the ribs. "The
guy by himself out there," he said too quietly for
anyone else to hear. "Name's Margal. You know
him?"
      Buchanan squinted Margai's way for a moment,
then shook his head. "Uh-uh. Why?"  "He's strange," Bolan said.
    Buchanan shrugged. "He's just basically a loner
is all." He paused, then added, "Unless I'm way off
base I'd guess you're a loner yourself."
    Bolan shook his head. "No, it's more than that.
Something about him doesn't add up. He's been
watching the bush all day. Like he's waiting for
something or somebody."
    The line of men waiting to eat had shortened to
less than a dozen now, and the Executioner and Bu-
chanan fell in behind them. Bolan took a tray, then
accepted a large bowl of rice and vegetables and an-
other of meat stew. At the end of the chow line he

set a large plastic glass of iced tea on the tray, then
led the way to the officers' table, where several of
the Gurkhas already sat downing their food.
    Bolan sat where he could watch Margal. Buchanan
fell into the seat next to him.
    The Executioner ate silently, his gaze fixed on
Margai's back. By now the main area of the mess
hall was filled, and several other men had joined
Margai on the dirt.
 But to Bolan he seemed as isolated as ever.
    The Executioner was almost finished when Margai
stood, carried his tray to the window that led into the
kitchen and east a quick glance at the officers' table.
Hurrying---but trying not to look like he was----4he
commando candidate exited the mess hall by a side
door.
    Bolan hesitated for a second. The men had been
instructed to return to their barracks immediately af-
ter chow, and as tired as they were, there had been
no argument. But unless he missed his guess, the
Executioner didn't think that was where Margal was
headed. At least not directly. And Bolan was pretty
sure he knew where the man was going.
    Not why, maybe, but where. And the why he in-
tended to find out.
    The Executioner rose from his seat with the easy-
going bearing of a man who might take a short walk,
then hit the sack. He dropped his tray of empty
dishes on the counter next to Margai's, walked to the
opposite of the mess hall where the man had exited
and headed out the door.




    The sun had fallen, becoming a deep purple glow
behind the mountains by the time Bolan had circled
the building. He paused at the last comer before turn-
ing, pressing his back against the rotting wood and
peering slowly around the comer. What he saw
didn't surprise him.
    Margai was walking hurriedly away from the mess
hall in the general direction of the parade ground.
Every few steps the man cast a nervous glance over
his shoulder.
    Bolan let him fade a little farther into the twilight,
then darted out from behind the building. He sprinted
across an open area to the building that housed the
camp's generator and took cover again. By now Mar-
gai was perhaps forty yards ahead in the quickly
darkening camp. The man appeared confident that he
hadn't been seen. Bolan watched him break into a
jog and quit looking over his shoulder as he neared
the rise that overlooked the parade ground.
    The Executioner let Margai disappear over the
rise, then came out from behind the generator house
and sprinted forward. When he reached the top of the
rise, he dived forward onto his belly, sliding the last
few feet to the edge.
  Slowly he peered down onto the parade ground.
    Margai was still jogging---directly toward the spot
in the bushes he had watched all afternoon.
    Bolan stood, glancing at the sky now and relying
on its darkness for cover. He knew the general vi-
cinity in which Margai was headed, so it wasn't im-
perative that he keep visual contact on the man. Stay-

ing low to the ground, he moved down the slope,
then forward across the dirt and grass.
    Fifty yards before he reached the spot to which he
suspected Margai was headed, the Executioner cut
into the trees himself. Swiftly and silently he made
his way on. The sound of Margai's feet, thrashing
through the undergrowth, drifted back through the
thick foliage. The thrashing sounds grew louder as
Bolan closed the gap between them, then suddenly
stopped.
  So did the Executioner.
    A muffled grantrathe sound a man might make
when attempting to lift something heavy--came
drifting through the trees. The Executioner moved
on, keeping low, until he reached the clearing. In the
center of the open area he could see the soft glow of
a pocket flashlight. Margai's shadowy form sat on
the ground holding the light in one hand, its beam
cast downward onto the small white piece of paper
in his other hand.
    Next to the commando trainee a large boulder had
been overturned, and in the glow of the light Bolan
could see worms, maggots and other suddenly dis-
turbed insects crawling across the stone's damp un-
derside. The Executioner dropped to one knee,
watching silently. He saw Margai look up from the
paper with a nervous expression on his face, then
stare back toward the parade ground. He looked back
down, then glanced deeper into the woods.
    The man's body language spoke as loudly as
words. Margai had known someone was coming to




leave a message for him under this rock and had been
unable to avoid looking that way all day. Now the
paper he had retrieved gave him orders of some
type---something that involved his furthor deserting
the camp and going deeper into the wooded area.
Margai obviously didn't like the idea and was trying
to make up his mind whether he would follow that
order.
    The Executioner's hand fell absentmindedly to the
grip of the Crossada knife as he considered his own
options. He could overpower Margai, read the note
himself or force the man to translate it if it was writ-
ten in Krio. But if it was in Ira/o, the Executioner
would have no way of knowing if Margai lied about
the contents of the order.
    No, it would be better to wait. Unless he missed
his guess, Margai would decide to follow the note's
orders and move deeper into the forest. Bolan would
follow and find out what was going on that way.
    After another minute's deliberation in which Mar-
gai glanced both ways several times again, he stuffed
the paper into the pocket of his fatigue blouse, killed
the flashlight and stood. Another soft grunt emanated
from his lips as he rolled the stone back into place.
With a final look back toward camp, he started
deeper into the trees.
    Bolan started after him, drawing the Desert Eagle
with his right hand, the knife with his left. He had
left the Beretta back in his footlocker during the
day's training schedule, and if silent action was

called upon, the huge fighting knife would have to
serve him.
    The Executioner stayed well back, following Mar-
gai more by sound than sight. In the still night moun-
tain air every twig that snapped under the man's
boots pointed toward him. Every dry leaf he brushed
denoted his position as definitively as the spotlight
from a police helicopter.
    Margai led the Executioner down the bank of a
mountain stream, through the water, then up the other
side. For a mile or so they followed the mountain
road that had brought Bolan and Buchanan to the
training camp. The big American was able to move
in closer, using the thick trees that lined the pathway
as cover. Margai finally left the road again, taking a
narrow game trail, which led to another stream thirty
minutes later. Margai forded, then followed the water
course for another two miles. He had quit looking
over his shoulder now, confident that he wasn't being
followed.
    Bolan took advantage of the man's new confidence
to move closer. He hurried along, knowing they had
to be getting close to wherever it was they were
headed. They had been gone from camp for nearly
three hours now, and assuming Margai was going
back--and the Executioner's gut feeling was that
he'd been planted in the camp as a spy and would
returnmhe would need time to arrive before reveille
in the morning.
    Ahead, Bolan heard Margai's footsteps suddenly
halt. He slowed, moving forward. Through the dark




trees he could see the side of a mountain, and, as he
focused through the dark limbs and leaves, the black
outline of a cave mouth began to take shape. In the
center of the black hole, the Executioner could see a
flicker of light.
    A campfire. It had to be. It was too strong and
sporadic to be Margai's pocket flash again.
    The Executioner moved as close to the cave as he
dared, dropping again to one knee as he took cover
behind a thick tree trunk. The campfire just inside
the opening was brighter now. To prevent night
blindness he looked to the sides of the flame, using
his peripheral vision to watch Margai move toward
it. As best Bolan could make out, there was no one
else around the flames. Margai stopped next to the
fire. He called out softly in Krio.
    A moment later a trio of men wearing blue ban-
dannas stepped out of the opening. The RUF hard-
men were well armed, each man gripping an AK-47
in his hands and wearing a pistol and blade of some
type on the web belt around his hips.
    Bolan aimed the Desert Eagle ahead of him and
started to rise. He wanted information from these
men, and he would be afforded no better opportunity
to get the drop on them without having to kill them.
If he acted quickly now, he could step out from be-
hind cover, take the men by surprise, bind them and
begin his interrogation.
    There was no time like the present. Bolan sheathed
his knife and rose to his feet.

    He had started to step forward when he heard the
faint footsteps in the woods behind him.

Soma//a

FROM MOGADISHU, Somalia boasted one surfaced
road to Kismayu in the south and another that
stretched north to Hargeisa. Throughout the rest of
the country the roads were gravel, or simply paths
cut through the thick foliage and sparsely vegetated
desert areas.
    It was on one such gravel road that Phoenix Force
had been traveling ever since leaving the airport and
Captain Berber. And it was onto one such path that
T. J. Hawkins now turned their hurriedly rented 4WD
Jeep Wagoneer station wagon.
    In the passenger's seat McCarter steadied himself
as the vehicle began bouncing over the rugged semi-
desert !and. They were in the no-man's-land around
the Somalian capital city. To the south lay greener
terrain with corn and banana fields, and to the north
were the herds of sheep, goats and camels of the
nomads.
    McCarter stared out over the central plateau. Here,
there was little of anything.
    Hawkins gave the Wagoneer's shocks a torture test
as he guided the vehicle down a long, dry creek bed,
then hopped it back up the opposite bank. They fol-
lowed the plateau for a mile or so, then McCarter
broke the silence. Pointing to an old and knurled tree
growing up through the cracks in the layered dirt, he




said, "Head there, T.J. Unless I miss my guess, the
crates should have landed just beyond that point."
    "All except for one," Encizo said from the back
seat. "Number two--the long guns. A gust of wind
caught it and took it north."
    McCarter turned in his seat. In all the confusion
with Berber, he hadn't known that. "You see it
land?" he asked Encizo.
    The man shook his head. "We'd flown on before
it hit," the little Cuban said. "But it was close to the
ground. We'll find it."
    Hawkins gunned the vehicle up a series of steps
cut into the dirt and rock surface by centuries of ero-
sion. Next to the aged tree, he tapped the brake,
slowing to a stop.
    McCarter squinted through his sunglasses as the
sun fell in the west. Perhaps a quarter mile away,
between a large formation of boulders on each side
of the path, he saw the first of the crates. The cargo
chute that had lowered it to the ground still flapped
in the light breeze over the plateau.
    Hawkins drove on without having to be told.
McCarter squinted again as a small brown object ap-
peared ahead in the road. As they drew closer, he
could see it was an MRE envelope. Beyond it, he
saw several more in a cluster. "Pull over," the Phoe-
nix Force leader ordered. Hawkins did as ordered,
riding the brake to a dusty halt on the dried earth.
    McCarter turned in his seat. "Rafael, Gary. You
and Calvin get out and gather up the MREs. Crate
number four must have hit somewhere around here.

They're scattered up and down the road. T.J. and I
will meet you at the first crate."
The three men in the back seat got out.
McCarter saw them gathering up the Meals Ready
to Eat envelopes in the mirror fastened to the sun
visor as Hawkins drove on. A few minutes later they
pulled to a halt between the boulders next to the
crate.
    "Number two," Hawkins said, reading the bright
red number off the top. "Ammo."
    McCarter got out, grabbed the tire tool from the
rear of the Wagoneer and walked forward. Hawkins
drew his Randall Model 2 Fighting Stiletto and cut
the cargo chute lines away from the crate. He hid the
chute in a thick growth of sagebrush while McCarter
snapped the iron bands around the crate's pine lid
and pried it off.
    John "Cowboy" Kissinger, Stony Man Farm's
chief armorer, had packed the crates and outfitted
Phoenix Force well. Inside this box, dispersed
throughout hundreds of foam packing pellets, they
found box after box of 9 mm ammunition. Scattered
among them were a few boxes in .40 caliber S&W.
The two men began to load the cartridges into the
Wagoneer.
    The job was finished by the time James, Encizo
and Manning arrived, their arms loaded down with
MREs. "We didn't find them all," Manning said
with a grin, "but we won't go hungry for a while."
    McCarter nodded. "Then let's get this crate out of
sight and--" He stopped talking, turning suddenly




when he thought he heard movement in the boulders
to his left. In lieu of having a firearm yet, his hand
dropped instinctively to the pocket where he'd
clipped the Spyderco Delica knife. His eyes scanned
the rocks.
  He saw nothing.
    "Something wrong?" James asked. The black
Phoenix Force warrior had picked up on McCarter's
movement, and his own hand had entered his knife,
pocket.
    McCarter shook his head slowly. "I thought I
heard something. I suppose I was wrong." He
paused. "Get the crate off the road and let's go."
    Phoenix Force hid the pine box next to the cargo
chute and piled back into the Wagoneer. A hundred
yards farther on they found crate number five and
unloaded their pistols--Matching Beretta 92 semiau-
tos for James, Manning, Encizo and Hawkins, and a
pair of Browning Hi-Powers for McCarter. The
Phoenix Force leader quickly loaded one of his
Brownings with 9 mm ammo, then paused to study
the other. Rather than the 9 mm parabellum ammo
the Hi-Power had used since its inception in 1935,
this weapon was the newer model in .40-caliber
S&W.
    McCarter smiled. He had carried Brownings since
his days with the British SAS and had fostered only
one complaint about the weapon: he would have pre-
ferred it in .45ACP. But the .40 S&W was close
enough that he'd give it a try. The round, which split

 the difference between 9 mm and .45, was fast be-
 coming the sweetheart of American law enforcement.
    Quickly the Phoenix Force leader loaded eleven
rounds into the magazine and popped one into the
chamber.
    The Wagoneer moved on, stopping next to load
fatigues, holsters, belts and other gear. A short row
of scrub trees lay near where the crate had landed,
and again McCarter thought he heard movement
from that direction. He'd had no time to slide his
weapons into their holsters yet, and had them stuck
in his belt. He hefted the .40-caliber pistol.
    With the rest of Phoenix Force assisting, McCarter
searched the trees and surrounding area. They found
nothing.
  "Anyone else hear anything?" the Briton asked.
  All four men shook their heads.
    "It's that age thing, David," Hawkins joked. "All
things considered, though, I'd say you're doing
pretty well."
    "Just a lizard or something like that," Manning
suggested.
    "Yeah." McCarter wasn't so sure. He had heard
something, and his instinct told him it was made by
a human. He stuck the pistol back into his belt.
    The men loaded into the Wagoneer once more and
continued on over the flat, dusty plateau in search of
the rifles that had been carried away by the gust of
wind. McCarter had pulled a pair of binoculars from
the last crate and now pressed them into service to




aid in the search. But even with the lenses he had
still seen no signs of the rifle crate an hour later.
    Finally, an inch away from deciding that the rifles
were lost and they would have to continue the mis-
sion with pistols only, McCarter caught a glimpse of
what looked like cured wood in a canyon ahead.
"That way," he told Hawkins, gesturing with the
binoculars.
    Hawkins pulled to the edge of the steep drop-off
and killed the engine. The men of Phoenix Force got
out. McCarter focused the binoculars on the wood
from the new angle, then dropped them to the end
of the cord around his neck. "That's it," he said.
"But we'll never get the Wagoneer down there.
Hawk, you watch the Jeep while we get the rifles."
    The Phoenix Force leader led the way on the slip-
slide down the bank to where the rifle crate lay.
When he, Manning, James and Encizo reached the
bottom, McCarter noticed that the impact of hitting
the ground had already broken the retaining band.
Slipping the tire tool under the lid, he pried up and
was surprised at how easy the nails came out.  A moment later he saw why.
    The crate had already been opened. Most of the
nails were missing, and those that weren't had been
shoved back down the now larger holes. McCarter
leaned forward, knowing what he'd see even before
he saw it.
  The crate was empty.
  For the third time that day McCarter heard move-

ment. But this time there was no mistaking it, and
the others heard it, too.
    Turning, the Phoenix Force leader saw at least
forty men suddenly rise from hiding throughout the
canyon. Although they carded a wide variety of
weapons, all were armed to the teeth. They held their
weapons at the ready as they moved forward, encir-
cling the team from Stony Man Farm.
    McCarter's hand dropped to the Browning Hi-
Power stuck in his belt, but he said loud enough for
Hawkins to hear, "Hold your fire. There are too
many of them."
    The men who moved in were a ragged bunch in a
mixture of tattered African and Western dress. They
closed to within ten feet, then stopped. Scattered
among them, McCarter saw the five M-16s that had
been in the crate.
    A man wearing a red bandanna tied over his head
stepped out from the crowd and stopped, facing
McCarter. His left eye bore a black patch, and a gold
hoop earring hung from his left ear. His ebony face
was almost completely hidden by an unkempt black
beard, and what wasn't bore the scars of battles past.
A long cutlass hung from a scabbard on his left side,
and on the right McCarter saw a Ruger Vaquero sin-
gle-action revolver with stag grips. The weapon was
either a .44 Magnum or .45 Colt--from the distance
he was at, he couldn't tell.
    The man walked forward and smiled widely,
showing two rows of pearly white teeth spattered
with gold fillings. All in all, he looked every bit the




part of the Caribbean pirate McCarter guessed he was
trying to emulate. "I am Captain Jack," the man
said, "and these are my men."
  McCarter nodded. "We're--"
    "My prisoners," Captain Jack finished for the
Phoenix Force leader. The smile disappeared, and
two of his men escorted Hawkins down the steep
bank. He snapped his fingers, and several more of
his men rushed to his side. "Disarm them," he or-
dered, "and tie them up."

New York

MORE THAN ONE MAN fired through the front door of
Casey Balforth's house in Brooklyn, New York. That
fact was clear.
    By the number of holes that suddenly appeared in
Balforth's front door and the amount of lead chasing
after Carl Lyons, Hermann Schwarz and Rosario
B!ancanales, there had to be several.
    The three Able Team commandos dived out of the
line of fire, drawing their weapons as they fell off
the porch to both sides. They immediately turned
back toward the assault.
    Lyons hit the grass and rolled up against the house,
the Colt Python gripped tightly in both hands. On the
other side of the porch he saw Blancanales. He
waited for the gunfire to die down, then looked to
his side to see Schwarz. "Take the back, Gadgets,"
he whispered.

    Schwarz nodded, rose to his feet and hurried
around the comer of the house and out of sight.
    Lyons moved back up onto the porch to the side
of the door, transferring the Colt to his left hand.
Hooking the weapon around the comer, the Able
Team leader fired a full cylinder of .357 semijacketed
hollowpoint rounds into the house, then dived from
the porch again.
  Return fire chased him back to the grass.
    Lyons had a speedloader full of fresh ammo into
the Python's cylinder two seconds after he hit the
ground again. He looked up, seeing that he'd come
to rest directly under the front window. The sight
didn't make him happy. Anyone inside the dwelling
who knew he was there had only to stick a gun out
the window, point it down and pull the trigger.
They'd stand about a ninety-five percent chance of
hitting him somewhere.
  No, Lyons decided, this wouldn't do at all.
    The fire through the front door continued as the
wood began to splinter. Large holes appeared in the
door. Lyons twisted and rose high enough to glance
over the windowsill into what appeared to be the
house's front bedroom. Unless someone was hiding
on the other side of the bed or in the closet against
the far wall, it was empty. Lyons reached up and
pushed against the top of the window. He was sur-
prised to find it unlocked.
    The Able Team leader glanced across the porch
again and caught Blancanales's attention. He pointed
at himself, then at the window.




    Blancanales nodded. He curved his Beretta 92
around the comer of the door very much like Lyons
had done on the other side a moment before. As he
fired off a string of fast semiauto rounds to mask the
noise, Lyons lifted the window.
    The Able Team leader kept the Python in front of
him as he crawled through the opening. His eyes
darted back and forth, covering the room. The door
to the hallway was closed, but on the other side he
could hear the sound of gunfire still exploding in the
living room. Silently he breathed a sigh of relief for
the extra moment's warning the closed door would
give him if someone tried to enter the room.
    The main threat right now was from the closet or
under or around the bed. Leaving the window open
behind him, Lyons quickly checked these potential
hiding places as the gunfire in the other room con-
tinued. Finding no one in the bedroom, he moved to
the closed door. With the Python in his right hand,
he reached out and slowly twisted the knob.
    No sooner had he turned it than the door flew open
in his face. The comer of the door struck Lyons
squarely between the eyes, knocking him back over
the bed behind him. A tall burly man in a white T-
shirt and long, greasy black hair stopped halfway in
the room, a huge .44 Magnum Colt Anaconda filling
his hand. The weapon resembled Lyons's Colt Py-
thon .357---only larger.
    At first Lyons thought it was mere surprise he saw
on the face of the man with the greasy hair. But as
the Able Team leader brought the Python up into

play, it looked more like a Vacant sign hanging in
the man's eyes.
    Lyons's Python jumped twice in his hands, send-
ing a double tap of .357s into the white T-shirt. As
the Able Team leader rolled off the bed and onto his
feet, the T-shirt suddenly turned crimson.
    The burly man in the shirt looked down at his
chest, his face still a mask of bafflement. He strug-
gled to bring the Anaconda back up with both hands.
    Lyons raised the Python until the sights lined up
on the man's uncomprehending face. Squeezing
gently, he double-actioned the trigger, and another
round drilled through the man's nose and into his
brain stem.
    The man in the stained white T-shirt was dead
before he hit the ground.
    Lyons pushed the falling body out of the way and
moved back to the door. He flipped open the Py-
thon's cylinder, clawing the dead rounds out with his
tingemail and leaving the live loads inside. Fresh
.357 rounds came from a cartridge pouch on his belt
under his jacket and filled the holes. As he slid the
cylinder back into the frame, he felt something drip
into his eyes. His vision blurred, and his eyes began
to bum.
    Raising a hand to his forehead, Lyons brought it
away again to find his fingers covered with blood.
He cursed silently. The door had opened a gash just
above the eyebrows. It was nothing a few stitches
wouldn't take care of, but it would bleed down into




his eyes until he got it bandaged. In the meantime
he needed to be able to see.
    Lyons reached into the back pocket of his slacks
and pulled out a white handkerchief. Rolling it
quickly into a headband, he tied it tightly around his
head and pushed the cloth hard against the wound.
The bleeding didn't stop, but it slowed.
    Sticking his head around the corner into a short
hallway, the Able Team leader could see part of the
living room through another door. One man stood in
front of a fireplace, an old but perfectly serviceable
.45 Ingram MAC-10 gripped in both hands. The ma-
chine pistol jumped rapidly in his hands as he fired
round after round through the front door. He had the
same distant look on his face as the man Lyons had
encountered in the bedroom, and he used the weapon
as if someone had flipped a switch, setting him on
automatic pilot.
    As Lyons watched, the gun ran dry. The man
pulled another box mag from his vest and rammed it
home with the emotion of a zombie.
    Lyons moved out into the hall, keeping his back
to the wall and sliding toward the door to the living
room. As he got closer, a set of feet, then calves,
then knees appeared. The ex-LAPD cop stopped,
studying what he could see of the kneeling figure.
This man, too, was firing a weapon at the front door.
Lyons couldn't see it, but he could see the vibration
caused by each recoil in the man's lower body.
    Finally reaching the door, Lyons took a deep
breath. It had sounded like several men shooting

 when he'd been outside, and so far he'd seen only
 two. But he had also seen only half of the living
 room. Ten more could be waiting silently in the other
 half, not firing, knowing someone had entered the
 house and using the two men Lyons had seen as bait.
    Lyons shifted the Python to his left hand and drew
the Government Model .45 with his right. He took a
deep breath. It could be a trap, but there was only
one way to find out. A hard smile curled his lips.
Besides, he thought. As Native Americans used to
say, "Today is a good day to die."
    He burst into the room with both guns roaring. The
Python jumped twice in his hands as he pumped a
pair of Magnum rounds into the man firing the In-
gram. Almost simultaneously the .45 blew downward
at the kneeling man. Lyons looked down, trying to
get his first full look at the man on the floor.
    He was a split second too late. By the time he had
focused on the man's face, two .45-caliber Black
Talon hollowpoint rounds had already destroyed the
features. Another MAC-10 fell to the carpet.
    Lyons turned his attention to the back half of the
living roomrathe half he had been unable to see. He
raised both weapons to just below eye level, scanning
his environment.
  The rest of the room was empty.
    The Able Team leader frowned. It didn't make
sense. Even with the fast-firing full-auto Ingrams,
there had been too many rounds blowing through the
door to be fired by just two men. There were more
gunmen in the house somewhere.




  Where?
    Lyons had only a few seconds to wonder before
his question was answered for him. As he stood
thinking in the living room, the distinctive pop of 9
mm rounds being fired from a Beretta 92 came from
the backyard of the house.  Schwarz.
    A second later a cacophony of other weapons
joined the Beretta as World War III erupted in the
backyard.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Sierra Leone

The Executioner froze in the dark African mountain
night, suddenly on alert. No longer was the situation
completely in his command. No longer could he sim-
ply step from behind the tree and take Margai and
the other men in front of the cave prisoner. The foot-
steps behind him had changed all that.  And now, he heard them again.
    Bolan turned slowly away from the cave. He could
see nothing behind him, and for a moment he won-
dered if the footsteps had been his imagination. No,
he had conquered and learned to harness his imagi-
nation many years ago. An animal moving through
the night? No, not that, either. Somewhere over the
long course of his career he had developed the ability
to unconsciously perceive the difference in move-
ments between four-legged animals and the two-
legged variety.
    He took another second to consider the situation.
Who was the human coming up behind him? The
most likely explanation was an RUF sentry who had




been posted on the perimeter of this cave camp. If
so, the man had to have been far enough away from
Bolan and Margai's path that Bolan hadn't seen sign
of him until now. But the sentry would also have had
to be close enough to hear Margai nearing the camp.
Margai had grown increasingly careless about the
noise he made as the night grew on and he became
more confident that he wasn't being followed.
    The sentry had heard Margai but not seen the
would-be commando. Which meant that the guard
had, naturally, wondered if whoever approached the
camp was friend or foe. The sentry would also have
wisely noted that he would be unable to intercept
whoever it was before the man arrived at the cave.
So the RUF guard had circled, coming up from the
rear in case the advancer was an enemy.
    Bolan heard the soft brush of a limb being moved
aside. The sound came from maybe ten yards away.
    Quickly but quietly Bolan holstered the Desert Ea-
gle and drew the Crossada knife from its sheath. He
took a quick final glance at the men in front of the
cave. All four now sat cross-legged around the fire
and had either leaned their rifles up against the cave
wall or laid them at their feet.
    Crouching, the Executioner moved to his right,
following the tree line next to the mountain. Silence
was now more important than ever. He couldn't ex-
pect to take the men at the campfire alive for ques-
tioning if they heard him battle the sentry. And if he
tried to take his prisoners before he dealt with the
man approaching from the rear, the sentry could

stand inside the trees and shoot him like a fish in the
barrel once he was at the mouth of the cave and in
the firelight.
    The Executioner moved roughly twenty feet to his
side before cutting back deeper into the foliage, away
from the cave. He circled the sentry, taking a page
from the man's own book. He would come up from
the rear, employ a classic silent sentry-removal ma-
neuver, then replace the knife with the pistol and step
out into the clearing to take his prisoners as he'd
planned.
    The movement to his side grew fainter rather than
louder as the sentry neared the spot where Bolan had
hidden only moments before. Whoever the man wa,q,
he was good. He knew that he was close, and he had
no intention of blowing his approach now.
    Bolan began cutting back as soon as he sense/,l that
the man had passed him. It was imperative that his
movements remain hushed but now he had to be fas-
ter, as well. As soon as he reached the odge of the
trees, the sentry would look through the branches like
he had and see the men in front of the fire. For a
brief moment he would wonder what had happened
to the prey he had stalked. Then, if he was as sharp
as he appeared to be, he would figure it out. He
would know that the man he had stalked now stalked
him.
 And he would turn to fight.
    Bolan had to be on top of him before that hap-
pened. He couldn't afford the split-second warning a
loud scuffle in the woods would provide for Margai




and his confederates at the cave. He moved back,
looking for signs of both his and the sentry's ap-
proach to the camp. A crushed leaf was all he could
make out in the dim light, but it was enough. He
turned back toward the fire.
    Faster now, Bolan moved in. Ahead he could sense
the presence of the sentry. He couldn't see the man,
but he could feel him. He quickened his pace once
more, now risking the slight noise that might an-
nounce to the sentry that the tables had been turned
and he was about to be accosted from the rear.
    Then, as he moved around a thick tree trunk, Bo-
lan saw the dancing flames of the fire once more.
Margai and the other men now sat talking in hushed
voices. Between them and the Executioner, still in
the tree line and peering through the branches just as
Bolan had done only moments before, was the dark
silhouette of a man's back.
    Bolan took a deep breath, readying himself for the
final moment of the hunt. He held the Crossada in a
saber grip, considering the possibilities as he moved
forward. Should the sentry sense his presence and
start to turn, Bolan would thrust it through his kidney
/or ribs or whatever other target presented itself dur-
ing the man's revolution. If that happened, the Exe-
cutioner would have to assume that noise would be
made and he'd leave the knife in the man, draw the
Desert Eagle and step out of the trees, hoping he
could still take the men by surprise and shooting if
he couldn't.
  If, however, the Executioner was able to close the

 gap between himself and the sentry while the man's
 back was still to him, he would cup a hand over the
 mouth, slice the throat with the mammoth blade, then
 step out of the trees unannounced.
    Seconds seemed like minutes now as Bolan nar-
rowed the field of play, the Crossada held back and
ready to thrust. But the sentry heard nothing and con-
tinued to stare straight ahead at the men in the mouth
of the cave.
    At the last second Bolan's fingers shifted on the
hilt of the knife, taking a firm hammer grip. He
reached around the sentry with his left hand and
cupped the man's mouth, shutting off any sound. At
the same time the Crossada's spear-point blade cir-
cled the throat from the man's other side.
    The movements were too fast to even afford the
man time to struggle. Bolan felt the forearm of his
knife hand make contact with the sentry's upper
chest. His wrist hit something hard as he prepared to
draw the blade back across the throat.
    The Crossada was already moving when the Ex-
ecutioner's instincts screamed for him to stop. The
thought pattem in his brain occurred in the twinkling
of an eye: he had felt something around the man's
neck--a chain--but not an ordinary chain. This one
had a ring suspended from it.
    Bolan kept his hand over the man's mouth as he
spun him. As the man came around, he saw Bobcat
Buchanan's face. The diamond in the ring around his
throat sparkled in the dim light.
 Buchanan's hand had fallen to the Government




Model .45 holstered on his hip. Bolan dropped the
Crossada and reached out, pinning the man's ann to
his chest.
    Slowly, giving Buchanan ample time to recognize
him in the darkness, the Executioner took his hand
away from the man's mouth. Even in the dim light
he could see Buchanan's face had gone pale. "I want
to take them alive if we can," he whispered.
Buchanan nodded. "I'm glad you took me alive."
Bolan picked up the Crossada and shoved it back
into his sheath. The blade had made some noise when
he dropped it, enough to cause the men at the fire to
stop talking for a moment. But it hadn't been enough
to cause further alarm. Now they had resumed their
conversation, attributing the sound to an animal or
some other unexplained but natural cause.
    The Executioner drew the Desert Eagle and nod-
ded to Buchanan, who presented the .45.
    Together, the two men stepped from the trees to
confront the startled RUF hardmen.
  "Nobody move!" Bolan commanded.
    For a moment the men sitting around the fire fol-
lowed the order, staring dumbfounded at the two
Americans who held them at gunpoint. Then one of
the men, a tall, slender black man wearing the blue
RUF bandanna around his wrist like a bracelet,
lunged for the AK-47 next to his feet.
    Bolan had no choice but to fire, which was only
the beginning of what followed.

Somalia

HANDS BOUND behind their backs with leather strips,
the men of Phoenix Force fought to keep from falling

 off the sides as the ancient flatbed truck bounced
 over the rugged plateau.
    Behind the truck Phoenix Force's own Jeep Wag-
oneer followed. McCarter sat near the rear of the
guardless vehicle, wondering which bump they hit
would finally be the one to throw him from the bed
and into the path of the Jeep. He could see the dozen
or so 4WD vehicles ahead of the flatbed, and in the
lead, Captain Jack's Ford 350 XLT Lariat pickup.
The Lariat's CD player had been cranking out Bob
Marley reggae music ever since the former British
SAS commando and the rest of the team had been
loaded onto the truck.
    McCarter tried to recall what he knew about Cap-
tain Jack as the truck continued to bounce. Bolan had
undertaken a Somalian mission that involved the
warlords some months back, and Stony Man Farm
had collected extensive intel on them all. Jack, or
whatever his real name was, was regarded by much
of the world as just another in a long line of petty
potentates who all robbed their own people and
stripped power and territory from one another when-
ever opportunity presented itself.
    But Stony Man's research had offered another
view of the man. Captain Jack, it seemed, was cer-
tainly not above stealing and killing. But he was par-
ticular about it, never stealing from or killing his own
people as the other warlords did. He actually seemed
to have some humanitarian goals, as well as the pur-
suit of wealth. He concentrated on robbing other war-




lords, foreign military personnel he believed should
leave his country and the occasional tourist. He re-
distributed to the common man much of what he took
back, and Stony Man speculated that when, and if,
things ever settled down in the war-torn nation long
enough for an election, Captain Jack planned to be
the new president.
    A real Robin Hood, McCarter thought as they
bounced on to who knew where. He never hurt the
good guys. The only problem was Captain Jack
thought the men of Phoenix Force were bad guys.
    "Any guess as to where we're going?" Hawkins
asked no one in particular. He sat with his back
against the truck's cab, and each jolt from the road
threw him back against the rear windshield.
    "No idea," McCarter replied. "But I suppose
we'll be finding out shortly. He looked to the spot
where the sun had finally fallen over the horizon.
Soon the plateau would be too dark and treacherous
to travel. Even if they hadn't reached their destina-
tion-whatever it was--they'd have to hole up for
the night.
    The thought had barely left the Phoenix Force
leader's mind than Captain Jack's pickup disap-
peared into a canyon. The vehicles behind it slowed,
creeping forward as, one by one, each descended the
steep slope. When the fiatbed reached the edge of the
drop-off, the driver slowed to a stop. The Wagoneer
circled around the tailgate and descended the slope.
From where they sat, McCarter and the other men

from Stony Man Farm could see the vehicles parked
in line at the bottom of the canyon. Most of the forty-
odd men had exited the vehicles and stood next to
them.
    McCarter still didn't know what was going on but
he understood why the flatbed had stayed at the top
of the plateau. The other 4WD vehicles could make
it back up the slope again. If the flatbed went down
it, the heavy, clumsy truck would remain there for
eternity unless someone jerked it out with a Sherman
tank.
    As they waited, Captain Jack led a contingent of
a dozen men back up the slope to the flatbed. He was
smiling again, and his gold-hoop earring glowed
warmly in the paling light from the sun.
    The warlord and his men reached the truck and
jerked McCarter and the others unceremoniously
from the bed. McCarter landed on his belly, hearing
the familiar swooshing sounds as blades were un-
sheathed. He felt someone grab the hands bound be-
hind his back. A moment later he felt a blade pass
between his wrists, and his hands separated.  "Get up," Captain Jack ordered.
    McCarter rolled to one side in time to see the man
shove his cutlass back into the scabbard and draw
the Ruger Vaquero. He stood, waiting as the other
men were cut loose.
    Captain Jack prodded McCarter on with not so
gentle stabs in the back with the Ruger Vaquero, di-
recting the Phoenix Force leader between two of the
vehicles to the other side of the line.


    Carefully laid out on the ground, McCarter saw
long white sections of eight-inch PVC pipe, cans of
pipe cement and several shovels. He knew what was
expected of them immediately.
    "We thanked God when he dropped the provisions
from the sky," Captain Jack said, chuckling. ,We
quickly saw that there was enough not only for our
current use but that some should be stored." He
paused and stepped out from McCarter's side to
where the Phoenix Force leader could see his face.
"But we had no idea that he would send us slaves
to do the work for us, too." Captain Jack leaned
down, lifted a shovel and handed it to McCarter.
"Get busy," he ordered, and stepped back again.
    McCarter saw James, Manning, Encizo and Haw-
kins pushed forward toward the shovels with rifle
barrels. A series of orders in mixed English and So-
mali came from the mouths of the warlord's men as
the Phoenix Force commandos began to dig.
    As McCarter began to work, he saw several of the
warlord's men begin unloading the Wagoneer of the
supplies Phoenix Force had already picked up. Oth-
ers began to saw lengths of PVC, while still others
began cementing waterproof caps to the storage
pipes.
    The sun finally disappeared completely, and
McCarter heard the sounds of several of the 4WD
vehicles starting. Headlights came on as the vehicles
backed around to east their lights over the area where
the men worked.
  McCarter felt the sweat trickle down his face as

 he drove the shovel into the ground, then tossed the
 load to the side. He looked up and down the row of
 men, seeing that Hawkins worked ten feet to his
 right, with Manning perhaps fifteen feet in the op-
 posite direction. Encizo and James were in front of
 him, less than ten feet away.
     As they continued to dig, Manning whispered to
 him, "You know they're going to bury us, too, don't
 you?"
      McCarter nodded. "Just as soon as the work is
done and we're of no more use."  "Any ideas?" Manning asked.
    The sound of a pump shotgun's slide racking a
round into the chamber echoed through the night.
"Do not speak!" someone shouted.
    Then Captain Jack himself appeared in front of
McCarter and Manning and directly behind James
and Encizo. The warlord pressed the barrel of the
Ruger into McCarter's sweating face and cocked the
hammer. "You heard the man. Keep quiet."
    McCarter and the other men of Phoenix Force
went on digging. He racked his brain for a plan.
Manning was right. Captain Jack intended to bury
them along with the cache of weapons, food and
other supplies. As soon as the ditches were deep
enough, they'd be forced to carry the PVC storage
pipes into the holes. Then they'd be shot where they
stood and covered up with the provisions. Or maybe
Captain Jack and his men wouldn't want to come
across their decaying flesh when they dug the pipes
up, and they'd be forced to dig separate graves.




    It didn't much matter. Unless they came up with
a plan, and quick, they'd be dead.
    McCarter dug on, the muscles in his arms, shoul-
ders and back beginning to ache. On the isolated pla-
teau, a hundred miles from civilization, in the glim-
mer of the headlights, the scene seemed to the Briton
to be straight out of Tales from the Crypt or some
old Alfred Hitchcock movie.
    Hawkins had to have had a similar feeling. As they
worked on, the newest member of the team began
absentmindedly humming the theme from Twilight
Zone.
    "Silence!" Captain Jack said curtly, turning to-
ward him with the Ruger.
    Hawkins didn't appear to have heard the warlord.
He went right on humming.
    Captain Jack was unaccustomed to having his or-
ders ignored. With a scream of rage, he cocked the
Ruger's hammer and fired a round down into the
ditch where Hawkins was working.
    Now it was Hawkins's turn to scream. He fell for-
ward, half in, half out, of the hole. "You shot my
foot, you dirty SOB !" he yelled as the work stopped
throughout the ravine.
    Anger flooded McCarter's veins. He leaped from
his ditch, the shovel swinging high over his head.
      Captain Jack spun on him like an Old West gun-
fighter, cocking the Ruger's hammer once more.
  McCarter froze in place.
  "Oh...my foot!" Hawkins moaned.
  Captain Jack kept the gun on the Phoenix Force

 leader as he moved toward Hawkins. "If this man,
 or any of the others, move," he called out to his men,
 "kill them."
    McCarter couldn't see the warlord's men behind
him, but he almost felt the many guns that moved to
cover him.
    Captain Jack turned toward Hawkins as he neared
the ditch. He leaned over the side, trying to get a
look at the foot he had shot. The cold smile McCarter
had seen earlier returned.
    Hawkins moaned again, then suddenly there was
a flash of movement within the ditch. A split second
later Hawkins had scrambled out of the hole and
driven a shoulder under Captain Jack's Vaquero and
into the man's ribs.
    Phoenix Force's newest man looked like an NFL
linebacker blitzing to sack the quarterback as he
drove Captain Jack backward toward McCarter's
ditch. The bandit, taken by surprise, had no time to
react and no choice but to backpedal, furiously trying
to keep his balance. The Ruger's hammer fell, send-
ing a round harmlessly into the dirt pile behind Haw-
kins as he propelled the warlord on.
    A moment later both Hawkins and Captain Jack
came crashing down into the hole on top of Mc-
Carter.
    McCarter gave way beneath their combined
weight, thrashing around in the damp earth. His hand
dipped into his pocket and he jerked out the Spy-
derco Delica, flipping out the blade with a twist of
his wrist. Rolling to his side, he felt an elbow catch




.J

him in the ribs. He looked up and saw the back of a
black neck on top of him. The head atop the neck
wore a black bandanna "pirate style."  It was the neck he was looking for.
    Reaching over the top of Captain Jack's head with
his left hand, McCarter hooked his middle and index
fingers into the warlord's eye sockets. His adversary
screamed as the former SAS commando jerked up,
exposing the throat. The Delica came around, the tip
jamming through the skin over Captain Jack's ster-
num and into the xiphoid process. Another scream
issued forth from his lips as the blade lodged in
place.
      Hawkins had grabbed the bandit's Ruger by now
and shoved the barrel under the warlord's nose.
  Captain Jack suddenly quieted.
    McCarter looked up to see that the ditch was sur-
rounded now with Captain Jack's men. The metallic
sound of rifle bolts working drifted down from
above.
    "Don't shoot{" one of the men shouted. "You
will hit the captain!"
    "That's right, you lily-livered ring-tailed tooters{"
Hawkins called back up. "And even if you don't,
we'll kill him with our dying breaths{"
    The man who had warned the others not to shoot,
a muscular man with a bushy black Afro, mustache
and goatee, turned away from the hole and barked
orders.
    A second later several of the riflemen moved back
from the edge of the hole. McCarter saw James, En-

cizo and Manning suddenly thrust forward. Arms
wrapped around their necks and gun barrels were
pressed against their heads.
    The goateed man looked down and spoke again.
"Let the captain go," he said, "or we will kill your
friends{"
    McCarter chuckled. "It appears to me you in-
tended to do that anyway. So it's you who have
something to lose, not us." He paused to let the man
consider the situation.
    Captain Jack spasmed in McCarter's arms, and the
Phoenix Force leader let up slightly on the knife.
"Now, you think things over for a few minutes and
decide if you think we should find some kind of set-
tlement to this situation that suits both of us."
    As the voices above began to mumble McCarter
turned to Hawkins. "How bad is your foot?" he
asked.
    Hawkins's eyebrows lowered momentarily as if he
didn't understand the question, then shot back up.
"My foot? Old Jack missed it by a yard."
    Even under the circumstances McCarter couldn't
help but laugh,
    The man in charge up top finally spoke again. "I
must speak with Captain Jack! I must ask him what
to do!"
    With his fingers still hooked in Jack's eye sockets,
and the Delica lodged shallowly in his chest, Mc-
Carter leaned up to whisper in the warlord's car.
"I'm going to let up slightly so you can talk," he




said. "But I don't suppose I have to tell you what
will happen if you try anything funny."
    Jack shook his head back and forth slowly, and no
farther than he could without popping his own eye-
balls out of the sockets.
    McCarter let up a little more on his chest and eyes.
"Okay," he called up to the man, "talk to your main
man."
    "Captain Jack," the man called down into the
hole, "it is Alfredo! What should we do?"
    There was a brief pause while Captain Jack drew
in a long shaky breath before answering. "Alfredo,
can you see me?"
    "Yes, Captain Jack!" the man called back. "I can
see you !"
    "Then can you see this man's fingers in my eyes,
ready to pluck them out and make me blind? Can
you see his knife in my chest, ready to plunge
through my heart?"
    "Yes, Captain Jack! I can see both his fingers and
the knife!"
    The warlord drew in another breath, but this time
the sound registered disgust, as well as fear. "You
can see all this, and still you ask me what you should
do?" he called up to Alfredo.
"Yes, Captain Jack! What should I do?"
"Whatever they tell you to do, you bloody fool!"
Captain Jack screamed in fury. "Whatever they tell
you to do!"

New York

ROUND AFTER ROUND exploded at the rear of the
house. They were answered by the 9 mm pops from

 Schwarz's Beretta.
     Lyons started to rush back into the hall, then re-
 membered B!ancanales still in front of the house.
 Sprinting to the splintered front door, he called
 through a hole in the wood, "Pol! Don't shoot! It's
 me!"
    The Able Team leader gave it a second to sink in,
then threw the door open. "Get around back!" he
yelled. "I'm going through the house!"
    Blancanales nodded and sprinted around the cor-
ner as Lyons closed the door.
    Lyons heard footsteps behind him and turned just
in time to see one of the men coming back to check
on the two in the living room. Instead of an Ingram
like the other two had carded, this man had a Japa-
nese-made Shin Chuo Kogyo submachine gun.
    But he had the same vacant look to his eyes. And
although obviously Occidental, he was also dressed
in a bright red kimono.
    Lyons had no time to question the strange costume
on the Westerner. The man raised the subgun and
fired a steady stream of 9 mm rounds his way. The
Able Team leader ducked under the barrage by drop-
ping to his knees. He pressed the trigger on the .45
twice, and both rounds found a home in the man's
chest.
    Lyons was back on his feet by the time the body
hit the floor. He moved past it to the door, then
looked into the hall. Clear. He had just stepped out




when two more men appeared from a doorway at the
end.
    Both were Westerners, but they, too, wore Oriental
clothing and looked as if they might be under the
control of some unseen force.
    The man in the light blue kimono held a Portu-
guese Model 48 submachine gun. Lyons dropped
him with a round between the eyes before he'd had
time to get it into play.
    The other man, wearing a plain white hopi coat
over his blue jeans and black T-shirt, sported a Cal-
ico 960 like those Lyons was beginning to wish the
men of Able Team hadn't left in the van. Another
double-tap of .45s sent the high-capacity machine
pistol falling to the hall floor. The man in the hopi
coat fell on top of it.
    Lyons shoved the near empty .45 back into his
holster, relying on the Python for protection as he
hurried on down the hall. He stopped in front of the
man in the hopi coat, grabbed a handful of hair and
rolled the body off the Calico.
    A quick glance at the windows in the top of the
50-round magazine showed him that between thirty-
seven and fifty 9 mm bullets remained in the drum.
    Gunfire continued to erupt from the rear portion
of the house, answered now and then by return fire
from the backyard. The Able Team leader moved
cautiously now, reaching the end of the hall and the
doorway through which the two men in the hall had
emerged. Dropping to one knee, he peered around
the corner into a kitchen.

     Pots, pans, broken dishes and shattered appliaqces
 scattered the counters and floors. As Lyons watched,
 rounds flew through the shattered glass of the back
 doorway to strike a toaster on the counter next to the
 refrigerator and send it crashing to the floor. More
 rounds had created circular holes in the refrigerator
 door, stove and dishwasher. Two men, one in Japa-
 nese dress, the other wearing khaki slacks and a
 white short-sleeved shirt, lay on the floor in one col-
 lective pool of blood.
    Amid it all stood four men armed with automatic
rifles. They fired through the windows and door into
the backyard, ignoring the return fire that swarmed
around them like a disturbed nest of angry bees.
None of them made any attempt to take cover.
    Lyons pulled back away from the door. Every man
he had encountered so far appeared to be under a
spell of some sort. Whether they had been dressed in
Western or Oriental fare made no difference. They
had one thing in common: they had all stood firing
with zombielike dedication and made no particular
attempt to protect themselves. They were either on
drugs, or they had fallen victim to the cult's brain-
washing.
    Lyons peered back around the corner to the
kitchen. He needed at least one of the men alive for
questioning, but he couldn't take the chance of them
hurting his teammates. Not that the other two Able
Team commandos couldn't take care of them-
selves--they could. But they hadn't gone through the
transitional thinking process with Lyons right now.




They wouldn't know where their leader stood men-
tally, and they would be expecting him to cover the
flank during this firefight, not just partially but com-
pletely.
    The big ex-cop walked softly as he entered the
kitchen. The first man he came to was big--as tall
as Lyons himself and maybe fifty pounds heavier.
But the weight was all in his hips and thighs, and he
went down hard when Lyons rapped the barrel of the
Calico against his skull.
    Two of the other three men heard the crack of hard
plastic against bone and started to turn. Lyons turned
his weapon on the first of the two, a squat man wear-
ing a camel-colored sport coat and navy blue slacks.
The man held a French-made FA MAS 5.56 mm au-
torifle in his hands and tried to bring it into play.
    In the brief second before he squeezed the trigger,
Lyons heard the man in the camel sport coat say,
"Oh, fuck" under his breath. The Able Team leader
also saw a different look in the man's eyes: fear. A
clear-eyed fear.
    Lyons held back the trigger, letting the Calico
spray 9 mm rounds into the man's heart, liver and
intestinal tract. The Able Team leader swung the gun
to his side as a taller reed-thin man in another of the
baffling kimonos aimed a Finnish M-60 his way. The
7.62 mm weapon spit a wild 5-round burst of fire
that missed Lyons by inches.
     The Able Team leader held the trigger back again.
 A half-dozen 9 mm rounds splattered up and down

 the man's body, ending his career as a brainwashed,
 religious-fanatic, lunatic-zombie robot gunman.
    Not so of the last man standing. Lyons ground to
a halt as the man, wearing a martial arts gi, continued
to fire an old, obsolete Czech ZB-26 LMG. He held
the heavy weapon cradled in his hands, the bipod
hanging impotently below the barrel as the gun
jumped in his arms.
    The Able team leader started to pull the trigger to
shoot him, then checked himself. The man was firing
rhythmically and had no idea what he was doing.
Even more than the others, he looked as if he might
be on drugs. As Lyons watched, a 20-round maga-
zine ran dry and the man dropped it from the weapon
and inserted a new box with the same nonthinking,
practiced motions as a heroin junkie tying off and
firing up.
  He pulled the trigger again.
    Lyons had seen enough. He walked up behind the
man and tapped him on the shoulder.
    The man stopped firing, turned and smiled pleas-
antly.
    The gunfire from the backyard through the win-
dows stopped almost immediately.
  "What are you doing?" Lyons asked.
    The zombie smile didn't waver. "Serving Hikari,"
the man replied. "Serving the Great Hikari." He
looked at Lyons curiously. "Are you one of us?"
  "I don't think so," Lyons said.
    "Then what are you doing here?" the man asked,
looking disturbed. "Are you serving Hikari?"




Lyons shook his head. "No, I'm serving justice."
With no more ado the Able Team leader hooked
a left into the man's jaw.
    The moronic smile was still on the Hikari fol-
1ower's face as he hit the floor.
    Lyons walked to the back door and opened it. Out-
side, he saw Schwarz and Blancanales in the back-
yard. "It's me," the Able Team leader called.
"Come in."
    He turned back to the men on the floor, staring
down at the two men he'd knocked out rather than
killed. Good. That was good. He'd have two new
brains to probe and find out what they knew.
    The Able Team leader reached up, wiping the
sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.
Only one thing bothered him.
    He didn't know how much of those brains was left
after the the Great Hikari's indoctrination.

Japan

REIKO ELIKOTe HAD KEPT a low profile during her
brief stay with the cult, knowing something big was
in the works but not what. Bit by bit she was begin-
ning to piece it all together.
    And what she was coming to understand made her
ill.
    Fukoto took almost ten minutes to rise from the
bed of the Great I-Iikari, moving an inch at a time,
careful to make sure that both the cult leader and
Yeshike were still asleep. She moved more swiftly

once she was on her feet, slipping into her bathrobe
before moving on. She had walked the stretch of
floor from the bed to the door many times that af-
ternoon and knew exactly which of the ancient
boards creaked and which didn't. Now, as Hikari and
Yeshike lay ann in arm behind her, she followed the
zigzag path of silence she had memorized.
    Once in the hall, she shut the door carefully behind
her. She descended the steps quickly, hurrying down
the hall on the floor below the Great Hikari's sleep-
ing chambers toward the office. She had seen the
open door when Ichiro Mural had brought her and
Yeshike upstairs to meet the Great Hikari the day
before. On the desk she had seen the phone, and she
had filed that information in the back of her mind.
The night before, she had crept from the Great Hi-
karl's room just as she was doing now, only to find
that Murai was using the office to do late-night pa-
perwork. She had been unable to make her call, and
as she crept on toward an intersecting hallway, she
prayed that the use of the office wasn't a nightly
ritual of Hikari's right-hand man.
    The Japanese woman heard a sound from down a
side hall and stopped in her tracks. Voices---one
sounded like Ichiro Mural's--drifted through the
quiet castle. She couldn't make out what they said.
Then the sound of a door closing ended even the
muffled sounds.
    Fukoto moved on, hooking an eye around the cor-
ner to glance in the direction from which the voices
had come. She saw nothing and hurried across the




intersecting hall. Memories of the past two days of
wild and perverted sex she had shared with the Great
Hikari and Yoshiko flooded into her mind. She shud-
dered, then tried to push the thoughts away. Yoshiko
hadn't seemed to mind, appeared to revel in what
she still believed to be her "salvation." But Fukoto
had seen through the cult's scum even before being
brought to Hikari's chambers. She had engaged in
the debauchery for other reasons.
    Again the Japanese woman shuddered. Sometimes
she questioned the things she did. Did the end really
justify the means? Sometimes she thought so; other
times she didn't.
    Fukoto reached the office door and was surprised
to find it closed. She leaned forward, pressing her ear
lightly against the wood. She heard nothing. But that
didn't necessarily mean no one was inside. Should
she chance cracking it open? If someone was there,
and they saw her...
    The woman took a deep breath. She didn't know
exactly what the Great Hikari was planning, but she
had a general idea. Time for her to pass that infor-
mation along hadn't yet run out, but the clock was
ticking. If she wasn't successful this night, it would
be twenty-four hours before she had another chance
to use the phone.
    She had to try the door. What if Ichiro Murai was
using the office again tomorrow night?
    Slowly Fukoto reached out, grasped the knob and
gently twisted it. Part of the Japanese woman was
relieved when she found the door locked. The other

part was disappointed. She took a step back and
stared at the lock. A simple snap lock with a hole in
the center of the knob, it could easily be picked with
a hairpin or similar device.
    She hurried back down the hall, pausing again to
glance down the corridor from which the voices had
come. Ascertaining that the way was clear, she
walked quietly back to the stairs. She had both hair-
and straight pins in her purse. She would return to
the room, retrieve one and come back to the locked
door.
    Slipping back into the bedroom, Fukoto closed the
door behind her. She moved silently to the table by
the side of the bed and grasped her purse. She was
digging through it when the Great Hikari stopped
snoring.
    She slipped the robe off her shoulders and let it
fall to the floor. She had barely laid back down when
the Great Hikari rolled over and opened his eyes into
slits. "Mmmm," he whispered sleepily. A hand
cupped her breast, his eyes opened wider, and he
said, "I have slept enough, my daughter. We should
continue with your salvation."
    As his lips met hers, Reiko Fukoto knew she
wouldn't return to the office, or the phone, that night.




fZ

CHAPTER NINE

Sierra Leone

The wrist wearing the blue bandanna never made it
to the AK-47 on the ground next to the campfire.
    As the RUF hardman twisted to the side for the
weapon, Bolan dropped the front sights of the Desert
Eagle on center mass and squeezed the trigger. The
mammoth .44 Magnum semiautomatic pistol leaped
in his hand, a 240-grain semijacketed hollowpoint
zipping from the barrel to drill through the RUF ban-
dit's sweat-stained fatigue blouse.
    Blood blew out the man's back to shower Margai,
who had been sitting behind him. The man's chest
jerked and spasmed, then his hand froze in midair an
inch from the rifle. His eyes looked up at the Exe-
cutioner with a puzzled look in them, then the eyelids
closed and he toppled over to the ground.
    The whole process had taken less than one second,
but it had been time enough for a RUF bandit sitting
on the other side of the fire to grab his own autorifle.
The ends of the man's Fu Manchu mustache rose in

 a wicked snarl as he sent a wild burst of rounds fly-
 ing high over both Bolan and Buchanan.
    The Executioner was still riding the recoil from
the big .44 as he watched Buchanan pivot with the
agility of the cat for whom he'd been named. The
.45 Government Model pistol spit flame and a round-
nosed 230-grain full-metal-jacket hardball round
caught the rifleman in the trigger hand.
    The bandit shrieked in pain, dropping the weapon,
as the bullet traveled on into his intestinal tract. Gut
shot, he screamed again and toppled to the ground,
his hand clawing for the pistol roistered at his side.
    The third bandit scrambled to his feet as Bolan
lowered the Desert Eagle and put a lone round into
the hardman's head. In the comer of his eye the Ex-
ecutioner saw Buchanan swing the Government
Model toward the escaping man and hammer two
rounds after him. He led the man too much on the
first round, the bullet striking the rocky mountain
wall in front of the bandit and sending pebble chips
raining through the air. Buchanan overcorrected on
his second shot, and the round fell behind the fleeing
RUF bandit, who disappeared into the dark mouth of
the cave.
    Margai had sat frozen through the entire gunfight.
Bolan aimed the Desert Eagle at him now, but spoke
to Buchanan. "Watch our friend here, Bobcat," he
ordered. "I'm going into the cave."
    Buchanan already had the Colt's sights on the trai-
torous Sierra Leone commando trainee. "Be careful,
Pollock."




  "Careful's the name of the game," the Execu-
tioner answered as he hurried toward the black hole.
  Bolan ducked to one side as soon as he'd entered
  the mouth of the cave. Half-expecting to take a bul-
  let, he was a little surprised when no guntire greeted
  his entry. Going into the cave that way was risky,
  but there was no other way to do it.
    He gave his eyes time to adjust to the darker en-
vironment inside the cave. When they had, he saw
that the room he was in was no more than ten by
fifteen feet. But the RUF hardman was nowhere to
be seen.
    A dark, narrow passageway on the other side of
the small chamber led somewhere deeper into the
mountain. The Executioner drew the Crossada knife
and holstered the Desert Eagle. The cavern was
small, and the confines of the passage even closer.
He had no intention of killing himself with a .44
Magnum ricochet when the big blade would work
equally well at such close quarters.
    Slowly, carefully, the Executioner crossed the
room, the Crossada leading the way. Bolan held the
knife in front of him in a saber grip, ready to thrust
or back cut should his adversary be hiding just inside
the passage and suddenly emerge.
    But that didn't happen, and Bolan stepped into the
opening.
    What little light from outside the cave had made
it into the first cavern faded quickly in the passage-
way. Bolan cursed beneath his breath for not having
a flashlight, then pushed the thought from his mind.

 Like all missions, you made do with the gear you
 did have available and didn't waste time wishing you
 were better equipped. A soldier rarely entered battle
 with exactly what he needed. At least some amount
 of improvisation was always necessary.
     Bolan moved slowly, using his left hand to feel
 his way down the passage and keeping the Crossada
 pulled back to his chest, ready to thrust. The walls
 of the rock hallway were far too cramped to allow
 slashing techniques should he encounter the RUF
 hardman. The fact was they were so constricted that
 the Executioner was forced to turn sideways. A quick
 stab across his own chest would be the only tech-
 nique he'd be able to employ. And he would have to
 strike fast should his adversary be waiting ahead,
 would have to react before the bandit employed his
 own weapon.
     Silently the Executioner inched on. What weapon
 would the man he pursued be relying upon? He re-
 membered that all of the men he had seen had been
 armed with AK-47s, pistols and knives. The man
 ahead had abandoned his rifle at the campsite, but
 Bolan had seen the blade and handgun still on his
 hip as he disappeared into the cave. If he thought
 about it, the man would resort to his knife as Bolan
 had. But what if the reality of a possible ricochet
 didn't cross his mind considering the pressure he was
 under? He might very well open fire, even in these
 narrow confines.
     A cool, stale odor emanated from the stones as the
 Executioner carefully picked up one foot and set it

North     C,i ? L;la h'?




down. Try as he might, Bolan found it impossible to
move without making some noise. Pebbles beneath
his feet crunched no matter how softly he stepped
down. His clothing brushed against the rocks, mak-
ing a soft rustling sound. The slightest sound was
magnified a hundredfold in the constricted area, and
he knew that any noise at all would warn the RUF
hard man that he was being followed.
    In the same light the Executioner knew the situa-
tion could work for him, as well as against him, and
he listened for signs of his prey with ears trained by
years of tracking men. He heard nothing, which led
him to believe that the bandit had already left the
passage and entered another cavern. The fact that he
himself was making noise, and hadn't been attacked,
strengthened that theory.
    Finally Bolan reached the end of the passage.
Through the opening he saw faint light, and when he
looked up he saw a small opening in the ceiling.
Moonlight drifted down into a room slightly larger
than the one on the other side of the passageway.
Stalagmites grew from the floor so thick they ap-
peared to be cultivated, and water dripped from the
stalactites overhead, making soft splashing noises as
they hit a pool of water in the center of the cavern.
    Bolan scanned the rock room. There was no other
way out than the way he had come.
But there was no RUF bandit in the cavern either.
Bolan frowned in the semilight. There had to be
another exit. Either that, or the bandit was hiding in

 some nook, cranny or shadowy corner not readily
 discerned from where the Executioner stood.
     The Crossada in front of him again, Bolan circled
 the cavern, checking behind the larger stalagmites
 and scanning the room from every possible angle.
 Still, there was no sign of the RUF hurdman.
    Turning back to the passageway, the Executioner
shook his head. The man couldn't have doubled
back. There was barely enough room for Bolan him-
self to squeeze through the tunnel.  That left only one possibility.
    The Executioner walked to the edge of the pool of
water. Cautiously he sat and extended both feet into
the dark puddle. He scooted forward, lowering his
legs to the knees without touching the bottom.
    That was the answer. The pool covered another
passageway that led out of the cavern.
    Bolan twisted to face the edge of the pool, took a
deep breath and lowered himself into the black water.
He could see nothing in the darkness, and was once
again forced to work by feel like a blind man. A
quick dive took him to the bottom, which he esti-
mated to be roughly ten feet. He returned to the sur-
face, took another deep breath and lowered himself
under the water again.
    Dropping to just below the surface, the Execu-
tioner began to move in a circular route around the
bank. The Crossada held at his side, he used his free
hand to trace along the rock, looking for an opening.
When he returned to the spot where he had started,
he resurfaced for air, then dropped lower, repeating




the same excruciatingly slow search for the exit at a
deeper depth.
    On his fourth circumnavigation of the pool he
found it. The opening was roughly three feet across.
    Bolan rose to the surface, grasping the side and
breathing deeply again. Not knowing where the pas-
sage would take him was a secondary worry at this
point. Not knowing if he'd get there at all was pri-
mary. The Executioner knew he could get through
the opening, all right, but he had no way of knowing
whether the passageway would narrow once he was
inside. That the RUF bandits knew the escape route
well, and the fact that the man Bolan now pursued
had evidently taken it and made it through, meant
little. The Executioner was several inches broader in
the shoulders than any of the bandits he'd seen. He
might get caught at some point that never even drew
the attention of the smaller men.  But he had no choice.
    Dropping back to the opening under the water, the
Executioner pulled himself through.

Somalia

"IT APPEARS we have a few details to work out,
wouldn't you say?" David McCarter said. He still
lay on his back at the bottom of the ditch, with Cap-
tain Jack on top of him. The Briton kept his fingers
in Jack's eye sockets and the Delica knife firmly em-

 bedded in the man's xiphoid process as he awaited
 an answer from the warlord's men above.
    There was a trick to taking a hostage when un-
armed or armed only with a hand weapon, a fine line
that had to be walked and couldn't be crossed on
either side. The subject had to be controlled with pain
and the fear of serious potential harm, but no serious
damage could actually occur. A little blood--like
that seeping onto McCarter's fingers from the punc-
tured skin around the Delica's point--was okay. So
was severe pain and terror like that Captain Jack was
experiencing with McCarter's fingers hooked around
his eyeballs. But the former SAS commando had to
be careful not to take it too far, and certainly not to
kill Captain Jack.
    Any hostage who was accidentally killed, or whom
the other enemies believed about to be killed regard-
less of what they did, became useless.
    "Let the captain go!" Alfredo called down into
the hole. "We will set you free!"
    "And we're to take your word for it?" McCarter
asked. "Like I said, I think there are a few details to
work out first." He glanced at the polished stainless-
steel gun barrel Hawkins had shoved under Captain
Jack's nose. The hammer of the single-action Va-
quero was cocked, meaning the slightest pressure
would send a bullet through the warlord's brain.
Hawkins had been careful to angle the gun so the
round--a .45 Colt, McCarter could now read on the
barrelawouldn't hit the Phoenix Force leader when
it exited Jack's head.



i ....

Hawkins was a professional, and he was doing his
job just like McCarter was.
    But the other members of Phoenix Force---the men
above the pit who were in Captain Jack's shoes as
hostagesmwere doing their job well, too. From
where he lay, McCarter could see Calvin James. One
of the warlord's men stood behind the commando
with an arm wrapped around James's throat and a
pistol shoved against the back of his head. Yet the
man's chiseled features showed no fear.
    Manning, likewise, stood stoically awaiting what-
ever fate might have in store for him, the barrel of a
rifle in his ear.
    Encizo had accepted death as the most likely end
to his violent career years ago when he'd been a
member of the anti-Castro Cuban resistance organi-
zation Alpha 66. The firm set of the man's jaw
showed that that acceptance hadn't wavered over the
years.
    "What would you have us do?" Alfredo called
down into the hole.
    McCarter leaned up to Captain Jack's ear again.
"Any suggestions?" he asked.
    "Yes," Jack choked out. "But first...take your
fingers from my eyes." He paused. "Please."
    McCarter did as the warlord had asked, grabbing
a handful of the man's long hair instead. He kept the
Delica where it was, and the Ruger in Hawkins's
hand stayed in place under Captain Jack's chin.
  The warlord's whole attitude had changed.





 "Thank you,f' he said meekly. "Now, if you will
 just let me alp__,,
     "Let's cut through that nonsense immediately,"
 McCarter said. "We're still outnumbered and for all
 practical purposes unarmed. You are all we've got,
 and we aren't letting you go until we're safely away.
 So I suggest you figure out a way to make that hap-
 pen."
     Captain Jack drew in a deep breath. "I will lose
 face with my men," he whispered. "But I suppose
 that is better than being blinded by your tingemails.
 So take me with you. I will order my men to wait
 here until we are far enough away that you are safe.
 Then you will let me go."
  "Sounds good to me," Hawkins said.
  "But we will keep your supplies."
  McCarter dug his fingers back into the man's eyes.
  "Except the guns and ammunition!"
    McCarter removed both his fingers and the Delica
and stood, pulling his hostage to his feet. He shoved
the man to Hawkins, who looped an arm around the
captain's neck and shoved the Ruger's barrel against
his temple. The Briton again recalled the intelligence
file Stony Man had on Captain Jack. The man might
employ some deplorable tactics against his enemies,
but he wasn't automatically against the West like
other warlords.
    McCarter frowned, thinking. Having an ally such
as Captain Jack could come in handy down the line.
    "We'll take the pistols, rifles and the ammuni-
tion," McCarter said. "We'll leave you the MREs




and anything it doesn't look like we'll need right
away. And we'll figure out a way for you to save
face in front of your men. That's a better deal than
you deserve, and a good deal for a man who isn't in
a bargaining position."
    Slowly Captain Jack nodded his head. "The face-
saving I will handle," he said. "When we get to the
top, allow me a few words."
    McCarter nodded. "Fine. But for now tell your
men to let mine go, then stand back and let us come
up."
    Captain Jack barked out the orders. The faces and
weapons around the edge of the hole pulled back out
of sight.
    As soon as the men had disappeared, McCarter
pulled himself out of the hole. The warlord's men
had formed a ring around the ditch ten yards away.
Encizo, Manning and James had been freed and now
wore their pistols and gripped rifles.
    McCarter reached down, grasping Hawkins's up-
raised hand and helping him and Captain Jack out of
the shallow hole.
    Captain Jack stood tall, chest out like a statesman
addressing his constituents. "Gentlemen," he called
out, "we were mistaken about these men. They are
our friends!" He paused while a few confused mur-
murs drifted through the ranks. "At this time I am
not at liberty to divulge what we are about to do. But
I will explain it all when I return. In the meantime I
must go with our new friends on a mission of great

 urgency." His chest puffed out with pride. "It is a
 mission that will affect all of Somalia!"
The men ringing them nodded their understanding.
Hawkins had lowered the Vaquero to his side, but
McCarter noted it was still cocked. He kept close to
Captain Jack, and they moved to the Wagoneer. Cap-
tain Jack was placed between Manning and McCarter
in the back seat, with Encizo driving and James and
Hawkins squeezing into the front with him.
    "Jack, you ever think about running for office?"
Hawkins asked, turning and resting an arm over the
seat as McCarter started the engine.
    The warlord was examining the wound to his chest
and for a moment he didn't answer. Then, evidently
deciding the injury was minor, and realizing that the
men who had him in custody had no intention of
killing him if he did as ordered, he looked up and
grinned. "I do not intend to be a simple warlord
forever, my friend. When this civil strife is over,
when things have settled down, and when you Amer-
icans and other do-gooders have gone home---" he
took a deep breath and let his grin widen "--after
all that, my friends, I intend to become the president
of Somalia."

New York

THE RESPONDING POLICE had to have waited until
they were less than a block away from Casey Bal-
forth's house to turn on their sirens. By the time Carl
Lyons got to the front window, two black-and-white




squad cars were pulling to the curb, followed by a
white unmarked vehicle, a magnetic red light spin-
ning on the roofi As Lyons watched, a fourth car--
a blue Voyager--pulled up across the street. It bore
no lights or sirens.
    "What have we got, Ironman?" Gadgets Schwarz
asked. Already the Able Team electronics man was
helping Blancanales lift the heavy man on the floor.
    "Two marked units, one dick car and what looks
like an undercover vehicle that must have been in the
area," Lyons answered. He knelt and began shoul-
dering the man who wore the martial-arts gi. "We'll
have to take them out the back," he added. "The
front's already covered."
    The Able Team leader threw the man over his
shoulder in a fireman's carry, walked to the rear door
of the kitchen and kicked it open. He heard the loud
knock on the front door as he hurried down three
concrete steps to the backyard, then cut over to a
short chain-link fence. Dropping the man in his arms
over the side, he leaped after him.
    Lyons saw Schwarz and Blancanales lugging the
fat man as his feet hit the ground. Behind them, in
the house, a sharp crack sounded as the police kicked
the front door in. The Able Team leader helped them
lift their burden over the fence, then hoisted his man
once more and hurried under a clothesline. His team-
mates followed, all three Able Team commandos
ducking around the comer of the redbrick tenement
next to Casey Balforth's house.
  Not a moment too soon. Lyons peered back around

 the comer to see a pair of officers in blue cut around
 the back. An uneasy thought crossed his mind. "You
 close the door behind you?" he whispered to
 Schwarz. If it had been left open the officers would
 immediately know someone had left through the
 back and pursue.
    Schwarz nodded. "Yeah, but the !ock's broken.
They won't notice it for a minute maybe." He drew
in a deep breath. "But we'd better get going."
    Lyons nodded. He let the two cops behind Bal-
forth's house disappear into the kitchen, then cut into
the backyard once more. For a moment he remem-
bered the young men who had been on the porch of
the tenement tossing insults their way when they'd
crossed to enter Balforth's. They would be busy
watching what went on in the front with the cop
cars--that's where the excitement was.
    Climbing over another fence and ducking another
clothesline, Lyons led the way to the back door of a
crumbling little single family dwelling. His shoulder
and arms had gone numb by the time he reached the
back door and kicked.
    The Able Team leader entered a laundry room
piled high with dirty clothes. With Schwarz and
Blancanales toting the fat man at his heels, he hurried
through the room and down the hall wondering
whose house he was invading, whether they were
home and if they might be armed.  He soon found out.
    The elderly couple in the living room were ninety
years old if they were a day. They stood holding




hands and watching the police lights through a dirty
picture window. Both wore hearing aids in their ears,
and neither turned as Lyons entered the room and
dropped the man in the gi on the carpet.
    Lyons shook his head in irritation as he heard
Schwarz and Blancanales enter the room behind him.
On one hand Able Team couldn't have asked for a
better house in which to make a stopover during their
escape from the cops. This elderly couple would of-
fer no resistance--so far they didn't even know they
had company.
    But on the other hand Carl Lyons didn't like scar-
ing innocent old people. And when the couple staring
out the window at the action in front finally turned,
they weren't going to be scared, they were going to
be terrified.
    Lyons glanced to Blancanales as the Able Team
psy-op expert and Schwarz lowered their man to the
ground. The study of psychological warfare naturally
entailed the study of general psychology, and Lyons
nodded to Blancanales, then looked at the old couple
at the window.
    Blancanales nodded back, knowing without being
told what was expected of him. Lyons and Schwarz
stood quietly as their partner moved carefully toward
the window. When he was directly behind the elderly
couple, he cleared his throat. "Hello?" he said.
    The old man and woman continued to stare out the
window.
    "They're both deaf," Schwarz whispered. "Or
close to it."

     B!ancanales reached out, gently placing a hand on
 the old man's shoulders. The elderly man turned to
 face him, smiling. The smile faded fast.
     The old woman saw her husband turn and twisted
 slowly. Her face never smiled. Her mouth opened to
 scream, but no sound issued forth.
     "Who are you? Why are you here?" the old man
 said in a tottering voice.
     "Please," Blancanales said in his most soothing
 voice, "we have no intention of hurting you."
    Lyons watched the old man and woman visibly
relax, and noticed something else about the elderly
couple. Both had stared intently at Blancanales's
mouth as he spoke. As Schwarz had said, they were
either stone deaf or so hearing impaired that they
were close to it, and they were reading his lips.
    "Please," Blancanales said, "could the three of
us sit down and I'll explain everything to you?" He
reached out and took both elderly people by the el-
bow, softly guiding them past an end table on which
the framed photograph of a young man in a USAF
uniform stood. They reached a threadbare couch just
past the table, and Blancanales helped them sit, then
knelt on the floor, facing them.
    Lyons moved forward to the window where they
had been. Through the greasy glass he could see the
police cars in front of Balforth's house. Looking
down the block the other way, he saw the van. He
turned to Schwarz. "We can't stay here, Gadgets,"
he said. "As soon as the cops realize someone left
through the back, they'll start a door-to-door." He




reached up, scratching his chin as he thought. "Go
get the van. Make it look like you're on your way to
work or something. Then circle the block. Pol and I
will carry these guysm" he pointed down to the men
on the floor "--and join you as soon as we can."
    Schwarz nodded. He reached up, straightened his
tie, then moved to the front door and onto the porch.
    Blancanales continued to assure the elderly couple
that everything was all right as Lyons watched
Schwarz descend the steps to the sidewalk. By now
clumps of curious onlookers had gathered up and
down the street. The Able Team electronics expert
gawked and rubbernecked at Casey Balforth's house
with the best of them, blending in with the ghoulish
crowd perfectly as he slid behind the wheel of the
van and sped away.
    Lyons took a final glance at the police cars across
the street. The two black-and-whites and the un-
marked vehicle had been abandoned as their occu-
pants raced to cover the house. For a moment he was
tempted to take his teammates and their sleeping cap-
tives and race for one of the vehicles. But through
the partially tinted windows of the Voyager parked
with the marked units, the Able Team leader could
see the shadowy outlines of men. He nodded. The
sight reconfirmed his suspicion that the Voyager was
an undercover vehicle that just happened to be near
Balforth's house when the "shots fired" call went
out on the radio. The men inside would provide
backup only if they were needed; there was no reason

 to get out and blow their covers in the area if they
 weren't.
    But five men attempting to steal a police car from
under their noses would mean they'd break cover, all
right, and put holes in Able Team as Lyons, Blan-
canales and Schwarz attempted to throw their pris-
oners into the vehicle.
    Turning back to the room, Lyons saw the old man
holding the photograph of the Air Force officer from
the end table. "Our son, Jeffrey," he said in his fee-
ble, world-worn voice. "He was shot down in Viet-
nam."
    Tears filled the eyes of both elderly people. Then
a moan from the floor turned Lyons's attention back
to the man he had carried into the house. Both pris-
oners were beginning to stir as they regained con-
sciousness.
    Blancanales heard the sounds and glanced over his
shoulder. He saw the problem as fast as Lyons did.
All hell could break loose if the men regained con-
sciousness in the living room. But neither Lyons nor
Blancanales wanted to upset the old people further
by knocking the cult men out again in front of them.
    The elderly woman solved the problem for them.
Lyons heard her speak in a voice so low he couldn't
make out the words. But Biancahales evidently did,
because a moment later he said, "Why, yes, Mrs.
Dempkowski, I would love to see your thimble col-
lection." Holding the old woman's hand, he rose
from his kneeling position, helped both her and her




husband to their feet, then led them out of the living
room and down a hall.
    Lyons pivoted and rapped the toe of a shoe against
the temple of both men on the floor. They went back
to sleep without complaint. The Able Team leader
walked back to the window. The same cars were out
front, including the undercover vehicle. But by now
several more marked units had joined them. In a few
moments, the Able Team leader knew, they would
begin a house-to-house search for anyone involved
in the carnage they had found at Balforth's place.
  It was time to leave.
    Lyons heard Blancanales and the elderly couple
coming back down the hall as he looked to the men
on the floor. He wondered if one of them was Casey
Balforth, and wondered again if their brains had been
washed too clean by the cult to be of any good to
Able Team now. If so, trying to get them to Schwarz
on the other side of the block was worse than a waste
of time--it increased the chances of the cops spotting
them.
    Yet there was a shred of a chance that they'd pro-
vide information about the upcoming nerve-gas at-
tack in New York. And as long as even that shred
remained, Lyons knew he and Blancanales would
have to risk taking them along.
    Blancanales and the elderly couple stopped in the
middle of the living-room floor. The old man looked
down at the cult men, evidently noticing them for the
first time. "Where did they come from?" he asked
shakily.

     "They're friends of ours," Pol said. "They drink
 too much."
     The old woman's face tightened. "My brother
 Clifford," she said. "He was like that."
    Lyons nodded to Blancanales to get the man in the
gi. With Schwarz gone, it would be up to him to
carry the fat man. He bent and began lifting the dead-
weight to his shoulder. "Tell them thanks but we
have to go now," he told Blancanales.  He did as Lyons instructed.
    "Wouldn't you boys like some iced tea first?" the
old woman asked.
    "I wish we had time, Mrs. Dempkowski," Blan-
canales said as Lyons balanced the fat man precari-
ously on his shoulder and headed back through the
laundry room. Puffing with what had to be a good
three hundred pounds, the Able Team leader opened
the door and peered outside. All looked clear.
    A moment later he and his teammates were hur-
rying across the backyard and across the alley to the
next block. They lifted the unconscious men over one
fence, then miraculously found a gate leading out the
other side.
    Schwarz was waiting for them two houses down
from where they emerged. He slid the door open and
helped them load their captives, then jumped back
behind the wheel.
    Lyons tried to catch his breath as the van slipped
away from the neighborhood. "Find an out-of-the-
way motel where we can talk to these guys," he said
between gasps for air.




    Schwarz nodded. "The old people all right?" he
asked. Like all the operatives who worked out of
Stony Man Farm, he was concerned about any in-
nocents whose lives occasionally had to be inter-
rupted for a greater good.
    "They're fine," Blancanales replied. "By now
they probably don't even remember we were there."
    Schwarz nodded. "Then I take it everything went
smoothly and I didn't miss anything exciting?" he
asked.
  "You sure did," Blancanales said.
  Schwarz frowned behind the wheel. "Huh?"
    "You missed a very nice thimble collection,"
Blancanales quipped, laughing.

CHAPTER TEN

Sierra Leone

The Executioner kicked with his legs, pulling himself
along the underwater tunnel with his free hand, the
Crossada knife gripped in the other. The blackened
passageway had been fairly narrow at first, then wid-
ened to the point where he could easily maneuver.
His movements were slow and steady, his objective
to cover the most territory possible and use the least
air in his lungs.
    But already he could feel his chest starting to
tighten.
    Bolan swam on, reminding himself that there had
to be oxygen at the other end. The RUF bandit had
made it, which meant he could, too. But he'd have
to pay attention, keep his wits about him. There was
always the chance that the tunnel moved on past the
exit, dead-ending somewhere beneath the mountain.
    If that was the case, and the Executioner overshot
the exit for the false lead, it would become his watery
tomb. He'd very likely be out of air before he real-
ized his mistake.




    Gradually the passage began to narrow again. Bo-
lan sensed it first, then felt the underwater outcrop-
pings occasionally brush his shoulder. Then the pas-
sageway closed to the point where he slid against
both sides as he swam along, both the Crossada and
his free hand extended in front of him. A feeling of
claustrophobia threatened him, but he pushed the
emotion to the side. He moved on, hoping the rock
walls narrowed no farther, yet knowing he would
have to proceed even if they did.
    Finally the watery shaft closed in so much he was
forced to halt. Unable to see, he felt the area ahead.
Just as he had feared, it was still large enough for an
average-sized man to proceed. But too small for a
man of the Executioner's stature.
    Bolan paused, forcing himself to consider the sit-
uation. If he wriggled and wormed just right, there
was just the chance that he could force himself
through the narrow area. He would leave a good deal
of shoulder skin and blood behind to feed the fish
but he might make it.
  In any case, he knew he had to try.
    The Executioner started to move forward, then his
chest told him not to. His blind pilgrimage down the
underwater corridor had taken too long, and he
would need more air before he attempted what he
had in mind.
    As quickly as he could manage, the Executioner
pushed himself backward the way he had come.
When the tunnel widened sufficiently, he turned and
swam forward, the fingers of his left hand tracing the

rocky wall as a guide. His lungs burned, feeling as
if someone had injected an air pump into his chest
and began pumping. After what seemed an eternity
he emerged into the pool in the center of the cavern
and swam to the top.
    Bolan gasped for air as his head broke the surface,
his arms shooting out to catch the side of the pool.
His chest heaved up and down, his throat burning as
his starved lungs drew in oxygen. He stayed in that
position for perhaps three minutes, using the time to
think and plan, as well as let his body replenish itself.
    The Executioner sheathed the Crossada. He now
knew what lay ahead--at least for a ways---and it
didn't include the RUF bandit. His fight would be
with the tunnel itself, and the large knife would only
be in the way. He would leave it, and the Desert
Eagle, at his sides until they prevented him from
moving on, then shove them down the front of his
shorts or abandon them altogether if necessary.
    Still holding on to the rocky side of the pool, Bo-
lan leaned forward and rested his face on his fore-
arms in the black underground cavern. There was a
distinct possibility that he would get stuck at the spot
where he'd turned around. And even if he didn't,
there was every chance that the passage narrowed
even more farther along. If so, he would never be
able to push himself back through the first constricted
area again--not backward. He would run out of air
between the two bottlenecks and die.
    Continuing to breathe steadily and build up his
endurance again, Bolan opened his eyes in the dark-




ness. The fact that he might die didn't bother him.
He had come to terms with his own mortality many
years before when he had first dedicated his life to
fighting the evils and injustices the law seemed im-
potent to correct. Since that moment he had consid-
ered himself living on borrowed time. Like the Jap-
anese samurai warriors of old, he had thought of
himself as already dead and therefore unable to be
killed.
    But what worded him was that if he perished in
this underwater grave, what had happened to Spencer
Kiethley might never be discovered. The mystery of
how Kiethley's death tied into the events in Japan
and Somalia might go unsolved until it was too late.
    Something big was brewing. Bolan didn't know
what, but his gut told him it was of earthshaking
proportions.
    He raised his head. His breathing was steady again
now, and he felt as strong and rested as he was going
to feel. Without further thought he dived once more.
    Bolan entered the tunnel, swimming along through
the wider areas and pulling himself through those
that were more constricted. He made considerably
better time now that he knew the route. Reaching the
first area that had scraped against his shoulders, he
wriggled through, then came to the spot where he
had been forced to turn. Remembering the Crossada
and Desert Eagle on his hips, he unthreaded both
from his belt and shoved them down the front of his
shorts where they would be less obtrusive.
 Arms extended in front of him, the Executioner

stuck his head into the opening and began to inch
on. His shoulders were the big problem, and he came
to a dead stop as his deltoids hit stone. Shrugging
his shoulders as close to his ears as he could, he
gained another inch, then another. A few moments
later he was free to his ribs, and then to his waist.
Below his belly, the rock caught on the Desert Eagle
and Crossada for a moment and stopped him once
more. Bolan reached down, jerked the two weapons
from the front of his waistband and extended them
in front of his head. Their removal was just enough
to enable him to move on.
    The tunnel widened dramatically again, meaning
that he would be able to turn and move headfirst if
forced to turn back. He knew he would never have
squeezed through the narrow area backward. Had he
been able to do so, the Executioner would have taken
in a deep breath of relief as he moved on through
the tunnel. As it was, he had to settle for a small
exhalation.
    Bolan's relief was short-lived. Ahead he felt only
solid rock. Ignoring the consternation that threatened
to cloud his judgment, he let his hands search up and
down, back and forth. He wasn't one to panic, no
matter how harrowing the situation in which he
found himself.
    Bolan felt upward across the rock, then to both
sides again. Again he hit solid rock. He turned, look-
ing back at the blackness toward the direction he had
come. Had he missed a fork in the tunnel? He didn't
think so. For the first time he realized his chest was




burning. Could he make it all the way back to the
pool in the cavern? It was impossible to tell for sure,
but his gut level reaction was no.
    The Executioner turned back to the solid wall of
rock. No, he hadn't missed a fork in the underwater
passageway. The tunnel had been too narrow to over-
look another route. That meant that somewhere, right
here where he was, there was a way out. If not, he
would have encountered the RUF hardman's body
along the way, and he hadn't.
    Feeling the rock ahead again, Bolan's hand traced
down. He found the narrow hole almost at his feet.
    He closed his eyes as his hand traced the circum-
ference of the hole, estimating its size compared to
his own magnitude. It would be a close squeeze. The
opening was slotlike, perhaps two feet across and a
little over a foot high by feel--narrower than he was,
which meant the loss of more skin, at best.  But he had no choice.
    Bolan knew he could afford no obstacles that
might add to his circumference. Quickly he slipped
out of the tank top and abandoned it. The cargo
shorts came off next and he wrapped them tightly
around the Crossaria and Desert Eagle, which he held
in his left hand. Dressed only in his undershorts, he
pulled himself down to the opening with his left
hand, stuck both arms through the narrow slot and
began wedging himself forward.
    The Executioner's chin was the first body part to
donate skin as he squeezed into the tight opening. He
felt the burn as if he'd cut himself shaving as he

pressed on. His chest scraped the bottom of the slot,
his back the top. More skin tore away. His shoulders
stopped him again.
    This time Bolan knew that there would be no
shrugging himself through. The rock hit high on his
trapezius musclesmtoo high to compensate. He
pushed himself back and searched with his fingers
for something to grab on to. He found nothing. He
knew he didn't have enough time to make it back to
the cavern; forward was the only way.
    For a moment he wondered if this was how it was
all to end. After so many years of facing the gun, the
knife, the grenade--was he to die at the hands of
nature rather than those of an enemy?
    Bolan didn't know. But if this were indeed his
time, he wouldn't go out with idle thoughts on his
mind. He wouldn't die thinking but acting. The Executioner would go out fighting.
    His chest feeling as if a thick steel band encircled
it, Bolan dug into the shorts in front of him and
pulled out the Desert Eagle. Flipping off the safety
with his thumb, he extended the weapon in front of
him then shoved the barrel into a small fissure that
ran along one side of the hole in front of him. He'd
have one shot, one chance to move forward.
    Bolan tumed his head away. The concussion under
water would be severe, and he opened his mouth to
help equalize the pressure. Water rushed in as he
fought to hold his breath and pulled the trigger.
    Even with his mouth open, the underwater blast
threatened to deafen him. He felt the concussion




throughout his body as the pressure of the charge
rippled through the water.
    Bolan transferred the Desert Eagle to his left hand
and seized the Crossada with his right hand. He
drove the blade into the crevice with all of his might.
    His chest felt as if he'd eaten fire as he strained to
open the fissure wider. He felt the rock move
slightly, and drove the blade in deeper. Placing the
Desert Eagle in front of him, he twisted to get both
hands on the giant fighting knife's micarta handle
and pushed with every ounce of strength that re-
mained in his tortured arms and shoulders.
    Suddenly the rock gave way. A boulder the size
of a man's head broke away, and the Executioner
shot through the hole.
    Bolan's brain was clouding now from lack of ox-
ygen. He knew it was only a matter of seconds before
he blacked out. When that happened, instinct would
take over and he would open his mouth to gasp for
air. Instead, water would rush into his lungs and he
would drown.
    Grabbing his shorts and the Desert Eagle as he
swam past them, the Executioner realized he was no
longer in the narrow tunnel. His arms shot out to both
sides but met no resistance. He was in another pool
like the one through which he'd entered the tunnelw
he had to be. Which meant he could surface.
    In any case he had no choice but to try. He had
only seconds left before the air rushed out of his
lungs and he involuntarily gasped for more.
  Bolan shot straight up toward the surface, his ox-

ygen-robbed brain only half-aware that the water was
lightening as he neared the top. Black turned to gray,
then gray became blue in the Executioner's eyes, and
then suddenly he could see the top.
    His chest heaved in and out, convulsing now as he
struggled on. Two feet below the surface, Bolan
looked through the clear water to see the moon high
in the sky. He realized suddenly that the tunnel
opened outside the mountain. He was two feet from
the surface. Two feet from air.  Two feet from life.
    Too late, the Executioner saw the dark shadowy
form of the RUF hardman he had pursued through
the underwater tunnel. The bandit knelt on the rocks
just to the side of the pool with some dark object--
a club of some typewheld high over his head in both
hands.
    Bolan's head broke the surface, and at long last
his mouth opened wide for air. He gasped both for
oxygen and in surprise as he felt the bludgeon come
down hard on the top of his skull.
    The bright moon danced crazily in the sky for a
moment.
  Then the Clear, moon-filled night went black again.

Somalia

THE GRAVEL ROAD WAS no smoother heading back
into Mogadishu than it had been on the way to the
equipment site. McCarter, Captain Jack and the other




 men of Phoenix Force, seated in the Wagoneer, rose
 and fell with each bump or ditch the vehicle hit.
    Jack was quiet as they neared Somalia's capital
city, but finally he said, "When will you let me go?"
    "As soon as we're in town," McCarter replied.
"You don't want to walk the rest of the way in, do
you?"
  "Now that you mention it, no."
    The Wagoneer rounded a curve in the rough road,
and Encizo hit the brake, slowing. "Uh oh," the Cu-
ban said.
    McCarter rolled down his window and stuck his
head out. Down the road perhaps a hundred yards,
several Somalian military vehicles blocked their
path. Two automobiles had been stopped ahead of
the Wagoneer, and uniformed men with rifles leaned
against the cars talking to the drivers.
    The Phoenix Force leader tapped Captain Jack on
the shoulder and pointed for him to look between
Encizo and James. James leaned away, toward Haw-
kins, to give the warlord a better line of vision.
"Any idea what's going on?" McCarter asked.
Captain Jack shook his head. "Any number of
things," he said, pulling the red bandanna off the top
of his head. "Perhaps they are looking for me. As
you must know, I'm a wanted man and if they rec-
ognize me..." His voice trailed off as he slid the
cutlass and sheath off his belt and jammed them be-
neath his feet on the floor. The gold earring came
next, then Captain Jack reached up with both hands
and untied the eye patch from around his head.

When it came away, McCarter saw a perfectly
good, functioning eye.
    The warlord looked at him and shrugged. "Im-
age."
    Encizo was still slowing. "Want me to cut a U?"
he asked.
    "No," McCarter said. "It's too late now. They've
seen us, and they'll just send cars after us. Besides,
there's no reason they should be looking for us. But
get the weapons and anything else suspicious out of
sight." Even as he said it, McCarter knew he might
be wrong. Captain Berber had said little when they'd
left his office-gym, but the man had looked like a
time bomb ready to explode. The muscular customs
captain didn't like losing the bench-press contest to
Manning, and it was more than just possible that he'd
decided to renege on his promise.
    Encizo slowed further as the lead car that had
stopped got the okay wave and moved through the
roadblock. He pulled in behind a twenty-year-old
GMC El Camino and stopped.
    McCarter eyed the roadblock. Two military jeeps
were parked on the right side of the road with a pair
of rifle-bearing soldiers in each. On the other side of
the road was a dark government sedan bearing the
white-star-on-blue Somalian flag. Several soldiers in
worn-out olive-drab fatigues stood around the vehi-
cles bearing an assortment of weapons. None of the
young men looked to be more than eighteen years
old, and all looked frightened.
  Not much of a blockade. Whoever had set it up




wasn't expecting to catch whomever they were look-
ing for. And they weren't expecting much resistance
if they happened to get lucky.
    The Briton turned his attention to a young private
who had just waved the other car on. The youth had
holes in the knees of his pants and even bigger ones
in the mustache he was doing his best to grow. It
looked more like someone had glued coffee grounds
to his upper lip. He tapped the hood of the car in
front of Phoenix Force, waved it on and walked to-
ward the Wagoneer.
    McCarter studied the youth's eyes. The youngster
appeared unsure 'of himself. If it was Phoenix Force
they were looking for he could be bluffed.
    A gut feeling suddenly overpowered McCarter.
"Don't show him your passport, Rafael," McCarter
told Encizo quickly. "Tell him you left it at the ho-
tel."
    "You sure, David?" Encizo asked as the young
private approached. "It might be that--" By then
the young man was at the window and there was no
more time for talking.
      Encizo rolled down the window and smiled.
"Good day, Private," he said.  "Passport," he demanded.
    "Gee, sir," Encizo said, "they kept it back at the
hotel. Kept all of our passports." He chuckled.
"Guess they were afraid we might walk on the bill.
Can you imagine that?"
    McCarter nodded silent approval at the way En.
cizo was handling the situation. It wasn't unusual for

hotels to keep the passports of their guests who were
traveling abroad. An American who stole the sheets
from a Somalian hotel was a little hard to track down
later when he'd made it back to Figure Five, Arkan-
sas. It was easier to see that he never left the country.
    "What i/s your business in Somalia?" the private
asked.
    Encizo had snapped to McCarter's suspicions. In-
stead of using the journalist story they'd cooked up,
he said, "We're businessmen looking for potential
investment opportunities. When all the shooting fi-
nally settles down, of course."
    The young man outside the window looked at him
suspiciously. "Do you have any form of identifica-
tion?" he asked.
    "No, I'm sorry," Encizo said. "Just the pass-
port."
"No press card?" the private asked quickly.
Encizo saw the obvious attempt at trickery and
frowned. "Press card? he asked. "Why on earth
would I have a press card?"
    The young private nodded. Leaning down farther,
he rested his forearms on the open window and
stared into the back seat. McCarter got only a glance.
But Captain Jack rated a long and intense examina-
tion before the young man moved on to take a quick
look at Manning. "Please wait," he finally said, then
walked swiftly to a dark sedan. Opening the front
door, he reached in and pulled a radio microphone
from the vehicle.
 McCarter watched him speak into the microphone.


"He's calling Captain Berber," he said. "That's
what the deal about the press cards was all about.
Berber's told them we entered the country as jour-
nalists."
    Encizo nodded. "It seems our bench-pressing cap-
tain is still angry about the contest and has gone back
on his promise."
    Manning chuckled. "Maybe I should have let him
win."
    "If you had, we'd never have gotten away in the
first place," Encizo said.
    He turned his attention back to McCarter as they
waited. "What do you want me to do, David?"
    "Hang on," McCarter replied. "Let's see how it
goes first. I'd still like to operate on the level while
we're in country." He paused. "As long as we can,
anyway."
    "I don't think it is you who has drawn his suspi-
cion," Captain Jack said. "He has recognized me."
    McCarter glanced to his side. Captain Jack looked
like a completely different man without his "pirate"
accoutrements. Still, that might be the case. He
shrugged. "Maybe."
    The private finished speaking and stuck an ear
back into the car, evidently listening to his answer
over the radio. McCarter watched him look back to
the Wagoneer, unconsciously nodding and shaking
his head as he spoke again, as if the party on the
other end of the airwaves could see him. His face
took on a grim countenance as he spoke.
  "He's beginning to look serious," Encizo stated.

    "Agreed," McCarter said. "Get ready to roll if
we have to."
    "Does that mean only if they are after you?" Cap-
tain Jack asked nervously. "What if it is me they
want. Will you hand me over to them?"
    McCarter hesitated for a moment. If they had to
"go outlaw" while in Somalia, it would help to have
someone who knew the ropes like Captain Jack. A
simple no right now might buy his loyalty.  "No," McCarter said.
  "No? You will not give me to them?"
    "Not if you'll agree to stick with us until we've
accomplished what we're here in Somalia to do,"
McCarter said. "We could use a guide."
    The warlord grinned. "You have found a guide.
And made a friend."
    The private dropped the radio microphone on the
car seat and left the door open as he started back to
the Wagoneer. His face was even more serious now,
and his hand had dropped to the grips of the pistol
on his belt.
    "If I'm any judge of body language at all," Calvin
James said, "I'd say we're about to leave." He
paused. "Fast, without permission from the princi-
pal."
    The private didn't lean down onto the window this
time but stood at attention. "You will all exit the
vehicle," he ordered.
    "Sure thing, Private," Encizo said. "But could I
ask you what this is all about first?"
 The young man hesitated. "You fit the descrip-




tions of several men who entered the country ille-
gally," he finally stated. "There is a customs captain
on his way. If he does not identify you as those men,
you will be free to go."
    "I see," Encizo said. "Could I ask one more fa-
vor? ' '
The young man was growing restless. "What?"
"Could you tell Captain Berber that if he'd beef
up his bench press a little, this kind of thing wouldn't
happen?"
    As the words left his mouth, Encizo threw the
Wagoneer into Drive and stomped the accelerator.
Gravel and dirt flew from beneath the tires, show-
ering the private and the other men standing near the
Wagoneer as it skidded away from the roadblock.
    "Well," Hawkins said as the first shots burst from
the soldier's rifles behind them. "It's official."
      "What's that?" Manning asked, looking over his
shoulder through the rear windshield.  "We're wanted men."
    Captain Jack smiled widely. "Welcome to the
club," he said. "You are in good company."

New York

THE YELLOW BRICK MOTEL was built of exactly
what the name implied. The white trim, shutters and
doors, and the white picket fence that encircled the
property gave it a horny effect. A yellow brick side-
walk led from the parking lot to the office, and a sign
featuring Dorothy and Toto, the Cowardly Lion,

Scarecrow and Tin Man screamed at patrons to Fol-
low The Yellow Brick Road To Comfort!
    Schwarz pulled the van into the parking lot. Lyons
got out and started toward the office.
Blancanales rolled down his window. "Ironman?"
Lyons turned back.
    "Watch out for witches." B!ancanales grinned.
"The wicked ones, at least."
    "And those winged-monkey things," Schwarz
added. He blew air through his closed lips, making
them flutter. "Those things still give me night-
mares."
    Lyons couldn't help smiling himselfi But he turned
before his teammates could catch him at it.
    The office inside was as colorful as the mote!'s
exterior. Photos and promotional posters of the Wiz-
ard of Oz covered the walls, and full-size cardboard
cutouts of the major characters stood around the
lobby. The Wicked Witch of the West sat on her
broom, pointing toward the front desk. A speech bal-
loon shooting out of her mouth said, "This way,
dearie!"
    Lyons walked up and rang the bell. A high,
squeaky voice called out, "Yes, sir?"
    The Able Team leader looked up and down the
counter but saw no one. He rang the bell again.
    A tiny head suddenly appeared behind the desk as
a little person hopped up on some unseen stool or
platform. "I said, yes, sir?" the little man repeated
angrily. The stench of stale alcohol shot from his
mouth as if propelled by a flamethrower.




    The little man's face was vaguely familiar. Lyons
looked up on the back wall and saw a picture of
him--much younger of course--talking to Dorothy.
He'd been one of the Munchkins in the movie.
    "Sorry, I didn't see you," Lyons said. "I need a
room."
  "How many, sir?"
  "Just one room."
    The man turned red in the face with anger once
more. "How many in your party?" he asked sarcas-
tically. "Are you alone? Do you have your wife with
you? Your girlfriend? Your... whatever?" He paused
and glared up at Lyons. "Do you understand the
question now? I'll give you a moment to think about
it." He disappeared for a moment behind the counter
again, and when he returned, fresh waves of bourbon
drifted through the air.
    "There'll be five of us," he said. "We'll only be
here a few hours for a meeting."
    The little man's face twisted into a lewd grin.
"One of those, are you." He closed his eyes and
shook his head. "God forgive you. But I suppose it's
not for me to judge--as long as you pay." His hand
shot out, palm up. "By the way, you pay in ad-
vance."
    Lyons considered setting him straight, then de-
cided it wasn't worth his time. Let the little man
think what he wanted. His life had evidently taken a
downhill turn since the movie was made and if wild
fantasies helped him get through the day, so be it.
  The Able Teain leader scribbled the name Ralph

 Murphy on a registration card, made up an address
 in Detroit and handed the man a fifty-dollar bill.
 "Keep the change," he said, took the key extended
 in the hand and walked back out of the office.
    The two cultists had awakened by the time Lyons
got back to the van. They had made no effort to
escape, and sat preaching their philosophy and doing
their best to save Schwarz's and Blancanales's souls.
    Room 16 was located on the other side of the
building away from the street. Schwarz pulled up in
front, and the five men got out.
    Lyons led the way, opening the door and standing
back for the others to enter. He glanced at Blancana-
!es for a moment. They were in the psy-op expert's
domain again, and the big ex-cop would step back
and take a back seat to Blancanales. But he had an
idea this interrogation would be much different than
that of Ira Rook.
  Lyons was right.
    Blancanales took charge as soon as all five men
had entered the room. The Able Team psychological-
warfare expert was grateful that the interior of the
room was simple and plain. He had already learned
that in many ways the brainwashed cultists were like
children, and the Wizard of Oz motif of the Yellow
Brick Motel had been distracting to them.
    He had also learned the names of two cult mem-
bers while Lyons was inside the motel office. The
overweight man was George. The man wearing the
gi was Casey Balforth.
 Blancanales spoke to the two men now as if they




were all old friends. "Casey, why don't you, George
and I take a seat at the table?" He pointed to the
bare wood table next to the front window. "Are you
guys hungry?"
  The two men looked at each other quizzically.
    "Yes," George replied, "but Hikari will provide
for us when we need sustenance."
  Balforth nodded. "Hikari will provide."
    "That's fine," Biancanales said. "Just fine. But in
the meantime Hikari has instructed me to help pro-
vide for you, and I feel like a pizza. How about
you?"
  Both men looked at each other again.
    "You are a follower of the Great Hikari?" Bal-
forth asked.
"He has spoken to you?" George asked in awe.
Blancanales hesitated. He had to establish com-
mon ground with these men if he was to gain their
confidence and pick what was left of their brains. But
one of the best ways to lose a subject's confidence
was to get caught in a lie. If he proclaimed to follow
Hikari, they might well ask him a question that cult
members could answer but he couldn't. Any bond of
trust established up to that point would then be ir-
reparably broken.
    "No. I'm not a follower, but I'm interested. I
guess what I said was a poor choice of words. I just
meant that since I want to learn more about the Fol-
lowers of the Truth it didn't make sense that Hikari
would mind me buying you a pizza. Sausage? Dou-
ble cheese? What kind do you want?"

A dim light lit in the back of George's eyes. "Ev-
erything," he said. "Make it a combo."
    Balforth gave him a dirty look, then turned back
to Blancanales. "We are instructed to avoid meat,"
he said. "Cheese only for me."
    Blancanales wasn't surprised at the part about
avoiding meat. Diet was a big part in brainwashing
and protein deprivation rendered people more pliant
and receptive to suggestion. It was a technique used
by both religious and political brainwashers.
    The psy-op man looked up at Lyons. "Ironman,
you and Gadgets want to go pick up the pizza?"
Blancanales needed time alone with the two men if
the intimacy he desired was to be established.
    Lyons's face reflected his understanding. He nod-
ded to Schwarz, and the two men left.
    Blancanales turned back to the two cult members
across the table from him. The bottom line was that
he wanted to know all they could tell him about the
plan to gas the New York subway. But he had to be
careful not to alienate them. And there was another
area of concern, as well. The men had not only been
brainwashed into being subservient followers of Hi-
karl, but they had also been trained as killers, mind-
less, conscienceless killers. Blancanales knew if he
wasn't careful he might pull the wrong strings, which
would set them off. If that happened, he might have
to kill them to protect himself.
    The psy-op expert needed to start off slow and
relaxed. He would get around to the subway thing
when the time seemed right. "You are wearing a




martial-arts uniform, Casey," he said. "Can you tell
me why?"
    "Many American followers wear Japanese cloth-
ing," Balforth replied. "It is to show our allegiance
to the Great Hikari and the Followers of the Truth."
    Blancanales nodded. "Tell me more about the Fol-
lowers of the Truth."
  "It is the path to salvation," Casey said,
  "It is the road to eternity," George added.
    "Really? How do you achieve salvation?" B!an-
canales asked.
    "There are several paths," George stated. "To
drink the master's blood is the one I chose."
    Blancanales fought the revulsion that shot through
him. "Where did you get this blood?" he asked.
    "I purchased it for the equivalent of one million
yen."
    "I see." Biancahales wasn't surprised. Such rip-
offs were common in cults. "But you said there were
other ways to salvation."
    "Yes," Balforth said. "I drank the master's bath-
water." He glanced down at the floor in shame. "I
couldn't afford the blood."
    "He is saved, but he won't have the seat of honor
in the kingdom to come that I will have," George
added.
    "Are there any other ways to be saved?" Blan-
canales asked.
    "For women, there is Hikari himself," Balforth
replied. "They may partake of the master's flesh.

 They may unite with him. Only a chosen few are
 given the privilege of that path to salvation."
     And Blancanales knew that not one of them would
 be ugly. Again, taking advantage of their followers
 sexually was standard fare for cult leaders. "Tell me
 about Hikari," Blancanales said.
  "Hikari is good," George recited.
  "Hikari is all-knowing," Balforth parroted.
    "Okay, that's all fine and good, but tell me about
Hikari the man."
  "Hikari is good. Hikari is--"
    Blancanales cut off the litany. "Have you ever met
Hikari?"
"Oh, no," Balforth said. "Hikari is in Japan."
"Only the chosen may meet the master face-to-
face," George declared. "We haven't yet proved
ourselves to be worthy."
    "But then who sold you the blood, George? Who
provided the bathwater, Casey?"
    Before either of the men could answer the door
opened. Lyons and Blancanales walked in, each car-
rying a large pizza. They set them down on the table
between Balforth, George and Biancanales, then
moved to take seats on the bed on the far side of the
room.
    Blancanales opened both pizzas boxes. Without
looking directly at them he watched the men's re-
actions.
    George looked like a starving man who had stum-
bled into the finest restaurant in town. Balforth was




less obvious, but it was more than evident he hadn't
eaten well for a while, either.
    "Dig in," Blancanales said, scooping up a slice
of the combination pizza and taking a bite. "But be
careful. It's still hot."
    George's hand shot forward to grab the biggest
piece on the circular piece of corrugated cardboard.
Again, Balforth showed less enthusiasm. But he took
a piece of the cheese pizza.
    The men ate in silence for a few minutes. Blan-
canales watched Balforth out of the corner of his eye.
The man would be a little harder to crack than
George. He had bought into the cult's philosophy
even more than his overweight friend. And he didn't
have the craving for food that George did. He had
already confessed that the cult members were in-
structed not to eat meat. What he didn't realize was
that protein itself was what the Great Hikari didn't
want them to have. Blancanales hoped the cheese
would provide enough of the muscle-building fuel to
get Balforth started thinking for himself again.
    After they'd each had three pieces of pizza, Blan-
canales repeated the question he'd asked before Ly-
ons and Schwarz had arrived. "I'm interested in your
salvation," he said. "Where did you get the bath-
water and blood of the guru?"
    "From the archangel," George said around a
mouthful of pizza. "When he visited."
    "Yes, from the archangel," Balforth added. "The
archangel sent by the Great Hikari to watch over us
and our lesser angel."

  "Your lesser angel?"
"Yes, the lesser angel is with us always."
Lyons stood, crossed the room quickly and whis-
pered into Blancanales's ear. "I think I shot him
back at the house," the Able Team leader said. "Ask
what he was wearing."
  "What was your angel wearing today?"
    Balforth thought for a moment. "A camel-colored
sport coat and blue slacks," he said.
  Lyons nodded as he sat back down.
    Blancanales continued to eat with the men, watch-
ing them closely. Both were far more relaxed and
talkative. They were a far cry from being depro-
grammed, but at least they were beginning to speak
their own words rather than simply reiterate pro-
grammed answers as if they were mantras.
    It was time to start getting closer to the real reason
for the interview.
    "Tell me, guys," Blancanales said. "What else
does the archangel or lesser angel do?" He saw a
questioning look come over Balforth's face and
backpedaled for a moment. "I really want to know
about all this. Do they give you instructions? Order
you to do things?"
    George was happily finishing the last piece of his
combo and beginning to cast glances at what re-
mained of Balforth's cheese pizza. He was also less
apprehensive than his partner. "Yes," he said. "The
archangel gives the lesser angel instructions. The
lesser angel passes them on to us. They both look
over us, and keep us safe from outsiders who do not




follow the Great Hikari. We obey the angels." He
swallowed, and said, "Casey, are you going to eat
the rest of your pizza?"
  Balforth shook his head.
    George reached over and grabbed a piece of
cheese pizza.
    "What instructions did the angels give you?"
B!ancanales asked. "Do the angels have names?"
    Balforth stiflened visibly at the question, and even
George balked now, realizing he was talking too
much as he shoved half the slice of pizza into his
mouth and bit it off. "We aren't allowed to speak of
such things with outsiders."
    Blancanales knew it was time to play his hole card,
time to go for broke. What he had planned would
either work or it wouldn't, but he'd gotten all he was
going to get out of the men without playing it. "But
Casey, George," he said, "I'm not an outsider."
The two men looked up at him, again puzzled.
"Congratulations," Blancanales said. "You have
both passed the test the Great Hikari sent me to ad-
minister. I was to attempt to persuade you to speak
of that which you were instructed to keep secret."
He smiled broadly. "But you didn't."  George fairly beamed.
    Balforth wasn't as easily led away from the matter
at hand. "With all due respect, if you are telling the
truth, how are we to know that the Great Hikari sent
you?"
    Blancanales smiled. He had that base covered.
"I'll tell you something you'll recognize that only

Hikari himself could have told me." He paused.
"You were instructed by the angel to put satin gas
in a New York subway."
    "Praise Hikari, you are telling the truth{" Balforth
fairly shouted. "The master has sent you!"
    "Praise Hikari{" George echoed, long strings of
mozzarella cheese hanging from his open mouth.
"Hikari the Great."
    "Hikari the all-knowing," Balforth added. "And
then you must be aware that all who die to the satin
will immediately reawaken in heaven."
    "Sure," Biancahales said. The Great Hikari had
covered all the bases himself. If George and Balforth
were sending souls straight to heaven by gassing the
subway, how could they question their actions?
    Both men fell to the floor before Blancanales and
bowed their heads low to the ground. From that point
on, whether they knew it or not, Balforth's and
George's hearts, souls and brains no longer belonged
to the Great Hikari. They belonged to a psychologi-
cal-warfare expert by the name of Rosario Biancaha-
les. And the two cult members' brains were in far
safer hands than they had been before.
    "So," Blancanales said, "I will ask you once
more. What are the angels' names? The ones who
instructed you to put gas in the subway?"
    Neither man seemed to wonder why this messen-
ger from the Great Hikari wouldn't already have this
information.
    "The lesser angel is called Daniel," George
stated.
  "And the archangel is Carver," Balforth added.
  "Yes," George agreed, "Archangel Carver."




CHAPTER ELEVEN

Japan

Toshiro Ohara took a seat at the head of the long
conference table and looked to the man seated to his
right. The rest of the table, and the forty folding
chairs that had been arranged theater style behind it
in the large room, were vacant.
    "Are you listening to me, Toshi?" Ichiro Murai
asked in the voice of a father scolding his son.
"Have you heard a word I have said?"
    Ohara sighed wearily. "Again, as you do every
day, Ichiro," he said. "You have been preaching to
me about the fact that I like women too much." In
truth he had been only half listening. The rest of his
mind had been on Yoshiko's breasts.
    "No, I was not telling you you like women too
much," Murai said. "I told you that you trust these
new women too much. Particularly the one."
  "Which one?"
    Murai slammed a hand down on the table in dis-
gust. "You know which one, Toshi!"

    His tone irritated Ohara. "Do you realize, Ichiro,"
he said, "that if any of my other followers--"
    "I am not one of your followers," Mural practi-
cally screamed.
    "If anyone else spoke to me like this, they would
be killed."
    "Do not threaten me, Toshiro Ohara," Mural con-
tinued. "I remember before you called yourself the
Great Hikari. I remember when you were a mere
street criminal picking pockets and hustling small-
time con games. I remember because I was there,
doing it with you."
  "So what is your point, Ichiro?" he asked.
    "The point is, as I have told you over and over,
you are going to slip and let one of these women
who fascinates you so hear something she should not
hear."
    "Ichiro, I do not talk business around them. It is
all 'love and harmony and spiritual salvation.'"
    "But you now have Yoshiko retained as a servant
here in the palace," Murai said. "How do you know
when she will hear something she shouldn't?"
    As if to prove his point, the door to the conference
room opened and Yoshiko walked in carrying a silver
tea service. She smiled sweetly as she placed it on
the conference table.
    "Do you no longer knock when you enter the
Great Hikari's presence?" Murai asked angrily.
    Yoshiko's face darkened, and she looked down at
her feet. "I am sorry. Ira"
  "I pardon you," Ohara stated, raising his hand and




bringing it down on her shoulder in a gesture of for-
giveness. "Now, please go. You are so lovely, I find
you distracting when I must discuss business matters
with Murai."
    Yoshiko beamed the joy of the delivered as she
walked out of the conference room.
    Ohara watched her, then turned back to his sec-
ond-in-command. "I grow bored being a god," he
said. "Sometimes I must be a man." He chuckled.
"Do not worry, Ichiro. I will not let things get out
of hand."
    "I hope not," Murai replied in disgust. "I have
said all I will say on the matter for now."
    Ohara cleared his head. "The archangels and an-
gels will arrive soon. Have we encountered any prob-
lems?"
    "Only in New York," Murai said. "Someone at-
tacked the home of Casey Balforth. Angel Daniel
Thomas was killed."
  "Do you know who is responsible?"
    Mural shook his head. He lifted the silver teapot
and poured a cup of tea for Ohara, then slid it in
front of the cult leader. "No. It is confusing. But we
do not think the house was attacked by police or U.S.
government agents." Pouring a cup for himself, he
continued. "They would have proceeded differ-
ently."
  "Who, then?" Ohara wondered aloud.
    Murai shrugged. "Perhaps one of the youthful
street gangs for which America is becoming fa-
mous," he said. "Carver thinks they may have

 learned that there were weapons in the house." He
 took a sip of tea and shrugged again. "In any case
 it is not important. The sarin gas is stored at the base
 house in Wichita, Kansas, and will be distributed to
 the subbases from there."
    Ohara nodded. "And what of the classified docu-
ments still in Somalia?"
    "The search teams are still looking," Murai said.
"There is still time. But if we do not find them, we
will proceed with the satin."
    Ohara nodded absentmindedly, his mind drifting
back to Yoshiko and Reiko and the sexual acts in
which he had engaged with the two of them the night
before. One of the things he loved about them both
was how creative they had become. Perhaps to-
night--
    Mural cut into his thoughts. "Toshi, are you with
me?" he said in irritation.
    "Yes," Ohara answered. "My mind drifted for a
moment."
    "Well, let it drift on this," Murai said. "We do
not know if we will use sarin again or the new gas,
but otherwise things are progressing as planned. You
must remember, however, that your followers are just
that--followers. When we take away their free will,
we also take away their ability to lead. They do not
plan well, and they must be pointed in the right di-
rection." He paused. "That is why it has been nec-
essary to employ men like Carver. But do not forget
that these 'angels' are nothing more than criminals.
I do not trust any single one of them."




  Ohara nodded. "It is a necessary evil."
    The phone on the conference table between the
two men buzzed, and Murai lifted the receiver from
its cradle. "Yes?" he said. He listened for a moment,
his face becoming angry again. "Wait."
    Turning to Ohara, he covered the mouthpiece.
"You have Reiko working as a secretary now?" he
asked.
    Ohara shrugged. "She was a typist before coming
to me."
    Murai turned back to the phone. "What do you
want?" he ask in a surly voice.
    A moment later he turned back to Ohara and said,
"Carver and the others have arrived. They are down-
stairs waiting. Are you ready for them?"  Ohara nodded.
    "Send them up," Murai said, and half slammed
the phone back down. "Another foolish move, To-
shiro," he said. "Reiko will be privy to too many
things."
    Ohara sighed for what seemed like the thousandth
time. He knew Mural was probably right, but he
seemed to have no will to get rid of the women any-
more. The truth was, it was lonely being a god, and
he was tired of it.
    Two minutes later the door opened and a brawny
black man wearing a cheap, ill-fitting suit walked
into the room. Behind him came a short man in Ar-
abic robes and a kaffiyeh. The third man wore a Eu-
ropean-cut suit that fit as poorly as the clothes of the
black man.

     Ohara waved them toward the table. Murai stood,
 met the fourth man to enter the room and directed
 him toward the chairs. The men kept coming until
 all but one of the forty chairs were filled.
    Carver, the black man in the bad suit, dropped into
the chair to Ohara's left as Murai returned to the seat
on the Great Hikari's right. Muhammad Araba and
Jean-Marc LeForce took seats next to Carver and
Murai across the table from each other.
    Ohara watched Murai out of the comer of his eye.
The expression of mild disgust on his old friend's
face told him that even though Murai had traveled
the world handpicking these men himself, he didn't
approve of them. And there was little reason he
should. Although they were competent to perform the
duties for which they had been hired, they were far
from admirable as human beings.
    Carver, the American, had a criminal record that
began the day after his eighteenth birthday when he
had been arrested for trafficking heroin. The arrests,
which were spliced in between prison terms, paroles
and suspended sentences and included everything
from petty larceny to murder, had continued for more
than thirty years. He had even contracted to do hits
for the Mob on several occasions.
    Muhammad Araba and Jean-Marc LeForce were
nothing more than SaUdi and French versions of
Carver. All three men were career criminals who had
spent their lives breaking the law and, for the most
part, getting away with it. They represented three dif-
ferent continents. They were his three archangels,




and they supervised the lesser angels on each of their
respective continents--the men who were now mov-
ing toward the chairs in the back.
    The Great Hikari suppressed a smile. Archangels,
lesser angels--how pliable his followers were. How
they wanted to believe in something, anything. It had
been no problem to convince the men and women
who made up the cells of the Followers of the Truth
scattered throughout the world that these three men,
and the thirty-nine seated behind them, were super-
human beings from heaven.
    Ohara watched the thirty-nine men behind the ta-
ble settle into their seats. His mind drifted briefly to
the lesser angel who had been killed at Casey Bal-
forth's house. It didn't matter. The New York gas-
sing could be scrubbed, and he would still have
thirty-nine cities around the world covered.
    Ohara looked back to the lesser angels. Some of
them served as security forces here at the castle, but
these thirty-nine would lead their individual cult cells
in planting and detonating the gas in their respective
cities. The bombs would all go off at once, and to
put it mildly, should "rock the world." If they used
satin, and each bomb was the same size and as suc-
cessful as the one in the Tokyo subway, Toshiro
Ohara could count on more than ten thousand dead
and around eighty thousand injured. But if his men
in Somalia were able to locate the rest of the clas-
sifted documents that the American Spencer Kiethley
had hidden, they would then have the formula to
make the gas the Americans called Nerve Ending,

and the damage would be tenfold. The easily man-
ufactured Nerve Ending had an effective range ten
times that of satin and caused almost instantaneous
death. Satin and other such gases could be dumped
into the ocean as obsolete. Ohara would kill hundreds
of thousands and hold the entire planet hostage.
    The thrill of it all overwhelmed him. He suddenly
felt drunk on the power he now held, and even more
intoxicated at the thought of what was to come.
    The Great Hikari waited until all of the men were
seated, then said, "I have called you together to go
over the last-minute arrangements. But before I be-
gin, are there any questions?"
    Toshiro Ohara waited silently. No hands went up.
He cleared his throat in preparation to speak. "Then,
gentleman," he said, beginning his final address, "as
you know, we will begin distributing the bombs two
nights from now--either those already stored at the
central bases or the new ones we make should we
get the technology in time." He smiled graciously.
"In any case, once the bombs have been distributed
to the subbases, there will be no chance of stopping
US."

Sierra Leone

T,E EXECUTIONER FELT as if an anvil had fallen off
the top floor of the World Trade Center and landed
on his skull. But as his vision cleared, he saw the
real root of the pain searing through his brain. A six-




foot-long tree branch lay beside the man squatting
next to a campfire.
    As his vision continued to focus, Bolan took in his
surroundings. He was outside the tunnel, outside the
mountain under which the underwater passage had
been located. He was in a small clearing, next to the
side of the mountain on one side and a row of trees
on the other. He remembered emerging to see the
RUF bandit, and then the branch had come down on
his head to knock him unconscious.
    The Executioner kept his eyes half-closed as he
turned his attention back to the man next to the fire.
He wanted to ascertain just where he was and what
his position might be before the bandit realized he
was awake. He was certain it was the same man he'd
seen run into the cave, then pursued through the un-
derground tunnel. The man's clothes looked damp,
and he wore the leather vest and ragged blue jeans
Bolan remembered from earlier. On his right hip was
a holstered revolver.
    Bolan tried to move. He couldn't, and he realized
his hands were bound behind his back with what felt
like leather strips. His legs extended straight out from
him, and he could see more leather securing his feet
at the ankles. He felt something hard against his
spine and, looking overhead, saw the boughs of a tall
tree. The RUF hardman had to have run more re-
straints through those on his wrists and secured him
to the tree trunk.
    The Executioner took in the rest of his surround-
ings. He was still in the mountains, and a pool of

water could be seen ten feet to his left. The pool from
which he had emerged from the tunnel? Probably.
He didn't know how long he had been out of the
passageway, but it couldn't have been long. His
cargo shorts had been dropped next to him. Along
with the underwear he still wore, they were soaking
wet.
    The RUF hardman was roughly ten feet in front
of him, and as Bolan watched, he twisted a rabbit
skewered over a spit he had fashioned from sticks.
The roasting meat smelled good, and the Executioner
was reminded that while it was still dark, it had to
be almost breakfast time.
    The RUF hardman sat back on his haunches, and
for the first time Bolan noticed his Crossada knife
strapped to the man's left leg. As he waited for the
rabbit to cook, the bandit drew the huge knife and
held it up in the firelight for examination, smiling as
he ran his thumb along one side of the blade to test
the edge. The smile suddenly vanished, and he cursed
as blood shot from his thumb.
    The bandit shoved the blade into the dirt and
wrapped his thumb with a rag he pulled from his
pocket. The fire had died down, and he grabbed the
branch with which he'd struck Bolan and poked at
the glowing embers beneath the rabbit. When the
flames failed to return, he cursed again and rose.
    Bolan watched the man walk into the trees and
begin to gather more limbs to put on the fire. He
looked back at the knife thrust in the ground. It was
less than a foot from the soles of his hiking boots.




    He glanced back at his captor in the trees as the
man bent to pick up another dried branch. The man
might turn and see him at any moment, and it
wouldn't take him long to gather enough wood to get
the fire going again. On the other hand the Execu-
tioner might not get another chance. And if he
couldn't free himself before the man returned, at least
he could get the process started.
    Sliding down the tree as far as he could, Bolan
stretched his legs toward the knife embedded in the
soft earth. His boots still a good two inches from the
blade, he strained against the restraints that held him
to the tree, hoping they'd break or at least stretch.
They didn't break, but they did stretch.
    Bolan cast a quick glance to the trees. The man
was still collecting firewood, but he wouldn't be
much longer.
    The Executioner stretched again, feeling the
leather bite into his wrists. He ignored the pain. He
felt a tiny jolt as the leather stretched once more, then
his right boot sole struck the knife.
    The movement tilted the knife away from the Ex-
ecutioner, but the blade remained upright. There was
no question that he had to finish freeing himself be-
fore the RUF hardman came back. The awkward an-
gle of the blade to the ground would be proof it had
been tampered with.
    Bolan shifted slightly so the leather strip between
his boots made contact with the blade. Careful not to
tip the knife over farther, he began sawing up and

down the sharp edge. A moment later, the leather
snapped and his feet were free.
  But that had been the easy part.
    The Executioner glanced into the trees. He could
see the bandit leaning over for more wood, his arms
almost full. Even if he planned to gather more, he
would have to return in a moment with this load.
Which meant the Executioner had to work fast.
Bolan stretched farther, trying to work enough of
his feet around the sides of the Crossada to trap the
blade between his boots. Again the leather behind
his back cut into his flesh. Blood began to drip over
his hands, and all feeling below the wrists went
numb.
    Getting the knife between his boots, the Execu-
tioner snapped them together, trapping the blade.
Now would come the tricky part.
    Bolan pulled his knees to his chest, then straight-
ened his legs upward. With the Crossada held over
his head, he paused. He had to rock backward
slightly, then drop the huge knife directly behind
him--between his back and the tree. If he underes-
timated the force necessary to accomplish this, the
blade would come down on top of his head. If he
overestimated, it would rebound against the tree
trunk and again drop on top of him or go spinning
off to the side where it would be of no use.
    But worrying about what might happen would do
no good. The Executioner took a deep breath, rocked
slightly back and pulled his feet apart.
 The twelve-inch blade fell straight down, shaving




a small swatch of skin from Bolan's back. Rather
than stick in the ground as he'd hoped it would do,
the knife fell sideways, lodging between his hip and
the base of the tree trunk.
    Bolan leaned to the side, twisting his hands hori-
zontally behind his back. He pulled hard, trying to
expose as much of the leather restraint as he could.
While the razor-sharp Crossada would easily sever
the leather, he was working blind, and it could also
cut through the veins in his wrists if he positioned
the edge incorrectly.
    The Executioner took another look into the trees
and saw the RUF hardman heading back toward the
fire, his arms loaded with dried branches. So far he
hadn't noticed that the knife was missing.
    Bolan placed his wrists at the angle he wanted and
hoped he was right. Bringing the leather into contact
with the blade, he began to saw back and forth.
    His captor dropped the wood next to the fire,
stirred the coals with one of the limbs, then began to
toss the wood onto the embers.
    The leather restraint behind Bolan's back snapped
at the same instant the bandit's eyes fell on the spot
where he'd thrust the knife into the earth.
    The RUF hardman went for the gun on his hip as
Bolan propelled himself away from the tree trunk to
his feet. The bandit's gun had cleared leather by the
time the Executioner was on him. Bolan caught a
brief glimpse of the .44-caliber hole in the end of the
revolver's barrel as he swept the weapon to the side.
The gun fired, the bullet speeding past the Exe-

cutioner's side, so close he felt the burn on his bare
fibs. He grasped the barrel of the weapon and
twisted. A loud cracking sound echoed though the
night as the explosion from the gunshot died down
and the bandit's index finger snapped inside the trig-
ger guard.
  The RUF bandit screamed.
    Bolan jerked the revolver from his hand and
slammed it against the man's temple. The bandit
froze in place for a moment, then his knees buckled
and he fell forward, unc. onscious, his arm flying out
and coming to rest in the fire.
    The big American leaned down and jerked the
man away from the fire before the burn could be-
come serious. Returning to the tree, he found the
leather restraints that had bound him, and, after tying
the severed ends together, used them to tie the RUF
man's hands behind his back. Bolan wanted the man
able to walk when he came to, so rather than bind
his legs together he hobbled the man's ankles with a
length that would allow only short, choppy steps.
    As soon as the bandit was secured, the Executioner
slid into his cargo shorts once more, slipped the
knife's sheath from the bandit's belt and onto his
own. He dried the Desert Eagle as best he could, then
he pulled a fresh magazine from the pocket of his
shorts, rammed it into the butt and replaced the gun
on his fight side. As soon as he had the chance, he
would properly strip and oil the weapon.
    Bolan reexamined the man on the ground. The
burn on his arm wasn't bad, but he was still out cold,




and he looked like he'd remain that way a little
longer. Dropping to a cross-legged position on the
ground in front of the fire, the Executioner pulled the
rabbit off the spit, drew the knife and cut a small
piece. He tasted it. It was done. As he waited for the
RUF man to wake up, Bolan began to eat.
    The Executioner's head still throbbed from the
blow he'd taken. He looked up at the sky. There was
no way he'd make it back to the training camp by
morning. He'd be lucky to even locate Buchanan by
then. No, the cover of training officer was over. From
now on, he'd be on his own.
    The RUF hardman was just coming around when
the Executioner heard the noise on the other side of
the fire. The Desert Eagle leaped into his hand and
the safety flew off.
    "Hey, don't shoot. It's me." Buchanan's voice
was unmistakable. The soldier-journalist stepped out
to the side of the fire where Bolan could see him. He
had Margai tied and hobbled much the way Bolan
had done the RUF man next to the fire.
    "We'll have to hurry," Buchanan said. "That is,
if we want to stash these two somewhere and get
back on time."
    Bolan shook his head. "No way it can be done,"
he said. He held out the rabbit at arm's length.
"Want some?"
  "Yeah, but I'll eat on the way. You can drive?"
  "Yeah, but do you know something I don't?"
  Buchanan grinned. "There's a path that leads back

to the main road just around the bend there." He
pointed back in the direction he had come.
"So what do we drive?" the Executioner asked.
"How about this guy's Jeep?" Buchanan sug-
gested, nudging the awakening bandit with a toe.
"It's parked over there and ready to go."
    Bolan chuckled as he stood. Several times since
they'd met, Buchanan had said he not only trusted,
but liked, the Executioner.
 Now the Executioner was beginning to like him.

Soma//a

IN THE REARVIEW MIRROR, McCarter saw the young
private leap into the passenger's seat of the sedan
bearing the Somalian flag on the door. The vehicle
made a fast U-turn and, followed by the two jeeps,
took up pursuit.
    McCarter floored the accelerator, coaxing as much
speed from the Wagoneer as he could. It was enough
to outdistance the jeeps, but the sedan soon began to
gain ground. The Phoenix Force leader squinted, try-
ing to see inside the sedan as it grew larger in the
mirror. The windows were tinted, and all he could
make out was movement.
    The road bent sharply, and McCarter gripped the
wheel, doing his best to keep the top-heavy Wagon-
eer on all four wheels. Another quick glance into the
mirror told him the lower-slung government sedan
hadn't had as much trouble negotiating the curve. It
had gained more ground.




    Finally, what McCarter had dreaded but known
was inevitable, happened. The passenger's window
on the sedan rolled down and the barrel of a carbine
was poked through the aperture. The Briton squinted
into the mirror. The weapon was a SANNA 77, a
version of the Czech Model 25 submachine designed
as a personal-defense weapon for residents of South
Africa's rural areas. It was modified to fire semiauto
only.
    But semiauto could kill as fast as full rock-and-
roll.
    McCarter stood on the accelerator, knowing he had
already coaxed all the speed he was going to get out
of the Wagoneer. In the mirror he saw a head, shoul-
ders and arms join the carbine and aim the weapon
at the Wagoneer.
    The former SAS commando swerved to the side,
sending gravel flying as the first few rounds blasted
from the weapon. The bullets flew wide as he cor-
rected the steering wheel, then swung back the other
way as a fresh semiauto burst sailed by on the Wag-
oneer's other side.
    In the back seat McCarter heard movement and
glanced over his seat to see that Gary Manning had
drawn his Beretta 92 and was twisting toward the
rear of the Wagoneer as he rolled down the window.
    "They're just scared kids doing their job,"
McCarter directed. "Don't hurt them."
    "I'll do my best," Manning replied. He leaned out
the window, dropped the sights just over the sedan
and pulled the trigger three times.

    All three rounds hit the roof of the sedan and
skimmed across like flat stones skipping across the
water. It was the government vehicle's turn to
swerve. The man firing the carbine disappeared back
inside the window as the vehicle fishtailed down the
road in a new storm of dirt and gravel.
    The sedan slowed, then sped out again. McCarter
cursed under his breath. He looked ahead and saw
an abandoned sod farmhouse appear on the side of
the road. He remembered it from the trip out. They
were only a few miles from Mogadishu now.
    Manning fired again, this time taking out a head-
light on the government car. The sedan swerved once
more but kept coming. The SANNA 9 mm carbine
reappeared. A long string of semiauto fire blasted
away at the Wagoneer, one of the rounds striking the
rear bumper.
    Gravel shot from the rear tires as if propelled from
a pistol. McCarter zigzagged down the road, hoping
to present a difficult target. They neared the crum-
bling sod house--the marker that had reminded him
how near they now were to Mogadishu--and the
Phoenix Force leader knew he couldn't allow the
government car to follow them into the city. Once
there, they would have access to police and other
military backup.
    McCarter had a decision to make. He took a deep
breath and made it. "Take out a tire, Gary."
    Manning twisted to look at him. "You sure, Da-
vid?" he asked. "They could wreck."




"We've got no choice. We'll just have to hope for
the best."
    Manning nodded. "You got it, boss," he said, and
leaned back out the window.
    In the side mirror McCarter watched Manning take
aim. He pulled the trigger once, but the Wagoneer
hit a bump and the round went wild. His second shot
was more accurate.
    A loud pop, not unlike another round being fired--
drifted up to meet McCarter's ears. It was replaced
by a short hissing sound. In the mirror he watched
the sedan's right front tire drop to the rim, and the
sedan skidded off the road and out of control.
    McCarter braked to a halt as the government ve-
hicle crashed into the sod house. Dirt and grass flew
up in the air, forming a cloud of dust that all but
concealed the sedan. The vehicle burst through the
other side of the house.
    The Phoenix Force leader waited warily as the
government car stalled and stopped. As he'd told
Manning, and as Manning and the other commandos
of Phoenix Force already knew, those youths in fa-
tigues weren't the enemy. They were scared, honest
young men trying to do their jobs as soldiers. If there
were injuries, Phoenix Force would have to treat
them or get them to medical help. If there were
deaths...
    McCarter didn't want to think about it, but he had
no choice. He had been forced to make a decision,
and that decision had been to take a chance. If his

decision had been wrong he would have to live with
it.
    He felt a wave of relief wash over him as the
driver's door opened and a man wearing dust-
covered green fatigues got out. A moment later the
young private who had questioned them exited the
passenger's seat. Both men were coughing as they
opened the back door and pulled a third man from
the seat.
    McCarter could see into the car, and there were
no more Somalian soldiers inside. Twisting the
wheel, he pulled back onto the gravel road.
    Captain Jack had been silent throughout the chase.
McCarter glanced at him in the rearview mirror and
saw he had put his earring back in and was slipping
on the phony eye patch. The man might have a flair
for the dramatic, but he was no wimp when the chips
were down. His face was as calm as those of the
Phoenix Force commandos.
    Captain Jack was a warlord. He was as accus-
tomed to violence as the men from Stony Man Farm.
    Now he spoke up. "It was not me they were look-
ing for, was it." The words came out more statement
than question.
    McCarter paused before answering, wondering just
how straightforward he should be with the man. They
could use his help, particularly as a guide to get
around the war-tom nation. But Captain Jack had his
own political agenda, and the Phoenix Force leader
knew that would be his primary loyalty. The bottom
line was that the warlord would help them only as




long as he shared Phoenix Force's goals. After that,
he would give them up in a heartbeat if it would
further his own ambitions.
    On the other hand the man wasn't likely to help
at all if he thought McCarter and the others were
being less than honest with him. The Briton decided
that he would be honest--as honest as necessary--
in answering the warlord's questions but volunteer-
ing nothing.
  "No, they were after us," McCarter finally said.
  "Why?"
    McCarter didn't hesitate to answer this time. "I'll
tell you what I can," he said, "and nothing more.
We're here to find out about the classified U.S. doc-
uments the UN abandoned when they moved out."
    "Who do you represent?" Captain Jack asked.
"You do not sound American."
    "I'm not," McCarter said. "Think of us more as
a sort of international task force. A task force that
has the best interests of Somalia, as well as our own
individual countries, at heart."
  "Why should I believe you?" the warlord asked.
  "Because we can help you, Jack."
"Oh? How?" Captain Jack wasn't convinced.
Mogadishu appeared on the road ahead. "You
wanted the weapons and equipment we brought,
right?"
  "Of course."
    "Well, you help us and when we leave the coun-
try, we'll leave all the hardware with you."
 Captain Jack sat back against the seat and frowned

as the Wagoneer passed the Mogadishu airport and
ministry of tourism. "This does not make sense," he
said. "You may not all be Americans but you are all
Westerners, and therefore it is America you serve."
    "That's a very debatable issue," McCarter re-
plied. "But for the sake of argument go ahead."
    "All wafiords are wanted men. Not just by the
Somalian government but by the West, as well.
Surely whatever government or organization you rep-
resent has intelligence to this fact."
    "We go beyond the normal intelligence, Jack,"
McCarter told him. "That intel says you're a little
different than the other warlords."
    Again McCarter saw Captain Jack frown in the
mirror.
    "That intel says you rob and you kill when you
have to, but you're discriminate about it. And we
know that lining your own pockets isn't your prime
objective." He paused, looking at the street ahead.
"You know where the UN building is?"
    Captain Jack leaned forward. "Turn here, onto
Shire Warsme," he said. "What else do your intel-
ligence sources tell you?"
    McCarter made the turn. "Exactly what you told
us a few minutes ago. That you want to be president,
and you're working toward that goal by playing
Robin Hood. You're already gaining the support of
the people, people who will eventually be voters."
He glanced over his shoulder at the pirate-looking
man in the back seat. "We can help you," he said,
"but only if you help us. Where do I turn?"




    "Keep going straight. Shire Warsme runs into
Jamhuuriyadda Avenue, The UN building is on that
street." He leaned forward again. "Although I can-
not imagine why you want to go there. It has been
abandoned, and whoever you are seeking will not be
there."
     "You didn't answer my question," McCarter said.
 "Will you help us?"
    "There...ahead on your left," Captain Jack di-
rected.
    McCarter pulled the Wagoneer to the curb in front
of a three-story office building that had obviously
been abandoned. Many of the windows had been bro-
ken. Some had been patched with cardboard and ply-
wood; others still gaped empty. Here and there graf-
fiti unflattering to Americans and the West in general
had been spray painted on the brick walls. Broken
glass and other rubble led the way up the sidewalk
to the front doors, which stood wide open.
    "Well?" McCarter prompted as he threw the
Wagoneer into neutral. "Will you help?"
    Captain Jack smiled. "I guided you here. It ap-
pears that I already am."
    McCarter twisted in his seat to face the warlord.
"Then it's a deal? You stick with us until we accom-
plish our mission, then we leave the guns, ammo and
other equipment with you?"
  "It is a deal," Captain Jack said.
  The two men shook hands.
    Which was what they were doing when a sudden
barrage of automatic-rifle fire took out the Wagon-
eer's windshield and side windows.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

The man in the white lab coat shook his head in
disgust as the kanji letters lit up once more on the
computer screen. Rather than go to the trouble of
linking up his Quick-Cross translation program for
just two words, he had called Akira Tokaido to his
workstation to interpret the first time they had ap-
peared. The young Japanese American had told him
exactly what he'd suspected the letters meant.
    "Access denied," Tokaido had said. Though not
thoroughly versed in kanji, the young man was striv-
ing to learn all he could of his heritage. This one was
easy.
    Kurtzman ignored the impulse to bring his fist
down on the keyboard. Instead, he cleared the mon-
itor and started again. He had hacked his way into
the Japanese police and military-intelligence files the
night before when he'd been trying to identify the
Great Hikari. The Japanese computer coders were
among the best in the world, and gaining entry had
not been easy. Then, once he'd finally broken the




code, he'd still come up empty on Hikari. It appeared
that the government in Tokyo knew no more about
the Followers of the Truth cult leader than anyone
else.
    So Kurtzman had decided to go after the identity
of the man who had been with Hikari in the news
tape, the man with the clear eyes that said he wasn't
a follower. And during the brief few seconds during
which he was changing his entry, the Japanese had
changed their access codes.
    Kurtzman tapped another entry attempt onto the
keyboard and sat back waiting for the information to
be processed. He wondered what were the odds of
both police and military records and intelligence de-
partments performing periodic computer-file secu-
rity-code changes at exactly that time. If he had time,
he could use his probability program to find out. But
he didn't have time. Whatever the odds against such
a thing happening, they had come through. Both
codes had been changed, he'd been automatically cut
off from the files and he'd been trying to get back
in ever since.
    Footsteps came up the ramp behind the computer
genius. Kurtzman turned, not sure who he expected
to see as he looked up.
    But whomever it was he expected, it wasn't Carl
Lyons.
    Kurtzman sat back in his chair. Past the Able
Team leader, on the other side of the glass divider,
he could see Schwarz, Blancanales and a Stony Man
pilot trainee talking to Barbara Price in the commu-

nications room. That meant that Able Team had to
have just returned from New York. The pilot was
standing by to take them out again as soon as they
leamed whatever it was they needed to know from
Kurtzman.
    When a mission was in progress, greetings were
swift and simple, if not dispensed with altogether
around the Farm. The first words out of Lyons's
mouth were "We need you to run down a name,
Bear. The name is Carver."
    Kurtzman waited for more. When he didn't get it,
he said, "Go ahead."
"That's it," Lyons said. "I know it's not much."
"Carver isn't quite as bad as Smith or Jones, but
it isn't too far off, either. I'm sorry, Carl, you'll need
to give me something to narrow it down."
    "My hunch is that he's working for the cult but
not one of the Great Hikari's anesthetized crani-
ums," Lyons said.
    Kurtzman thought of the man in the news clip
again. "That's nice, but it does nothing to narrow
down the field."
    Lyons blew air out between his pursed lips.
"Okay, let me run the details by you and see if we
can think of something." He leaned back against the
rail. "This Carver has some position of authority in
the cult. The spaced-out wackos of the cult think he's
an archangel. I've got a pair of brain-dead bozos
stashed downstairs in the east office with a couple of
security guys if you'd like to hear it from the horse's
mouth."




    "You brought them here to the Farm?" Kurtzman
asked.
    Lyons nodded. "Don't get your hemorrhoids in an
uproar. They were blindfolded."
  "They're cooperating?" Kurtzman asked.
    The Able Team leader nodded again. "I don't
know what all they've been through, but I think these
guys have had weirder things done to them than get-
ting blindfolded. Anyway, I didn't know what else
to do with them. They're almost like children. Chil-
dren who will kill on command, granted, but some-
times like regular children, too. Our pilot knows
some guy who's a cult deprogrammer. He and Barb
are trying to contact him now."
    Kurtzman glanced back through the glass divider
and saw Jock Reno, the pilot, on Barbara Price's
phone. "Where does this Carver come in?"
    "George and Casey--they're the cult guys down-
stairs--they think he's this archangel the Great Hi-
karl sent to watch over them. Evidently the cult has
lesser angels, too. Carver is also the one who told
them they're going to let satin loose in a subway."
He paused for a breath, then answered the obvious
questions without being asked. "They don't know
when or where yet."
    Kurtzman shook his head. "Carl, it can't be done.
Carver is too common a name. There are thousands
of people named Carver in this country alone. And
there will be thousands of others from Canada, Great
Britain, Australia--any English-speaking nation."
He turned and lifted his coffee cup to his lips. "And

to make things worse, it could always be an alias. It
might even be a nickname." Kurtzman set his cup
back down on the console. "Are you sure Carver is
his real name?"
    "No." Lyons frowned. "I know it's a long shot,
Bear, but I'm at a dead end. The cult members down-
stairs--Poi picked what was left of their brains clean.
They don't have anything else to offer. Can you give
it a try?"
    "I'm trying to ID the Great Hikari through his
sidekick right now," Kurtzman said, "and I'm not
having much luck."
    "How about one of your people?" Lyons asked.
He glanced down the bank of computers. "How
about Akira?"
    Kurtzman followed his gaze. "He's wrapped up
in computer research." He frowned. "Go ask Car-
men. It won't hurt for her to pull off the serial killer
for a little while."
 Lyons grinned. "Thanks, Bear."
    "You're welcome," Kurtzman said. He turned
back to his keyboard as Lyons headed toward the
redhead on the other side of Akira Tokaido. There
was a way back into the Japanese police and military
computer files, a way past the new security codes.
He just had to find it.
  And he would.

CARL L?Or~S HAD an uneasy feeling as he left Kurtz-
man's computer console. Something the man in the
wheelchair had mentioned, or maybe something he




himself had said or maybe just some passing thought
he'd had in the past few minutes had settled in his
unconscious mind. Right now, whatever it was, was
trying to surface. But it wasn't having any more luck
than Kurtzman had so far trying to break the new
Japanese computer codes.
    Lyons tried to clear his mind. The thought would
come when it was ready. There was no sense pushing
it. That never worked.
    The Able Team leader looked down the bank of
computers and saw the vivacious redhead seated be-
tween Tokaido and Hunt Wethers. He had always
liked Carmen Delahunt. She was a cop at heart, just
like him. She came from an old-line FBI background,
a period in the history of the Bureau when J. Edgar
Hoover might not still have been running the show
but when his ghost still hovered over the organiza-
tion. Delahunt had received her baptism of fire dur-
ing the days when the special agents were cops rather
than the politicians they had become in the past few
years. Which was one of the reasons Lyons suspected
Hal Brognola had stolen her away from the FBI for
Stony Man Farm.
    Delahunt had been engrossed in whatever it was
she was working on ever since Lyons had entered
the computer room. Now, as he moved away from
Kurtzman's work area past that of Akira Tokaido,
the Able Team leader saw her glance his way. She
looked immediately back to the screen.
    "Carmen," Lyons said as he walked up behind
the woman.

    "Just a minute, Car!," the woman said. "Let me
get to a stopping point." She continued to type.
    Moments later Delahunt stopped what she was do-
ing and swiveled to face him. "What can I do for
you?" she asked, her smile vibrant and intoxicating.
    "I'm in a situation where I need some help with
religious crazies. Can you break away and give me
a hand?"
  "Sure. What do you need?"
  Lyons told her about Carver.
    Delahunt expressed the same doubts that Kurtz-
man had.
    "We've got to start somewhere," Lyons said.
"How many Carvers are there in the United States?"
      Delahunt turned back to her computer and typed.
A few seconds later a number appeared in yellow.
  Lyons didn't even want to look at it.
    "It's only an estimate," Delahunt said with mock
cheerfulness. "There might be a few thousand less.
Or more."
    "Okay," Lyons replied. "I see your point. There's
too many to start checking them all out one by one."
    "Too many for this lifetime," Delahunt agreed.
"I can always get started and try but--good night,
Carl--I'd rather look for that needle in the hay-
stack."
    "Damn!" Akira Tokaido said to Lyons's side. "I
cut myself trying to fish a paperclip out of my
printer."
    Lyons turned to see the young man clutching his
hand.




    "You okay?" Delahunt asked. She had already
pulled a small bottle of disinfectant and a plastic ad-
hesive strip from her purse.
    "Yes, I'll survive," Tokaido said in disgust. "But
it's embarrassing to cut myself up as if I were the
Christmas turkey."
    Lyons's subconscious mind suddenly went wild.
What was it Tokaido had just said? It was linked to
whatever it was that had bothered him as he was
leaving Kurtzman's computer area. Cut himself up
like a Christmas turkey?
    People sometimes got adages and expressions a
little twisted, especially when excited, in pain or in
shock.
You didn't cut a Christmas turkey. You carved it.
Cut. Carve. Carver. Someone who carved the tur-
key could be called a carver, but that wouldn't be
their real name. It would be a nickname.
    Like Kurtzman had said. Carver might be a nick-
name.
  And that narrowed things down considerably.
    "Carmen, let's assume that Carver is a nickname.
Can you check that out?" Lyons asked.
    "Sure. I can scan files for the name Carver as
either an a.k.a. or nickname." She turned back to the
keyboard. "There are far fewer people who actually
use aliases than there are real people named Carver,
and as a nickname there should be even less. I'll go
FBI first. It'll take a minute or two."
  "Want me to get us some coffee?"
  "Hey, I'm a cop, aren't I?" She began to type.

    Lyons watched her for a second, then descended
the ramp and opened the door into the communica-
tions room. Reno was still on the phone as the Able
Team leader crossed the room to the coffee maker.
    "Jock's gotten hold of the deprogrammer he
knows," Schwarz said. "Guy's in Tennessee. Barb's
sending the security guys to deliver George and Ca-
sey to him."
    Lyons nodded. He poured two cups of black cof-
fee, turned and hurried back to the computer room.
    Delahunt swiveled in her chair to face Lyons as
he mounted the ramp once more. A smile covered
the woman's face as she smoothed the pleats in her
skirt with both hands, then took the coffee cup from
the Able Team leader. "Sometimes you get lucky,"
she said. She pointed to the screen, then took a sip.
    Lyons stared at the monitor. There were at least
two hundred names on the screen, each having gone
by an alias of Carver or having had Carver as a nick-
name at one time or another.
    "That's still too many names to run down," Ly-
ons said.
    Delahunt took another sip of coffee and shook her
hair out of her eyes. "Look closer," she said.
"Where I left the curset."
    Lyons's eyes traveled to the name next to the
small blinking rectangle. "Wayman, Eugene Free-
man, a.k.a. Willie Freeman, a.k.a. Gene Freeman,
a.k.a. Finley Porter. Nicknames: Bo, Slash, Carver."
  "Okay," the Able Team leader said. "He's used




the name. What makes him different than the other
1997"
    "How many of them currently live in Brooklyn
less than a block from where you found this Casey
Balforth?" Delahunt asked.
    Lyons set his coffee cup on Delahunt's console as
his eyes flew to the address on the screen. It had to
be one of the brownstones they had passed as they'd
walked toward Balforth's house from the van.
    Lyons jotted the numbers down on a piece of
scratch paper. "Carmen, thanks," he said.
    "One cop to another," Delahunt replied. "Don't
mention it." She wasn't sure Lyons heard her. By
the time the words left her mouth, he was down the
ramp and heading through the door to the commu-
nications room.

Sierra Leone

DAWN BROKE SWIFTLY over the Loma Mountains in
northeastern Sierra Leone. Tropical birds sang their
morning songs from the treetops. Unseen in the
bushes and rocks, daytime animals rose and stretched
while nocturnal creatures hurried home to their nests.
    A mile from the training camp, Bolan sat on the
edge of an outcropping waiting for Bobcat Buchanan
to return. Loko--the RUF bandit the Executioner had
pursued through the underwater tunnel--and Margai
sat on the ground at his sides, their hands bound be-
hind their backs. Certain bits of intelligence gained

from the two men during the ride back to camp had
changed the Executioner's and Buchanan's plans.
    In true criminal form, both Margai and Loko had
been more than ready to snitch on others to further
their own position. First Bolan had learned that, as
he'd suspected, Margai was a bandit posing as a Sier-
ra Leone commando candidate in order to obtain intel
on the government's plans to wipe out the RUF. That
had come as no shock after what the Executioner had
already seen. What had surprised him to some extent
was what both men had told him about Spencer
Kiethley. Since no one had actually seen Kiethley
die, Bolan had known there was a chance, however
slight, that the man might still be alive.
    The Executioner smiled slightly as he waited in
the early-morning light. Both Margai and Loko
swore Kiethley had been taken prisoner rather than
killed.
    Bolan heard the sound of the Jeep CJ-5's engine
coming up the road and stood, stretching. Buchanan
had gone on into camp to get things started for the
day and pick up certain items of equipment they
would need before the day was out--among them,
Bolan's Beretta 93-R. The soldier-journalist would
leave the unit's training in the hands of the Gurkhas,
with Dax in charge of the camp.
    According to Loko and Margai, RUF bandits had
taken Kiethley prisoner, learned that he was an
American journalist and planned to hold him for ran-
som. Then an Arab had approached the Front through
a contact in Freetown with an offer to buy Kiethley




from them. Since the amount offered was more than
the RUF had planned to ask from Kiethley's Re-
mined Warrior associates in America, the bandits
had taken the offer with no questions asked.
    The bottom line was that Margai and Loko knew
where Kiethley was being held, and they would take
Bolan and Buchanan there in exchange for their own
freedom.
    The CJ-5 rounded a curve in the road, and Bu-
chanan pulled the vehicle to a halt. Bolan saw the
barrels of two AK-47s sticking up in the air, their
stocks jammed between the front seats. Buchanan
had changed from his shorts and tank top into khakis
and an OD T-shirt. He left the engine running as
Bolan jerked the two RUF bandits to their feet and
half helped, half threw them into the back seat of the
Jeep. He climbed over the side into the front, shifting
a duffel bag---extra clothing for him and Buchanan--
out of the way.
    Buchanan reached under the front seat and came
up with Bolan's Beretta, still in the shoulder rig. He
handed it to the Executioner, threw the Jeep into gear
and took off down the mountain road.
    It was !ate morning when they reached the out-
skirts of Freetown. Bolan had changed into his own
khakis during the drive and wore a light, short-
sleeved safari jacket that covered the Beretta, Desert
Eagle and Crossada knife. Buchanan had donned a
tropical-weight shirt over his T-shirt that hid his .45,
spare magazines and the subhilt fighting knife. The
AK-47s had been stashed in the duffel bag.

    The Executioner drew an all-purpose multitool
from his pocket and flipped out the small knife blade.
Twisting to the back seat, he said, "Turn around.
Both of you."
  The RUF men did as ordered.
    Bolan sliced through the leather strips that bound
their hands. "Remember this, though," he said.
"Make one funny move, and I'll cut more than the
restraints." He tapped the Crossada through his
jacket.
    Both bandits had seen the huge blade, and both
knew what it could do. They nodded.
"Now point out the way," the Executioner said.
Margai gave most of the directions, guiding the
vehicle on into the central area of town on the deeply
potholed road. They passed several old colonial
wooden buildings. The streets were crowded with
people and cars, and sewage flowed with the traffic
along the open drains.
    Freetown had been built on a series of hills, and
the nose of the leep was constantly heading up or
down. They entered the Basket Market at the bottom
of Lamina Sankoh Street and passed stands and stalls
selling not only basketware but also spoons, gourds,
rattles and other juju medicine. Cutting west, Margai
directed Buchanan to the suburb of Aberdeen. They
passed several expensive hotels along the beach, then
drove a mile or so into the countryside.
    "I would pull to the side of the road at this point,"
Margai said. "We are close and should talk."
  Buchanan stopped on the narrow shoulder.


    The bandit pointed to the top of a hill a quarter
mile ahead. The tops of several houses were barely
visible on the horizon. "It is an exclusive new hous-
ing addition," he said. "We delivered your Mr.
Kiethley to one of the houses."
  "To the Arab?" Bolan asked.
    "To the Arab," Margai confirmed. "But he had
Oriental men with him."
    Bolan nodded. Japanese again. It had to be the
Followers of the Truth. He pulled a set of binoculars
from the duffel bag and held them to his eyes. He
could see the tops of the houses better but nothing
else. Dropping the binoculars, he looked across the
road and saw a thickly forested area. "Bobcat," he
said, "pull the Jeep into those trees and out of sight.
You stay here with Loko." The Executioner got out
of the vehicle. "Margai and I are going to recon the
house. Wait for us."
  Buchanan nodded.
    Bolan let Margai lead the way up the side of the
hill using patches of trees as sporadic cover. When
they reached the crest of the hi!l, they stopped inside
a clump of knotted scrub trees. Bolan dropped to his
belly, and Margai followed suit. Below, on the other
side of the hill, the Executioner could see several
acres of development. He wasn't familiar with the
Sierra Leone real-estate market, but none of the
houses he saw below could have been built anywhere
in the U.S. for less than half a million dollars. There
was money behind whoever had purchased the house
where Kiethley was being kept, big money.

    Bolan pressed the binoculars against his eyes,
turned them toward the lone entrance-exit that led
from the road into the residential area, then aimed
them back at the houses. "Which one is it?" he
asked.
    Margai pointed out a large white two-story struc-
ture three blocks from the entrance to the addition.
Bolan studied it through the binoculars. Several ve-
hicles were parked in the circular driveway out front,
which meant the house could be heavily guarded.
    The Executioner lowered the binoculars and stud-
ied the neighborhood. The approachf to the house
would be open, and if guards were posted--and they
most certainly would be--he'd be spotted. He
glanced to Margai at his side, then back toward
where Buchanan and Loko waited. What would be
the best plan of attack? He didn't trust either one of
the bandits. At least not enough to take them along
when he went after Kiethley. He could use Bu-
chanan's gun, but that would mean no one was left
to guard the RUF hardmen. And if he took the two
bandits into the house, they might turn on him and
Buchanan in the middle of the firefight.
    Bolan knew he couldn't risk that, knew he and
Buchanan couldn't baby-sit the RUF men and fight
the Arab and his henchmen at the same time. Letting
the bandits go at this point was equally out of the
question--the story about Kiethley being alive might
be a complete fabrication created simply to assure
the RUF men's freedom. Margai could have pointed




out the house in the distance at random for all Bolan
knew.
    As he contemplated the dilemma, Bolan watched
a truck drive down the road and pull through the
entrance to the neighborhood. It stopped at the mail-
box in front of the first house. A hand snaked out
the window to deposit mail, and suddenly the Exe-
cutioner had the answer to both of his problems.
    He knew how he would approach the house with-
out being seen. And he knew what he would do with
the bandits while he and Buchanan attacked.
    Bolan reached over and grabbed a handful of Mar-
gai's shirt.
  The startled bandit turned to face him.
    "Listen to me," the Executioner said. "Listen
good and listen fast, because we don't have much
time. We're going down there and hijack that mail
truck. I want you with me the whole way. Every time
I look to my side, I want to see you. You under-
stand?"
  Margai nodded.
    "Good," Bolan said, nodding back. "Because if
I don't, I'll kill you."
    The Executioner scrambled to his feet and pulled
the bandit up with him. They sprinted down the side
of the hill as the mail truck moved to the next house.
Bolan knew he had to grab it before it got close to
the house where Kiethley was being held. If curious
eyes spotted him taking it, the truck would lose all
value.
  Bolan and Margai got to the vehicle just as it

pulled up to the box in front of the second house.
The Executioner grabbed the wrist of the hand hold-
ing the mail as it came through the window. With
his other hand he thrust the Beretta into the truck and
shoved it under the startled driver's nose.
  "Put the truck in neutral," Bolan commanded.
  "What?"
  "Put it in neutral!"
    The man's hand shook as if he had palsy as he
took the stick out of gear.
"Now put the parking brake on," Bolan directed.
This time the man didn't have to be told twice.
Bolan jerked the Beretta back out of the truck and
hooked a hard left through the window. His knuckles
cracked against the driver's chin, and the man's eye-
lids closed.
    The Executioner opened the door, lifted the driver
out of the seat and shoved him to the floor between
the seats. He stepped up, scooted across the steering
wheel and lifted the man's limp body again. Motion-
ing for Margai to follow, Bolan carded the mailman
back into the cargo area and laid him gently on the
ground.
"Lie down next to him," Bolan ordered Margai.
The bandit shrugged and did as he'd been told.
Bolan drew the Crossada knife and cut the cord
from several stacks of mail. Jamming the fighting
knife back in its sheath, he used the cords to bind
both men. Returning to the cab area, he took a seat,
threw the mail truck in gear and cut a U-turn out of
the residential area.




    Buchanan was a little surprised to see a postal-
service vehicle enter the wooded area. But the wise-
cracking soldier-journalist wasn't without words for
long. "What, you don't like the Jeep?" he asked,
grinning. But he sensed what was happening and
didn't have to be told what he should do next. He
handed Bolan the duffel bag with the rifles.
    Bolan waited as Buchanan pushed Loko up into
the truck and took him into the cargo area, then
started back toward the residential area. He heard the
sounds of more cord being cut, and a moment later
Buchanan returned and took the passenger's seat as
Bolan turned into the housing area's entrance.
    The Executioner drove moderately as he entered
the exclusive housing area, turning the corner onto
the street where the house Margai had pointed out
was located. "Get the AKs ready," he told Bu-
chanan.
    Buchanan opened the duffel bag, produced the ri-
fles and jammed a 30-round magazine up each one.
He handed Bolan several extra mags and jammed
more into his pants pockets.
    Three houses away Bolan stomped the accelerator
and shot the mail truck forward. He drove up into
the circular driveway, navigated the vehicle between
a Mercedes and a Lincoln and onto the grass in front
of the porch.
    The next-to-last thing the Executioner saw before
the mail truck hit the front door was a startled face
in the window next to it.

    The very last thing was a rifle barrel breaking the
glass and poking through the hole.

Somalia

MCCARTER DUCKED instinctively behind the wheel
of the Wagoneer as the bullets flew through the
windshield and windows like angry bees. The other
Phoenix Force commandos and Captain Jack did the
same.
    "Get out and take cover!" McCarter yelled as he
fumbled for the door latch with one hand and drew
the .40 S&W Browning Hi-Power with the other. He
heard the back doors open as he dived from the ve-
hicle.
    The attack came from across the street. McCarter
crawled behind the Wagoneer's engine block as more
rounds exploded. He paused for a deep breath as
James, Encizo and Captain Jack moved in next to
him. Manning and Hawkins had exited the vehicle
on the other side and taken refuge behind an aged
Ford F-100 pickup parked directly behind the Wag-
oneer.
    McCarter drew the other Browning--the 9 mm--
with his left hand. Peering over the hood of the Wag-
oneer, he saw another abandoned building. A sign in
the front yard proclaimed it to be the United Nations
Annex.
    Several people shooting rifles were visible in the
windows of the annex. McCarter picked one and
lined up the Browning's sights. As he pulled the trig-




ger, he noted that the eyes at which he fired were
almond shaped; the man was Oriental.
    The Phoenix Force leader fired a double-tap of
.40-caliber slugs into the window and heard a groan.
The shooter disappeared below the windowsill and a
Howa Type 64 7.62 mm automatic rifle fell out of
the building onto the grass.
    McCarter frowned. The face in the window had
been Oriental. The Howa was a Japanese rifle, and
an unusual weapon to find here in Somalia. Again
there was the Japanese connection.
    More rounds blew from the building into the Wag-
oneer. At least one struck the radiator, and a hiss of
steam erupted from the hood as water drained to the
pavement. The other men of Phoenix Force returned
fire, rising over the Wagoneer and pickup long
enough to pump off a round or two, then dropping
back to cover as 7.62 mm rounds answered their
shots.
    McCarter scanned the area across the street and
quickly evaluated the situation. The enemy, concen-
trated in the UN Annex building, had Phoenix Force
effectively pinned down. That had to change. Some-
one had to get to the side or behind the annex to
divert fire.
    The Briton studied the layout on the other side of
the street. To the right of the annex was a landscaped
wooded area. If he could make it across the street to
the trees, he'd have a fair chance of darting from
trunk to trunk and circling the building without tak-
ing a bullet.

     As he considered the possibilities, McCarter felt a
 tug on his sleeve and he turned to see Captain Jack.
 "Give me a gun," the warlord said.
    The Phoenix Force leader considered it. He had
made a deal with the man, but he still didn't know
how far to trust him. On the other hand the team
could use all the help they could get. The warlord
wasn't likely to turn on them now--not while their
objectives still coincided.
    A hard smile crept across the Phoenix Force
leader's face. Right now the objectives of Captain
Jack and Phoenix Force not only coincided, but were
also identical. They were all trying to stay alive.
    McCarter handed him the 9 mm Browning, then
leaned past him. "T.J.! Gary!" he yelled at the men
behind the pickup.
  Both men turned to face him.
    The Briton lowered his voice. "I'm going to cir-
cle," he said just loud enough for the other men to
hear. "As soon as I move, hit them hard. I'll need
cover.' '
    The two men nodded. James and Encizo, on just
the other side of Captain Jack, also heard. "I'11 go
with you," James said.
  "As will I," Captain Jack added.
    Again McCarter hesitated, but only for a moment.
He had given the man a weapon. He might as well
make use of him. And if he, James and the warlord
could all make it to the rear of the building, they
would have the enemy in an equal cross fire---three




in the front and three in the back. He nodded. "Let's
go, then."
    McCarter rose suddenly, sprinting past the gap be-
tween the Wagoneer and the pickup. The men in the
UN Annex saw him move and fired several bursts
that hit the pavement around his feet, sending chips
of concrete and white dust dancing into the air. En-
cizo, Manning and Hawkins opened up with cover
fire. Directly behind him, barely audible over the
gunfire, McCarter could hear the running footsteps
of Calvin James and Captain Jack.
    The Phoenix Force leader dived headfirst behind
the pickup, sliding to a halt between Manning and
Hawkins. James and Captain Jack crowded in next
to him and the gunfire from both sides continued.
McCarter looked under the truck. The trees stood on
the other side of the street approximately fifteen
yards from the pickup. That meant fifteen yards in
the open. Fifteen yards that wouldn't be a lot differ-
ent than being a duck in a shooting gallery, but he
could see no other option.
    Turning to Manning, the Briton whispered, "On
three." Manning told Hawkins, who passed the word
on to Encizo, still behind the Wagoneer.
    "One," McCarter said, inching toward the front
bumper of the pickup. Right behind him, James
duck-walked along the side of the pickup. Captain
Jack followed. "Two," the Briton whispered. With
the .40-caliber S&W in his right hand he reached out
and grabbed the bumper with his left. "Three!"
  McCarter pulled hard on the bumper and shoved

off with his legs, darting around the hood of the
pickup and into the street. Once more he heard the
footsteps of Captain Jack and James right behind
him.
    A barrage of fire from behind the two vehicles
crossed the street, splattering the face of the UN An-
nex and slowing the response from the men in the
building. The Phoenix Force leader was halfway to
the trees before the return fire started. And even then,
it was hurried. The assault thrown out by Manning,
Hawkins and Encizo kept the men in the annex off
balance, and their rounds flew high past McCarter
and the others.
    McCarter made it safely into the trees, taking ref-
uge behind a thick trunk. By now the men in the
annex had corrected their aim and round after round
thumped into the wood at the Phoenix Force !eader's
back. More bullets flew past to cut leaves and twigs
from the branches of other trees.
    Turning to his side, McCarter saw that both Cap-
tain Jack and Calvin James had made it to safety
behind their own tree trunks. But that was only the
first step. Spotting another thick trunk ten yards
deeper into the wooded area, the Briton took a deep
breath and darted from cover. Rounds flew through
the trees again, whizzing past his ear like enraged
hornets. Reaching the tree, the Phoenix Force leader
took refuge once more.
    One by one, tree by tree, McCarter, James and
Captain Jack hopscotched their way farther into the
woods and along the side of the UN Annex building.




The gunfire from Encizo, Hawkins and Manning con-
tinued across the street.
    The Phoenix Force leader cast a glance around the
sides of a tree. By now he and the others had worked
past the point where anyone at the front of the annex
would have a shot at them. But rounds continued to
strike the trees. That could only mean that some of
the enemy had abandoned the front windows for lo-
cations along the side of the building. The Orientals
were following them toward the annex's rear, which
was exactly what he'd hoped they would do. The
enemy was dividing, no longer able to focus an as-
sault in one direction.
    The trees curved around the rear of the annex, and
McCarter led the way, again darting from cover to
cover until he, James and Captain Jack were at the
rear of the building. He and the others had held their
fire during the trip through the trees, but now they
opened up with all they had.
    McCarter saw two more heads drop as he and
James each took out one. The Phoenix Force leader
shook his head. Every man he had seen so far was
Oriental. Sure there were Orientals in Africa, but this
many together as a team? McCarter knew there was
a Somalian connection to the cult through Kiethley.
But what was it?
    McCarter stared out from the trees at the back of
the annex building. Two entrances led into the build-
ing, one to his left, the other to the right. Both doors
were a good ten yards from the trees, which meant
another precarious sprint under fire. He, James and

Captain Jack would have no cover at all until they
reached the short concrete entryway walls that shot
out two feet on both sides of the doors. Even then
cover would be minimal, as the walls had decorative
holes the size of volleyballs cut into them, making
them look like the honeycombs of giant bees.
    What worried McCarter was the time it would take
to open the doors. They would have to slow down
and be almost-stationary targets, which meant any-
one on the second floor above could simply lean out
the windows and shoot down.
    But McCarter could see no other alternative. If
they didn't go in the enemy could hole up inside the
building until Somalian authorities arrived to arrest
anyone on either side who hadn't been shot.
    McCarter maneuvered to a tree where both Cap-
tain Jack and James could hear him. "We go on three
again," he said. "Calvin, take the door to the right.
Jack, you and I will go left. We've got to hit them
hard and fast, then we've got to get out of here before
the cops come."
    James had been thinking along the same lines.
"I've been expecting to see our buddy Captain Ber-
ber for the last ten minutes," he said, then frowned.
"But what bothers me even more are those doors,
David. They open out. It's not like we can sprint up
and just push our way through. We'll have to come
to a complete stop and--"
    "And hope we don't catch a few bullets in the top
of the head." McCarter nodded. "I know. If you
have a better idea, I'm ready to hear it."




 James shook his head.
    "Then get ready," McCarter said. He turned back
to face the rear of the UN Annex. Then, with another
countdown he was leading the way under a storm of
rounds toward the back door.
    The Phoenix Force leader snapped two quick
rounds up at the second-story windows as he sprinted
toward the blue steel door. Out of the corner of his
eye he could see James heading across the grass to
the door on the right. Behind him McCarter heard
Captain Jack's heavy breaths as the warlord fol-
lowed.
    McCarter was ten feet away from the blue steel
door, close enough to see the steel security mesh in
the window in the upper hall when the cold, lonely
thought struck him.
  The door might be locked.
    But by then there was no turning back. McCarter
sprinted on under the gunfire from the second floor.
He reached the hole-ridden concrete entryway wall,
slammed into the blue steel door, grasped the handle
and pulled, again wondering if the bolt might be
locked.
  It was.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

New York

The van was still parked in the small airport parking
lot when Jock Reno dropped off Able Team in the
Harrier. Schwarz commandeered the steering wheel.
Blancanales slid the side door open and got in back,
and Lyons took the shotgun seat. Ten minutes later
they had left the area and were cruising through the
Brooklyn Polish district of Greenpoint.
    On the fringes of Park Slope, Schwarz turned the
van into the Jamaican and Dominican neighbor-
hoods. They passed brownstones, limestones and row
houses built a hundred years earlier and entered a
Victorian area that dated from the turn of the century.
Turning onto a road paralleling the Brooklyn Bridge,
they entered the villagelike atmosphere of Brooklyn
Heights.
    Wayman Eugene Freeman lived on the fourth flour
of a renovated mansion facing the East River. What
at the turn of the century had been a single-family
dwelling suitable for a king had gone to ruin by the




1950s and sold cheap to young speculators in the
1970s. Remodeled into fashionable condominiums,
each individual unit now sold for perhaps ten times
what the owner had paid.
    Schwarz pulled the van to a halt down the block
and killed the engine. "So, Ironman, we just go in,
say, 'Good day, Mr. Freeman, we'd like to ask you
a few questions about all the people you and your
little Japanese potentate friend are planning to gas in
the subway'?"
    Basically it was the same question Lyons had
asked himself during the flight back to Brooklyn.
Kurtzman had run him a hard copy of Freeman's rap
sheet, and he had studied it while they were in the
air. Violence was no stranger to Wayman Freeman;
he'd been arrested for strong-ann robbery, murder
conspiracy and most everything else in between.
    Lyons needed to talk to the man, not kill him. And
an up-front assault stood a good chance of forcing
Freeman into a fight. The former LAPD detective
glanced at the date of birth listed on the page. He
knew from experience that Freeman had reached an
age when many career criminals make a decision to
die fighting rather than return to prison. They'd de-
cided they'd done all the time they intended to do
and preferred death to incarceration.
      "Let's go scout it out first," the Able Team leader
finally said. "Then we'll decide."
  "Suits me," Schwarz said.
  Blancanales nodded his agreement.

    Able Team got out of the van. They had changed
out of their suits and sport coats during the flight in
order to blend in better in Brooklyn Heights. All
three now wore jeans, T-shirts and athletic shoes.
Blancanales had donned a faded leather bomber
jacket, Lyons wore a khaki bush jacket and Schwarz
had gone with a jean jacket.
    There was more reason for the outerwear than
fashion or weather. The jackets covered the team's
weapons.
    Lyons looked out over the East River as they
walked along the crowded sidewalk past painters,
street musicians and vendors selling pretzels and ba-
gels. The Manhattan skyline was the prominent at-
traction, and the Able Team leader saw tourists snap-
ping photos as they emitted oohs and ahhs. The trio
passed a short shopping strip that housed a butcher's
shop, a bakery and a hardware outlet that all looked
as if they'd been run by families for generations.
    Able Team came to the restored mansion and
walked up the sidewalk. Two men and a woman
walked out of the front entrance, none of them stop-
ping to give Lyons, Schwarz or Blancanales a second
look. Lyons led the way inside the building and up
the steps.
    The renovators had kept the Victorian flavor of the
house. What had once been the mansion's entryway
and living room had been converted into a common
sitting area. The decor included ornately carved
chairs and love seats, velvet curtains drawn back




from the windows and fringed lamp shades. Lyons
walked to the black registry on the wall.
    Freeman's apartment was just off the stairs on the
fourth floor. The team climbed the stairs warily, their
hands close to their guns. There was no reason Free-
man should expect them, but he was getting close to
a major operationwgassing a subway. He might be
wary anyway.
    On the fourth floor they walked down the hall,
waiting as an elderly woman carrying a newspaper
in one hand and a leashed poodle in the other came
out and hurried past them toward the stairs.
    As soon as she was out of sight, Lyons took up
position to the left of Freeman's door, his back
against the wall. Schwarz and Blancanales took the
right. The Able Team leader rapped backhanded sev-
eral times on the door with his left hand, his right
curled around the rubber grips on the Colt Python.
  He got no response.
    Lyons knocked again, then again. Glancing across
the door, he saw Schwarz shrug, then nod at the door
with a questioning look.  Lyons nodded.
    Schwarz fished into the breast pocket of his jean
jacket and came out with a leather case not unlike
those that accommodate manicure sets~ But unzip-
ping it, he revealed a set of professional lock picks
rather than nail files and cuticle trimmers. Kneeling
on the floor in front of the door, Schwarz went to

 work, and thirty seconds later the tumblers rolled into
 line.
  Thirty-one seconds later the door opened.
     Lyons went in first, the Python up and leading, He
 found himself inside a large living room bare of fur-
 niture. Odds and ends scattered the soiled carpet: a
 discarded magazine here, an empty can of cleaning
 solvent there. Trash of all types indicated that some-
 one had just moved out. Hurriedly.
    The Able Team leader stuck his head around the
corner into a small kitchen and saw a similar story
with abandoned utensils and dirty dishes. B!aneana-
les and Schwarz had left the kitchen to him and
moved to the hall on the other side of the living
room. Lyons saw Blaneanales in the bathroom half-
way down the hall. Schwarz had gone on into the
bedroom.
    Blancanales was reading the label on a prescrip-
tion-medicine bottle as Lyons passed. "The script's
for Gene Freeman, Ironman," he said. "It's the right
place. At least it was the right place."
    Lyons nodded, shoved the Python back into his
holster and joined Schwarz in the bedroom. It was
the same story there with the forsaken items consist-
ing primarily of worn-out clothing. The place had
obviously been deserted, fast.
    Lyons thought back to dishes in the kitchen. There
had been food left on some of them, but it hadn't
rotted badly yet. Freeman--or at least someone---had
been here within the past day or two.




    "Hey, Ironman," Schwarz said suddenly, drop-
ping to a squatting position on the carpet. He dug
through a cigar box filled with junk jewelry and other
odds and ends and came up with several photo-
graphs. As he shuffled through the pictures, Lyons
saw a grin break out on his face. "Oh, baby,"
Schwarz said.
    "What's that?" Blancanales asked as he entered
the room.
    "Take a look." Schwarz held out one of the pho-
tos.
    B!ancanales looked at the picture, then turned his
smile up to Lyons, as well. "Well, I've got the an-
swer to why my interrogation of Ira Rook left me
feeling uneasy," he said. "He was holding out on
me."
Lyons held out his hand, and Blancanales handed
the picture to him.
ú The big ex-cop looked down at the photo and saw
a Caucasian man wearing a kimono. Kneeling in
front of the man the world knew as the Great Hikari,
the Caucasian was obviously receiving some sort of
blessing.
     "Recognize the guy on his knees?" Schwarz
 asked.
     Lyons nodded. "And I'd say Rook was holding
 out even more than you thought." He stuck the photo
 in his pocket and stared for the door.
     "This could turn out to be even more fun than last
 time," B!ancanales said.

    "It could," Schwarz agreed as they stepped out
into the hall. "That smile on Ironman's face---I saw
it in a cartoon one time. The cat had just captured
the mouse and was sharpening his knife on his fork."
    Blancanales laughed. "He does look happy," he
said as they tried to keep up with their leader going
down the steps. "But then, how many times do you
get to slap around an old enemy like Ira Rook twice
in one mission?"

Sierra Leone

THE FRONT DOOR, the trim around it and most of the
door frame crashed inward as Bolan guided the mail
truck across the porch and into the house. Wood
splintered, and wallboard burst into dusty chunks.
    The Executioner dived from the driver's side of
the truck, Buchanan from the other. Bolan readied
the AK-47 as he hit the ground in the house's ante-
chamber. An Orientalrathe same man he had seen in
the window only seconds before driving the truck
into the house--now appeared nearby, holding a 7.62
mm Howa.
    The Executioner's AK-47 beat the man to the
punch, peppering the gunner's chest, leaving tiny red
holes where the rounds entered. In the second that
followed, the red circles doubled in size, as did the
Oriental's shocked eyes. Dropping the Howa, the
man fell forward onto his face, his eyes frozen wide
for all eternity.
 On the other side of the truck Bolan heard Bu-




chanan open up with his own AK-47. The soldier-
journalist held the trigger back, sending a full-auto
blast into two more men who had entered the foyer.
The men danced like the marionettes of some crazed
puppet master as the rounds struck home, then col-
lapsed to the tile floor next to a staircase leading to
the second floor.
    Bolan wondered at the preponderance of Orientals
as he took a second to survey the surroundings. Mar-
gai and Loko had said that an Arab had "bought"
Kiethley from them. But they hadn't mentioned Ori-
entals. The cult had members on three continents
now, but the majority were still Japanese. Was that
the reason? Pushing the unanswered questions to the
back burner for the time being, Bolan wondered
briefly what room in the house held Spencer Kieth-
Icy. He had no idea, and the only way to find out
was to conduct a systematic search.
     Before the Executioner could organize his
 thoughts further, a short squat man toting another of
 the Howas suddenly appeared in a side door to the
 entryway. He held the Japanese rifle against his
 shoulder and took aim at Bolan.
     The Executioner cut him down with a 3-round
 burst. The shooter was thrown back against the wall
 of the foyer, then slid down to a sitting position in a
 pool of his own blood.
     To the left of the staircase Bolan saw a formal
 dining room. A long dining table, chairs, buffets and
 other items carefully carved from dark mahogany

 furnished the room. The door through which the
 squatty man had come led into a hall.
    To the right of the stairs the Executioner saw the
living room. Beyond that a glass wall led to a con-
servatory, stocked with plants. Through the glass
wall he could see the long picture window that
formed the back wall to the house and, through it,
the backyard.
    "Take the dining room!" Bolan ordered Bu-
chanan, then hurried into the living room. Behind
him he heard Buchanan immediately open fire, and
was turning to assist when three more men carrying
Howas lunged into the living room from the conser-
vatory.
    Bolan dropped to one knee, letting a swarm of
rounds fly over his head. He braced the stock of the
AK-47 on his shoulder and held the trigger back. A
figure eight of bullets cut through the trio of attack-
ers.
    The Executioner walked cautiously toward the
conservatory, stepping over the bodies of the three
men as he went. He stepped off the carpet of the
living room onto the multicolored tile that held the
potted plants, and stopped. He could see the backyard
clearly now through the plate-glass window. It
looked as clear as the conservatory.
    Glancing left down the long narrow room, the Ex-
ecutioner saw a door he knew had to lead back into
the area of the house where Buchanan had gone;
through it he could hear gunfire. At the other end of
the room was a single step leading downward to a




thick wooden door. The door stood open, and from
where he stood Bolan could see what looked like part
of a den. The AK-47 aimed ahead of him, he started
that way.
    The Executioner had taken only two steps when a
sudden flash of movement in the backyard through
the plate-glass window caught his attention. He
whirled, and the glass shattered as a man in the back-
yard pulled the trigger of his rifle. The rounds burst
into the conservatory in a flurry of sparkling glass
slivers to strike the wall just to one side of Bolan.
    The Executioner returned fire, his own rounds
shattering more of the plate glass before drilling into
the gunner's face, punching him out of sight below
the windows.
    Buchanan's AK-47 continued to chatter from the
other end of the house as Bolan hurried to the step
in front of the thick wooden door. Taking up a po-
sition against the wall, he shoved a fresh magazine
into the rifle. Risking a quick look around the comer,
the Executioner saw no one in the den. Cautiously
he took the single step down and moved into the
room.
    The den was large and comfortably furnished with
overstuffed couches and armchairs, and its walls
were paneled with knotty pine. A wet bar with a
slotted swinging half door in the counter sat just in-
side the room to the Executioner's right.
    Bolan saw another quick flurry of movement
through the slats as he passed. Twisting at the hips,
he fired the AK-47 through the door, the slats ex-

 ploding as if they'd been struck by a sledgehammer.
 Short slivers of wood blew through the air like twigs
 in a windstorm. The door fell from its hinges.
     The big American cleared the rest of the den. Find-
 ing nothing, he retraced his steps into the conserva-
 tory. Moving past the living room, he took the door
 at the other end and emerged into a short hallway.
 From where he stood, he could see the front door
 again to his left. The kitchen stood directly ahead.
    The Executioner entered the kitchen to find two
dead Japanese on the floor. He pushed through a
swing door set in the opposite wall, looked through
and saw the dining room. Buchanan had left his mark
with another dead man staining the carpet with his
blood.
    Bolan entered the dining room, carefully stepping
over Buchanan's handiwork. He wondered where the
soldier-journalist had gone--he could hear no more
firing from anywhere in the house. Returning to the
front entryway, the Executioner turned his attention
up the staircase.
    And none too soon. As he looked up, a muscular
Oriental wearing a black tank top aimed a rifle down
the steps.
    Bolan angled the AK upward, hip-shooting a 3-
round burst that struck low in the assailant's groin.
The man dropped his weapon, screamed and toppled
down the steps, both hands cupping his bloody
crotch. The Executioner put three more rounds in his
chest as the man passed.
 His battle senses on high alert, the Executioner




hurried up the staircase, pausing at the top of the
steps. White marble statues sat on stands against the
wall opposite the rail. He moved forward toward a
door that led into a hallway, passing what he rec-
ognized as a representation of Amaterasu-o-mi-
Kami, the Shinto sun goddess. He drew the Desert
Eagle and eased past a statue of a dog, then a fox--
also Shinto kami, or gods. Glancing at the wall, he
was surprised to see a crucifix, a Star of David and
a framed pen-and-ink sketch of Muhammad.
    Bolan thought back to what he had read of the
Japanese cult in the Stony Man intelligence file. No
specifics had been cited, but it appeared that the
Great Hikari had mixed many aspects of the different
world religions to come up with his cult.
    Reaching the door, the Executioner paused, then
started down the hall. He had heard no gunfire since
leaving the first floor, but now he heard a voice. An
angry voice. With a Mideastern accent.
The Executioner's instincts told him to hurry.
Breaking into a sprint, Bolan reached the open
door at the end of the hall and burst into a bedroom
in time to see a man wearing a European-cut suit and
a black-and-white-striped kaffiyeh cock the hammer
on a S&W Model 66.357 Magnum pistol. The man
was slight of stature and had a ferret look to his face.
    The Arab that Margai and Loko had spoken of,
the one who had bought Kiethley? Maybe.
    But this was hardly the time to ask questions. Bu-
chanan sat on the edge of the bed, the four-inch bar-

 rel of the Smith & Wesson in the Arab's hand
 pressed against his forehead.
     Bolan leveled the Desert Eagle on the stainless
 steel of the Model 66, lining the sights up on the
 trigger guard. He squeezed the trigger, and the huge
 .44 exploded.
    The man in the kaffiyeh screamed as the revolver
went spinning from his hand. He turned toward Bo-
lan, drew a long dagger from beneath the jacket of
his suit and lunged forward.
    Another .44 Magnum hollowpoint round roared
from the Desert Eagle's barrel and added a third eye
in the center of the attacker's forehead. His other two
eyes rolled back into his head as he sunk first to his
knees, then fell forward onto his face.
    Bolan walked forward and patted the man's suit
until he felt a wallet. Pulling it from the Arab's
blood-soaked slacks, he opened it to find several
credit cards and an international driver's license in
the name of Muhammad Araba. The name meant
nothing to the Executioner.
    "Saving my ass is getting to be a habit of yours,
Pollock," Buchanan said. "Not a bad habit though--
don't try to break it or anything." When Bolan didn't
respond, he added, "Thanks. Our Arab friend--who-
ever he was--was getting tired of me refusing to tell
him who we were."
    Bolan nodded, sticking the driver's license and
credit cards back in the billfold. He dropped it into
his pocket, making a mental note to have Kurtzman
run down the name.




    Buchanan stood, lifted his AK-47 from the floor,
then grinned at Bolan. "By the way," he said, crook-
ing his neck toward a door on the other side of the
bedroom.
    Bolan followed him into a small private office.
Bound and gagged and sitting in a straight-backed
wooden chair in the center of the room was Spencer
Kiethley.
    Bolan drew his fighting knife, then hurried forward
to cut the ropes around Kiethley's chest.

Somalia

MCCARTER JERKED again on the steel door handle,
muttering a flurry of curses under his breath. Close
at his heels, he heard Captain Jack grind to a halt.
    "What's wrong?" the warlord said. "What's
wrong !"
    "It's locked," McCafret said, angry at himself for
not thinking of the possibility before he sprinted out
of the trees. He turned his eyes to the other rear door
in time to see it swinging slowly shut. He caught a
fleeting glimpse of Calvin James's legs as the com-
mando sprinted through the door and into the UN
Annex.
    A round from somewhere struck the concrete wall
to McCarter's right, then went zinging away. A sec-
ond round zipped through one of the decorative holes
to strike the concrete on the Phoenix Force leader's
other side. This time the bullet bounced back at him,
missing his shoulder by inches and striking the op-

 posite wall. It continued Io ricochet back and forth
 against the walls like a steel ball on a roulette wheel.
     McCarter looked through one of the holes in the
 direction from which the bullet had come. In a see-
 ond-story window halfway between where he stood
 and the door through which James had entered, he
 saw a man changing magazines in his Howa rifle.
 The Phoenix Force leader aimed the Browning
 through the hole and pulled the trigger.
     The rifleman dropped his weapon and dropped out
 of sight below the window.
    McCarter took a step back and looked up at the
other windows overhead. The barrel of an automatic
rifle appeared in the open window directly above the
door. Then the rest of the rifle poked through the
opening. An Oriental man became visible.
    As if in slow motion, McCarter watched as the
Howa was aimed toward him.
    The Briton raised the Browning and sighted on the
man in the window. He fired a lone .40 S&W round
that took off the top of the rifleman's head as neatly
as if McCarter had scalped the man. The gunman's
eyes rolled up as he tried to see what had happened.
    McCarter's next round drilled between those eyes.
The man pitched forward out of the window, per-
forming a somersault in the air before he hit the
ground behind both McCarter and Captain Jack.
    The Phoenix Force leader glanced quickly along
the rest of the windows on the building's second
floor. Seeing no immediate threat, he looked back
through the wall at the door where James had entered




the building. For a moment he considered leading
Captain Jack on a sprint across the yard to that door.
But that would mean leaving even the little cover the
hole-ridden wall provided.
    McCarter looked back at the door in front of him.
There might be a better way.
    "Jack! Cover the second floor!" McCarter yelled.
Through the tiny squares formed by the steel mesh
between the double window panes he could see a
brightly lighted hallway. He jammed the muzzle of
the Browning against the glass and crisscrossed steel
bands and pulled the trigger repeatedly, shattering the
glass. Reaching up, he tried to pull the steel away.
    The mesh showed the wear the .40-caliber rounds
had caused, but it didn't move.
    McCarter heard two pops behind him and glanced
up in time to see another man in the window. Captain
Jack had fired twice. Both rounds had missed the
man but had been close enough that he jerked back
into the window. As McCarter watched, he leaned
back out again and tried to aim his rifle.
McCarter didn't let him. He raised his pistol.
Captain Jack fired again a split second before the
Phoenix Force leader pulled the trigger. Once more
the warlord's round missed its target, striking the
building next to the window and chipping off a nug-
get of brick the size of a golf ball.
    McCarter's aim was more true. His .40-caliber
round punctured the gunman's throat, and another of
the Japanese attackers plunged from the window,
belly-flopping on the ground.

    The Briton pressed the Browning against the win-
dow again and emptied the weapon with rapid semi-
auto fire. He dumped the empty magazine and
rammed a fresh box into the grips. Then he reached
up, trying to move the steel mesh away, and get to
the bar handle that ran the width of the door on the
inside.
  Again the steel stayed in place.
    McCarter heard Captain Jack firing behind him
and glanced overhead to see the warlord's rounds
drive another man back inside the building. But the
head and rifle returned, and once more the Briton had
to postpone his assault on the door to take the man
out with two more rounds to the upper chest.
    Blood rained on both McCarter and Captain Jack
as the man plummeted to the ground.
    The Phoenix Force leader turned back to the door.
By now all the glass over the steel mesh had shat-
tered. McCarter aimed the Browning carefully at the
bottom left-hand comer of the steel and fired. A
round hole appeared. Moving the sights slightly, he
fired again. The second hole struck just to one side
of the first, the round edge barely overlapping.
McCarter readjusted his aim and pulled the trigger a
third time.
    On and on the Phoenix Force leader went, cutting
a .40-caliber line through the steel across the bottom
of the window.
    Again McCarter emptied the Browning, dropped
the empty mug and shoved a fresh one into the grips.
This time when he pushed on the steel, it swung in.




    Not much. But enough. With the Browning in his
right hand, McCarter stuck his left arm through the
window, reached down and grasped the cross bar.
    "Jack!" the Phoenix Force leader shouted. "Get
ready !"
    The steel mesh had closed back over McCarter's
arm after he'd stuck it through the hole, trapping him
against the door. The angle was awkward; he had to
press in on the bar, at the same time pulling the door
toward him. He would have no way of aiming ac-
curately until after he'd freed his arm and entered the
hallway. He watched the hall through what remained
of the mesh as the steel door slowly swung outward.
    The door was halfway open when the man with
the submachine gun stepped into the hallway.
    "Jack!" McCarter shouted. He swung the door all
the way open and against the wall in the hopes that
the warlord could shoot past him trapped between
the door and the wall of the entryway, unable to
quickly withdraw his arm and get into position.
    Captain Jack took the shot, all right. The only
problem was he missed again.
    The Oriental with the subgun--a Japanese Type
100 McCarter could see now--took his time aiming.
The Briton tried to pry his arm free from the window
as he heard Captain Jack fire again. Once more the
warlord choked and missed.
    The man with the subgun opened fire, sending a
steady stream of rounds within an inch of McCarter's
exposed left arm and on through the open door.

 Behind him, Captain Jack kept firing, too. Both
 men kept missing.
    McCarter closed the door slightly and leaned to
his right, allowing himself enough room to maneuver
his right arm around the door and aim the Browning.
He squeezed the trigger, sending a .40-caliber round
down the hall. The bullet went high over the left
shoulder of the enemy gunner. McCarter corrected
his aim and hammered another pair of rounds from
the weapon.
    The first of the pair caught the subgunner squarely
in the chest. The second drilled through his nose and
out the back of his head.
    With a moment to breathe now, McCarter braced
his gun hand against the door and pried his other arm
back out of the window. He turned quickly to Cap-
tain Jack. The man had almost emptied the Browning
and had yet to hit a man. Pulling the warlord's Ruger
Vaquero from his belt, McCarter handed it to him.
Maybe he'd do better with his own gun. "Follow
me," he ordered, and hurried on down the hall.
    McCarter filed two items in the back of his mind
as he made his way over the dead subgunner to a
cross hall. First Captain Jack had stood fearlessly be-
side him, firing away at the enemy. But second, and
equally important, the Phoenix Force leader didn't
want to forget that the warlord's accuracy left a lot
to be desired.
    The bottom line was that Captain Jack couldn't
shoot worth a damn.
McCarter heard running footsteps as he neared the




intersecting hallway. He stopped, the Browning held
tight to his side. A second later a black man carrying
another of the Type 100 weapons rounded the corner.
    The Briton jammed the Browning into the man's
belly and pulled the trigger twice. The gunner jerked
both times, looking more like a boxer taking a pair
of uppercuts to the abdomen than a man being shot.
He dropped to the ground.
    McCarter led Captain Jack on. Rounding the cor-
ner, he saw a door leading to the stairs at the end of
the hall. He sprinted toward it with the warlord at his
heels. With a quick glance through the glass, he
shoved the door open, held it until Jack caught it and
hurried through.
    The former SAS commando took the steps three
at a time as he made his way to the second floor. He
paused again before stepping into the open. This time
he heard nothing.
  But this time something heard him.
    The Phoenix Force leader sensed his mistake as he
stepped out of the stairwell and tried to turn, bringing
up the Browning. Before he could do so, a pistol
jammed into his temple. For a moment nothing hap-
pened.
    Then McCarter heard a low chuckle in the still
hallway.
      The pistol lowered, and the Briton turned to see
Calvin James. "Sorry, boss," James whispered.
  "Think nothing of it."
    Sporadic fire sounded at the other end of the sec-
ond-floor hall. James motioned that way with his

head. "I don't think there are many left," he whis-
pered, "and they're all down at that endinstill tiring
across the street. I don't think they know they're
alone yet, or that we're in the building."
    McCarter frowned. He hadn't heard any tire that
sounded as if it came from James's Beretta since he
and Captain Jack had made it into the building. But
several bodies littered the hall in the direction James
had indicated. "They haven't heard you?" he asked.
    The Phoenix Force commando grinned, and for the
first time McCarter noticed what the former SEAL
held in his other hand--a SOG Trident knife with a
razor-edged six-and-one-quarter-inch blade.
"Lead the way," McCarter instructed him.
James turned and started down the hall. McCarter
and Captain Jack followed, stepping over the knife-
fighting SEAL's handiwork as they went. Calvin
James had learned his blade techniques as a wayward
youth on the streets of South Side Chicago. He had
refined them in the Navy, and the man knew a thou-
sand and one ways to employ the silent edged
weapon.
    By the time they were halfway down the hall,
McCarter had heard enough guntire to know that
three of the enemy remained. Two were tiring the
Howas. The third kept up chatter with another of the
Type 100 subguns. The Phoenix Force leader
grabbed James's sleeve as they neared the room from
which the gunshots came. "We need at least one of
them alive," he whispered. "I want to know why
this many Japanese are in Somalia."




 James nodded.
    McCarter and James edged toward the open door.
When Captain Jack started to follow, the Phoenix
Force leader stopped him. "Cover our backs, Jack,"
he said, remembering the man's poor marksmanship.
He pointed back down the hall.
    The warlord turned, both the Browning and Va-
quero aimed that way.
    McCarter held up his index finger, and James nod-
ded.
    The Phoenix Force leader added his middle finger,
and James nodded again.
    As the third finger went into the air, both men
turned the comer into the office.
    Three men knelt in front of the windows, still
pouring fire down on Hawkins, Manning and Encizo.
The one on the far left was a black man, and he
turned as the men from Stony Man Farm entered the
room.
    McCarter raised his weapon and squeezed the trig-
ger, sending a lone .40-caliber round into the man's
eye as he sprinted forward.
    The gunner at the window to the right was also
black. James caught him with a double-tap of 9 mm
rounds as he, too, tried to turn.
    By then McCarter had left his feet and was sailing
through the air. His flying tackle ended with his arms
around the neck of the third man at the center win-
dow. James joined his teammate, driving a shoulder
into the Oriental's spine.
  The man grunted in both pain and surprise.

     McCarter brought the Browning around and
 knocked him cold. Wasting no time, he looked back
toward the door. "Jack!" he called out.  The warlord ducked into the room.
    "Give me a hand with this guy," McCarter or-
dered. He had already grabbed the unconscious man
under the arms.
    Looking up at James, he added, "Calvin, you
cover us. Yell down first and tell the others we're
coming out."
      James hurried to the window. "Hold your fire!"
he yelled down to Manning, Hawkins and Encizo.
  The gunfire ceased immediately.
    McCarter and Captain Jack lugged their prisoner
out of the room and into the hall. James joined them,
then hurried past, his Beretta held in both hands and
ready to answer any threat that presented itselfi
    By the time the men reached the first floor, they
could hear the sirens. By the time they had made it
out the front door, they could see the cars. Some of
the vehicles bore the logo of the Somalian police.
Others displayed that of the customs department.
    McCarter and Captain Jack carded the Oriental
across the street as James fired several rounds in the
general direction of the flashing lights and screaming
sirens. The commando had no intention of hitting
them. He merely wanted to slow them.
    With the Wagoneer's radiator punctured, Hawkins,
Manning and Encizo had commandeered the Ford F-
100 parked next to it, and Hawkins was already hot-
wiring the aging pickup. Manning and Encizo helped




throw the unconscious Oriental into the bed of the
pickup, then jumped into the cab next to Hawkins.
McCarter, James and Captain Jack leaped over the
sides of the Ford next to the unconscious man.
    As Hawkins pulled away from the curb, rifle
rounds flew past the vehicle like a sudden swarm of
locusts.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Alexandria, Virginia

Ira Rook might work in Washington, D.C., but he
wasn't about to live there. In spite of his raging ed-
itorials about how the American rich became wealthy
at the expense of the poor, in the face of his printed
diatribes that America was the most racist nation on
the planet and regardless of how many times he held
a martini glass in one hand and preached the morality
of a more socialistic redistribution of wealth in the
United States, Ira Rook wasn't stupid.
    He knew it was just too dangerous to live in Wash-
ington, D.C., proper. And besides, it was so dirty ....
    The night was approaching as Lyons pulled the
rented Lumina APV off the bridge and entered Al-
exandria, Virginia, just across the river from Wash-
ington. Along with all of his other hypocrisies, Ira
Rook had an unlisted phone number and address.
Kurtzman had put Huntington Wethers to work lo-
cating the man. It had taken the cybernetics expert
all of thirty seconds to crack the phone company's




unlisted file and find both the house and number of
the Able Team leader's old nemesis.
    Lyons turned onto Fairfax Street and cruised past
Carlyle House, a restored 1752 Virginia mansion. He
shook his head. He would never have guessed that
Rook was a follower of the Great Hikari, but the
picture appeared to be proof. The unscrupulous editor
couldn't have been a member of the cult very long,
however, or he'd have been talked into giving up his
worldly possessions like other converts. Insider in-
formation gained through the newspaper business
had meant that Rook had done well financially with
investments; he had far more wealth than the average
Follower of the Truth convert. Which meant that the
Great Hikari might not have gotten around to going
after his money yet, but he would soon.
    The Lumina cruised past the eighteenth-century
Stabler-Leadbetter Apothecary, now a pharmaceuti-
cal museum.
    "He was playing both sides of the fence," Bian-
cahales said from the seat next to Lyons, breaking
into the Able Team leader's thoughts. "He had to
be,"

    Lyons glanced toward him. "Sorry, I was thinking
about something else. What did you mean?
    "Rook, playing both sides of the fence. He took
the information from Spencer Kiethley and printed
the story." The Able Team psy-op expert shook his
head in disgust at the treachery. "Then he turned

 around and told his cult buddies where they could
 find Kiethley in Sierra Leone."
     "Yeah, but Kiethley fooled them all in the end,"
 Schwarz said from the back seat.
Blancanales turned toward him. "How's that?"
"He went and got killed by the RUF before the
cult fiunkies could find him," Schwarz said cyni-
cally.
    "That's if he was killed," Lyons said. "No one
actually saw him die. Striker had his doubts about it.
So do I."
    "What I don't get," Schwarz went on, "is how
Rook held out when you questioned him, Pol."
    Blancanales shrugged, remembering the strange
interrogation to which he had subjected the editor in
the storage garage. "I never asked him anything
about the cult," he said. "At least not directly. It
never dawned on me that he might be connected to
them. I was just trying to find out what he knew
about Kiethley."
    Lyons drove on, twisting and turning through the
historical city and finally turning onto North Royal
Street. They cruised past the famous Gadsby's Tav-
ern, where George Washington had recruited men for
the French and Indian wars, and later for the revo-
lution. Leaving the historic district, the Lumina en-
tered a modern light-commercial area, then a lower-
middle-income residential neighborhood. Gradually
the houses became larger, turning to mansions that
could belong only to the rich and famous.




"What was the address?" Blancanales asked.
"It's 14 Natural Chimneys," Lyons said.
Biancahales frowned. "Weird name for a street."
"It must be named after the Natural Chimneys
near Staunton," Schwarz said from the back seat.
"They're odd-looking stone towers about a hundred
feet high and pierced with tunnels."
    "Thank you, Professor," Blancanales said, grin-
ning. "Will that be on the test?"
    Lyons turned onto the sweet they were discussing.
"All right, knock it off," he said. "We're almost
there." He drove for another mile, and the houses
and lots became even larger. The Able Team leader
felt another surge of anger at Rook's duplicity.
    But a reckoning was at hand. Lyons intended to
find out what else Ira Rook knew about the cult and
the upcoming subway gassing. And if Rook had to
get braised a little in the process, well, that was just
his tough luck.
    By the time the men of Able Team saw Rook's
house, dusk had fallen, and they had entered a small
lake area. The houses faced the road, but each had a
huge deck that faced the water. Although it was an
embarrassment of wealth, Rook's wasn't the biggest.
    Lyons pulled the Lumina to a halt a quarter mile
from Rook's house and lifted a pair of binoculars to
his eyes. Through the quickly fading light he saw a
Colonial-style house with steeply pitched dormers
and a deep columned front porch. A massive double
chimney rose from one side of the house, and small

windows--traditional to the simple "farmhouse" ar-
chitectural style--had been arranged in a contem-
porary way to light the interior.
    The Able Team leader shifted the binoculars to the
rear of the house. A long pier led from the shore to
a boathouse on the lake. Both a small rowboat and
a larger motorboat were tied to posts under the roof.
A stone breakwater and marsh grass ran under the
pier twenty yards from the shoreline.
    "It looks to me like running you down in the
newspaper is a profitable activity, Ironman," Blan-
canales said.
    "Maybe we should try it." Schwarz grinned.
"We've got some good stories we could tell."
    Lyons ignored their ribbing, shifting the binoculars
back to the circular driveway in the front of the house
and the variety of vehicles parked on the curved
pavement. A scan along the windows showed lights
on in several areas of the house.  Rook wasn't alone.
    Lyons dropped the binoculars. "Get the Calicos,
Gadgets."
    Schwarz reached into the storage area behind him
and pulled three hard plastic gun cases over the seat,
keeping one for himself and handing one each to the
men in the front seat. "You looking forward to this,
Ironman?" he asked.
    "What's that?" Lyons asked as he opened his
case.
  "When we talked to Rook before, we just thought




he was a hypocritical liar," Schwarz said. "Now we
find out he's not only a cult member, he betrayed
Spencer Kiethley and may be responsible for his
death. He's a righteous bad guy."
    Lyons pulled the Calico 960 submachine pistol
from its case. "Yeah? So what's your point?" he
asked.
    Schwarz glanced to Blancanales and grinned.
"He's not just a citizen you don't agree with any-
more," he said. "He's a scumbag criminal like all
the rest. You won't have to treat him with kid gloves
any more.' '
    Lyons slipped into the Calieo's shoulder sling and
adjusted the straps. "I do my job, Gadgets," he said.
"No more, no less."
    Blancanales had been getting into his own Calico
rig. "Yeah, but sometimes our jobs are more fun than
others."
    Lyons glanced at the sky. In another two minutes
it would be dark.
    The men of Able Team waited, then they got out
of the Lumina and started for Ira Rook's house, pre-
pared for battle.

Sierra Leone

THE JEEP CJ-5 was too small to transport Bolan, Bu-
chanan, Kiethley and their two RUF prisoners back
to the training camp. The mail truck would soon be

 missed, and it would be far too easy for authorities
 to spot on the road.
  They needed another vehicle.
    The French-run Lagon Bleu Hotel was located just
on the other side of the bridge that connected Free-
town and Aberdeen Creek. Bolan guided the mail
truck across it into the parking lot and killed the en-
gine.
    In the bucket seat against the opposite window of
the cab sat Spencer Kiethley. The man had been
beaten severely, and systematically, since falling into
the hands of the cult. It was all Kiethley could do to
move his tortured limbs enough to eat a little of the
food Bolan found in the kitchen of the house in
which he'd been held prisoner. Once Kiethley had
something in his stomach, the Executioner had also
given the battered man a healthy dose of aspirin. That
seemed to have helped the pain, but full recovery
would take time. He was unable to walk, and Bolan
and Buchanan had been forced to carry him from the
house. Kiethley had told them the bizarre story of
how the events in Somalia, Japan, Sierra Leone and
the U.S. all fit together, and then fallen asleep in the
truck.
    Bolan paused, sorting it all through his mind. It
seemed that the abandonment of the classified U.S.
documents that had started the whole show hadn't
been simple carelessness on the part of UN staffers
as had been originally thought. The boxes of top se-
cret material had been purposely discarded. The Fol-
lowers of the Truth had infiltrated the United




Nations, and their spy had hidden the documents
when the UN had pulled out of the building.
    Another cult member had been on his way to re_
trieve them When Kiethley, who had been hired as
part of a security team to assist in the withdrawal,
stumbled onto the boxes. He had turned some of the
classified files over to U.S. forces but hidden others.
    "Why?" Bolan had asked the beaten man. But by
then an exhausted Kiethley had fallen asleep.
    Buchanan squatted in the open area between Bolan
and Kiethley. In the rear of the truck, still tied up,
were Margai, Loko and a very confused Sierra Leone
mailman.
    Bolan glanced at the Lagon Bleu, then began to
scan the parking lot. The hotel was medium priced,
and the lot contained the same medium-priced, non-
descript type of vehicle that the Executioner was
looking for. He wanted something that would get
them all back to the training camp without drawing
attention.
    The Executioner's eyes passed over a Chevy Sub-
urban Silverado, a Toyota pickup, then a Ford
Bronco II.
    "How about the Jimmy?" Buchanan asked, point-
ing to the left.
    Bolan followed Buchanan's finger toward a white
two-door 4X4 two rows from where they sat. It
looked to be in good shape, and it would get them
back to camp as well as anything else he saw. The
Executioner nodded. "Stay here," he said. "I'11

 drive back and pick you up as soon as I've wired
 it."
  Buchanan nodded.
    The Executioner opened the door and dropped
down from the mail truck, glancing toward the hotel,
then around the parking lot as he made his way ca-
sually toward the Jimmy. The restaurant was open
and looked to be frequented by a mixture of locals
and tourists. Men and women, some in shorts with
cameras around their necks and others wearing more-
traditional native dress, had come and gone ever
since he'd pulled into the lot. No one seemed to have
noticed the truck.
    The Jimmy was locked when the Executioner
reached it. Not caring to take the time to pick it open,
he glanced quickly around, then drove an elbow
through the glass. The shattering made little noise,
and a second later Bolan had unlocked the door,
swept the glass off the seat and slipped behind the
wheel. A second later he had cracked the steering
column and had the Jimmy's engine purring.
    He backed the vehicle out of the parking place,
drove to the end of the row of parked cars and turned
back toward the mail truck. He stopped next to the
vehicle, looked up into the cab and saw a fully awake
and frantic Spencer Kiethley waving at him.
  Buchanan was nowhere to be seen.
    The amber "caution light" that was always on in
the Executioner's brain flashed red.
    Leaping from the Jimmy, Bolan looked up again
to see that Kiethley was now missing, too. He jerked




open the mail truck's door and pulled himself into
the cab to see that Kiethley had fallen between the
seats. The beaten man was trying to pull himself
along the floor to the back of the truck.
    Drawing the sound-suppressed Beretta, the Exe-
cutioner stepped over the man, threw the dividing
curtain back and saw why.
    The Executioner looked into the cargo area in time
to see Buchanan jerk his subhilt fighting knife out of
Loko's chest. The RUF bandit, his eyes open wide
but sightless in death, slithered to the floor.
    The soldier-journalist had already dealt with Mar-
gai. The RUF man lay on the floor, both hands
clutching the puncture in his chest. The mailman was
still tied, gagged and watching everything with wild
eyes.
    Buchanan turned to Bolan, blood covering the
blade of his knife and dripping to the floor. "Sons
of bitches got loose," he said. "They reached
through the curtain, jerked me into the back and this
one--" he nodded at Loko "-- damn near strangled
me."
    Only then did Bolan notice that the cord with
which Loko had been bound was still wrapped
around Buchanan's neck. He also saw the red line
on Buchanan's skin where the makeshift garrote had
been. He stood over Margal. "Why?" he asked.
"Why did you do it? You took us to Kiethley. We
were about to let you go like we promised."
  Margai struggled for air. When he spoke, blood

poured out with the words. "We...didn't...believe
you," he whispered. They were his dying words.
    "You should have," Buchanan said simply as he
wiped the subhilt on Margai's shirt and then sheathed
the blade.
    In the wake of everything that had happened, Bo-
!an had temporarily forgotten Spencer Kiethley. Now
he saw the man struggling to get off the floor and
back into his seat. The Executioner grabbed him un-
der the arms and lifted him to a sitting position, then
turned back to the rear of the truck. "Bobcat, leave
what's left of Loko and Margai here. The mailman,
too---he'll work himself free eventually or else some-
one will find the truck. Help me with Kiethley."
    Bolan and Buchanan lifted Kiethley and got him
out of the mail truck and into the back seat of the
Jimmy. Buchanan took the passenger's seat next to
the Executioner, who then pulled out of the parking
lot and started back into Freetown proper.
    Kiethley was full awake now and, even after his
fall trying to help Buchanan, seemed to be doing
much better. He wouldn't be running any marathons
for a while, but he looked as if he was up to a little
more talk.
    "Kiethley, how come you turned some of the clas-
sified documents back over to the UN but hid oth-
ers?" the Executioner asked over his shoulder as
they drove back across the bridge into the city.
    Kiethley glanced up at Buchanan, then to Bolan,
then back to Buchanan. "Look, Bobcat," he said.
"I've known you for more years than I tell young




girls I'm old," he said. "And after all I've been
through, you may just be the only human being I still
trust." He looked back to the Executioner. "So even
though you guys saved my ass back there, I got to
ask, okay?" He looked back at Bolan. "Can I trust
this guy?"
    Buchanan laughed. "So far he's saved my ass
even more times than he's saved yours."
    "Okay," Kiethley said. "Point made. You ever
heard of Nerve Ending? I don't mean the usual way,
like the nerve endings in your body. I mean in ref-
erence to chemical warfare."
  Both Bolan and Buchanan shook their heads.
    "I hadn't, either," Kiethley said. "Until I came
across those boxes of classified documents. "It's new
stuff, Nerve Ending is. But it's aptly named---a nerve
gas that puts an end to anything it reaches."
    Bolan guided the Jimmy through the city toward
the road to the training camp. "Tell me more," he
said.
    "It's got a range roughly ten times that of satin,
and it makes Tabun and VX symptoms seem like a
mild allergy," Kiethley said. "It kills fast, and it's
easy and fast to manufacture. You just have to know
the formula." He paused. "That's what was in one
of the boxes of classified documents. The formula
for Nerve Ending."
    Bolan felt a cold chill run up his spine as the com-
ponents of the mission that had so far seemed unre-
lated began to take shape in his mind. "I'm assuming
that's the box you hid?"

     In the rearview mirror he saTM Kiethley nod. "The
 other boxes contain innocuous stuff, at least com-
 pared to Nerve Ending. I figure the cult member
 working for the UN just left them out so the whole
 thing would be chalked up to incompetence, which
 it was."
    The Jimmy left the city and started down the road
to the commando training camp. Bolan kept one eye
on the sides of the road for bandits as he listened to
Kiethley's story continue to unfold. "And so you
turned the less important stuff back over to the UN
to see what would happen?"
    "Right. Call it a hunch or whatever you want.
Some little voice in the back of my head just told
me to be careful."
  "And what happened?"
    "The UN security officer who took the stuff kept
asking me questions about whether there was more.
He asked enough times that I began to realize he
already knew there was more."
    "This security officer," Buchanan said. "A Fol-
lower of the Truth member, too?"
    Kiethley shrugged. "That was my guess. All I
know is that after I left the boxes with him I picked
up a tail. They tried to nab me twicemnot kill me,
that would have been easy. They were trying to take
me alive, which tells me they wanted to know where
the missing box was stashed."
    Bolan guided the Jimmy on down the road, seeing
no sign of RUF bandits this time. "So you figured it
was the Great Hikari's boys trying to get their hands


on the formula so their little subway parties would
be even more fun than with satin?" he asked.
    "You got it," Kiethley said. "I needed to split
Sorealia fast anyway, what with them trying to grab
me, so I headed for Japan." He looked down at his
feet and shook his head in frustration. "I made an
appointment with one of the Japanese detectives fa-
miliar with the subway-gassing cases and guess
what?"
    "You began to suspect he was affiliated with the
cult, too," Bolan said.
    Kiethley's head jerked up in surprise. "How'd you
know that?"
    "Because you went to Ira Rook in Washington at
that point," Bolan stated. "If you'd been satisfied
with what you'd done in Japan there would have
been no need to do that."
    "Right," Kiethley said. He turned to Buchanan
and grinned through the bruises that covered his face.
"Your new partner's pretty sharp, Bobcat," he said,
then looked back to Bolan. "By the way, what do I
call you?"
  "Pollock," Bolan said.
    "All right, Pollock, I haven't officially thanked
you for getting me away from our blood-and-
bathwater-imbibing friends. So thanks."
    "You're welcome," Bolan said. "One more ques-
tion."
  "Shoot."
  "Where is the Nerve Ending formula now?"

     Kiethley shrugged. "Unless somebody's found
 them, still back where I hid it in Mogadishu."
    The Executioner stomped the brakes, skidding the
Jimmy into a U-turn on the rugged road. The other
men in the vehicle groped for handholds as they slid
through the ! 80 degrees. Suddenly they were head-
ing back in the direction from which they had come.
    For a moment there was silence, then Buchanan
said, "I take it our tour of duty as Sierra Leone com-
mando trainers has ended."  Bolan nodded.
    Buchanan shrugged. "The Gurkhas can take it
from here as well as we could," he said. "And what
the hell, I haven't been to Somalia for a while."
  Bolan shook his head.
    "What? We're not going to Somalia to recover the
Nerve Ending box?" Buchanan asked.
    "I've got some friends already there. Kiethley can
tell them where it is, and they'll pick it up."
    "Then where are we going?" Buchanan asked.
"If making a phone call is all we need to do, there's
a secure line back at camp."
    "We can use a phone here," Bolan said. "The
call can be scrambled from the other end. And be-
sides, making the call isn't all we need to do."
    "What then?" Kiethley asked. "We going some-
where?"
    "Japan," the Executioner said. "We're going to
find the Great Hikari and put an end to all this once
and for all."
  "Kill him?" Spencer Kiethley asked.




  Bolan didn't bother to answer.
    Kiethley raised a hand and gingerly felt his bat-
tered face. "I just got one request."
    Bolan looked at the man in the rearview mirror.
His face wouldn't heal for some time, and some of
the scars would remain to remind him of the Great
Hikari and his cult from now on. "What is it?" the
Executioner asked.
  "Let me do it," Kiethley stated grimly.

Somalia

Two SOMALIAN POLICE CARS, led by a Ford Bronco
marked with the seal of the customs department, took
after the F-100 pickup carrying the men of Phoenix
Force away from the UN building.
    McCarter sat with his back against the cab. The
Japanese man they had brought out of the UN Annex
lay at his feet in the bed of the pickup, still uncon-
scious. Captain Jack sat next to the Phoenix Force
leader with Calvin James on the other side of the
warlord. All three men faced the oncoming convoy
of law enforcement.
    Hawkins swerved periodically, dodging the bullets
that flew from the police vehicles. McCarter and the
others gripped whatever handholds they could find,
fighting valiantly to keep from being thrown from
the truck. In between being bounced back and forth
across the pickup bed, McCarter squinted at the man
in the passenger's seat of the Bronco: broad shoul-

ders, barrel chest, full black beard above a Somalian
customs uniform tunic.
    It was Manning's old bench-pressing buddy, Cap-
tain Berber.
    Hawkins swerved suddenly, and McCarter saw an
old woman dive for the pavement to the side. She
was frightened but unhurt, and McCarter watched her
shake her fist at the passing vehicles as she got back
to her feet. She'd been lucky.
The next person not paying attention might not be.
McCarter turned to James as they hit a straight-
away past a pair of mosques, then a Roman Catholic
cathedral next to the al-Aruba Hotel. They were near-
ing the market where pedestrian traffic would be
thick and a stray bullet or bumper could easily take
out innocents. "Calvin," McCarter said, "think you
can hit a tire?"
    "Think I better at least try." Pulling his knees
almost up to his chin, James drew his Beretta and
extended it between his legs. The black Phoenix
Force warrior's thighs clamped tight around his
wrists, bracing the weapon. McCarter watched him
sight down the barrel, then take a deep breath as they
bumped through a series of dips. As soon as the dips
ended and the ride evened out, he pulled the trigger.
    The explosions from pistol and rubber sounded
like one as a 9 mm round struck the right front tire
of the Bronco. The customs vehicle skidded, then
began to fishtail.
    McCarter watched Captain Berber reach out and
brace both of his arms on the dash as his driver




fought to keep control of the vehicle. For a second
it looked as if the man would succeed, then the front
fender skimmed against a parked car. The Bronco
slowed, quit fishtailing and began to whirl in circles.
    The police car right behind it smashed into the
side, ending the revolutions. The second police car
struck the first. The force shoved all three vehicles
down the street another thirty yards in an orgy of
screaming metal, then they all came to a halt in the
center of the road.
    McCarter watched a shaky Captain Berber get out
of the Bronco and dust himself off as the F-100 con-
tinued on away from the scene.  "Nice shot," McCarter said.
    A tap sounded on the rear windshield of the pickup
behind them, and McCarter, Captain Jack and James
all turned.
    Manning and Encizo faced them, their fists ex-
tended with the thumb pointing upward.
    The pickup slowed as it entered the market area
by the main bus station. Hawkins chauffeured them
past booths and stalls where vendors hawked cloth,
carved pipes and other objects, and jewelry. The live-
stock market appeared, and with it came all the ac-
companying sounds, sights and odors.
    McCarter glanced at the unconscious Oriental as
the man began to stir, then twisted and stuck his head
over the side of the pickup and toward the cab so
Hawkins could hear him. "We need some place pri-
vate to talk to this guy," he shouted against the wind.
"Head for the beach area."

    Hawkins nodded. McCarter shifted to the rear of
the pickup bed, braced his back against the tailgate
and faced the front. They passed the Lido Club, the
Djibouti embassy, the Anglo-American Club and
then a line of craft shops advertising exotic fabrics
and camel-bone carvings. Traffic thinned as they left
the city proper. A sign pointed them on toward Ge-
zira Beach and the F-100 rolled along, the waves of
the Indian Ocean lapping at the sands. A hotel ap-
peared along the beach with a sign that promised a
shark-protected beach.
  An idea struck the Briton.
    Short dirt roads that led into coves began to shoot
off the roadway. Some had crude hand-painted signs
that announced their names. Other grottoes were too
small to be designated. A mile or so past the hotel,
McCarter saw another sign, this one with a bright red
arrow pointing toward the water. Shark's Cove, it
announced, which sounded like just what he wanted.
    The Phoenix Force leader tapped the glass. Man-
ning turned to face him. McCarter pointed toward the
sign, then hooked a thumb off the road toward the
cove. He watched Manning translate his pantomime
to Hawkins, and a moment later the young Phoenix
Force commando was slowing at the turn.
    The bumpy road led to the edge of the water fifty
yards off the highway. McCarter looked out over the
gentle waves and saw a shark-shaped coral formation
jumping out of the water. For a moment he wondered
if that was what had given the cove its name, then




he saw the dorsal fin sliding along the surface of the
water to the fight of the coral.
    The coral might have been one reason Shark's
Cove got its name, but it wasn't the only one.
    The Japanese man had come around by the time
Hawkins ground the pickup to a halt on the sand.
James had already taken over as baby-sitter, moving
the man to a sitting position on the open tailgate and
shoving his Beretta up under his chin. McCarter took
the opportunity to scout around for the type of terrain
he wanted for what he was planning.
    He found it twenty yards away. Just to the right
of the pickup, a hard finger of rocky shore jutted off
the bank and over the water. McCarter walked out
onto the solid extension, squatted and looked down
into the water. Warm waves washed gently against
the bottom of the outcropping.
    The Phoenix Force leader looked out over the wa-
ter and saw the dorsal fin passing the coral formation
again. Where there was one, he knew there would be
others close by.
    McCarter rose and walked back to the pickup.
Manning, Hawkins, Encizo and Captain Jack had all
gathered around the Oriental.
    McCarter walked up and stood in front of the man,
looking down. "Are you a follower of the Great Hi-
kari?" he asked.
    Slowly the man nodded. "Praise Hikari!" he said.
"The Great Hikari !"
"What were you doing back at the UN building?"
The man's lips clamped shut.

     McCarter looked him in the eye. "What is your
 name?"
  "Haki," the man said.
  "You're Japanese?"
  The man nodded.
  "What were you doing back at the UN?"
  Again the man wouldn't answer.
    McCarter sighed. "Haki," he said, "we can do
this the hard way if we have to. I'd rather not, but
we can.' '
  The Japanese didn't respond.
    McCarter looked at the man. He was small, most
likely weighing less than 120 pounds. The Phoenix
Force leader reached out and grabbed Haki's left
arm. He nodded to Manning, who grabbed the right.
Together they lifted the man off the tailgate and into
the air.
    McCarter and Manning marched the surprised
Oriental out to the end of the rock finger, setting him
on his feet on the edge. The Phoenix Force leader
pulled the Spyderco Delica knife from his pocket and
thumbed it open. He held the knife in his right hand,
grabbed Haki's arm with his left and extended the
man's limb over the water. McCarter flicked the tip
of the blade lightly across Haki's wrist, and several
drops of blood dropped into the waves.
    Fifty yards away the dorsal fin gliding along the
top of the water turned toward them.
    Haki had already figured out What was up and tried
to turn. Manning grabbed him by the scruff of the
neck and lifted him into the air again. "Don't run




off, Haki," the big Canadian said pleasantly. "We're
just starting to have fun."
    McCarter and Manning each grabbed an arm again
and lifted the man over the water.
    "No...please, no..." His legs kicked ferociously
in the air as if he were riding a bicycle.
    "Sorry, my friend," McCarter said. "If you don't
want to answer our questions, you have to pay the
price." Slowly he and Manning lowered their captive
until the man's kicking feet churned the water.
    The dorsal fin swam steadily closer until McCarter
could see the distinctive snout of a hammerhead
shark. He and Manning waited until the hammerhead
was three feet away before jerking Haki back onto
the rock.
    The shark followed the movement, rising up out
of the water, its teeth snapping the air an inch from
Haki' s knee.
  The man screamed.
    The shark splashed back down into the water and
disappeared beneath the gentle waves.
    "Now, what was it you said you were doing back
at the UN?" McCarter asked.
    Tears streamed down Haki's cheeks, and McCarter
almost felt sorry for him. The Phoenix Force leader
had to remind himself that only a few minutes earlier
Haki had been doing his best to kill them and, if
given half a chance, he would try again.
    The shark reappeared thirty yards from the rock
formation. It slid along the water, back and forth in
front of the men, as if its tiny brain somehow sensed

 that the "bait" would be lowered into the water
 again.
     McCarter decided to try a stronger approach and
 add to their captive's fear. "What were you doing at
 the UN!" he yelled in Haki's ear at the top of his
 lungs.
    "I cannot tell you!" Haki shouted back. "Praise
the name Hikari! I cannot tell you!"
    Manning and McCarter lifted the Japanese into the
air again. As they lowered him toward the water,
Manning said, "I'd try not to kick if I were you,
Haki. Fluttering the water will just attract our fine
tinned friend."
    Haki tried to follow the advice, his whole body
going rigid. But as soon as the toes of his shoes
touched the surface of the water, instinctive fear
overrode common sense. His feet began to run in
place and churn the water like an outboard motor.
    The wild rippling didn't escape the Hammerhead
and several of his friends. Across the water twenty
yards away, McCarter saw four more sharks headed
toward them.
    "Look, David," Manning said. "Looks like a
family reunion headed our way."
  "Yes," McCarter said, "it does."
    The four new dorsal tins joined the original shark
and swam toward them.
    "You know, when my family gets together,"
Manning said, "we always have a big dinner to cel-
ebrate."




    "Mine, too," McCarter agreed. "Everybody
brings something. Salad, or potatoes, or whatever."
    "Spanish rice," Manning said. "My grandmother
used to always bring Spanish rice."
    The five sharks were now within ten feet of Haki's
feet.
    "Well, I don't know what they brought," Mc-
Carter said, nodding toward the sharks. "But we're
providing the main course."
  "The meat," Manning agreed.
    A second later he and Manning jerked Haki out of
the water. This time five sharks rose, bit the air, then
dived back under the gentle waves.
  Haki was crying uncontrollably now.
  "You ready to talk?" McCarter asked.
  The man didn't answer.
    "All right, I've had it," McCarter said in disgust.
He pulled Haki's arm over the edge of the water and
pinched the small cut he'd opened on the man earlier.
More blood dripped into the waves.
    The sharks had stayed by the rock formation this
time and were circling in anticipation. As the blood
hit the water, they went wild, jerking and snapping
their long teeth. A large shark sunk his teeth into a
smaller one, and more blood seeped into the water.
    Suddenly the cove was a whirlwind of crunching
teeth, swirling water and flying blood as the ham-
merheads attacked one another.
    "This is your last chance, Haki," McCarter
warned, lifting the Japanese off his feet again and
dangling him over the water. "You've got to the

count of three to start talking. If you haven't told us
what your were doing at the UN by then I'm simply
going to drop you in." He paused. "One..."
  "No! In the name of the Great Hikari--"
  "Two..." McCarter said.
    Haki closed his eyes in prayer. "O, Great Hikari,
all-knowing protector, O Great--"
    "Three!" McCarter shouted. He let his grip loosen
on the Japanese.
    "Hikari forgive me for what I am about to do!"
Haki screamed. "We were looking for the box!"
    McCarter tightened his grip again. "What box?"
he demanded.
    "The box that contains the formula for manufac-
turing Nerve Ending!"
  "Nerve ending?" McCarter asked, puzzled.
    "Yes, Nerve Ending! Put me down on the ground!
Please, put me down! I will tell you all about it!"
    The Japanese did as he had promised, and when
he was done, David McCarter wondered if his face
looked as white as those of the other men of Phoenix
Force.




CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Stony Man Farm

Aaron Kurtzman couldn't help thinking of the old
jokes that used to begin with "I've got some good
news and some bad news ...."

    The good news was that five minutes earlier he'd
finally broken the new computer codes for the Jap-
anese police records and intelligence divisions, and
tapped into the files. From the records division he
had identified the man in the news clip with the Great
Hikari--a small-time criminal named Ichiro Murai.
Murai had a long series of arrests, but few convic-
tions.
    Switching to police intelligence files, Kurtzman
had found little hard intel concerning Mural but a
great deal of speculation in the reports. Officers had
even suggested that Murai had to have had a partner
in many of his confidence games and other crimes.
The police didn't know who that partner was.
  Neither did Kurtzman. But the Stony Man Farm

computer ace suspected that whoever it was now
called himself the Great Hikari.
    The bad news? That was where things stopped.
Mural and the Great Hikari were in hiding, and until
Bolan or McCarter or Lyons called in with some new
bit of evidence, Kurtzman had nowhere else to go on
his magic machines. The old computer adage "gar-
bage in, garbage out" didn't really apply; it was
more like nothing in nothing out. Which could drive
a man like Aaron Kurtzman crazy. He might be con-
fined to a wheelchair, but in his own way he was as
much a man of action as any of the Stony Man Farm
personnel. He knew that every mission involved a
blend of computer and legwork but downtime irri-
tated him. If this went on too long...
    It didn't. "Boss man!" Akira Tokaido suddenly
shouted.
  "Look."
    Kurtzman, already picking up on some of the
young man's excitement, quickly cleared his screen
and tapped in the necessary information to link him
to Tokaido's computer.
    "Look!" Tokaido said again, pointing to his mon-
itor.
    It didn't take Kurtzman long to see why his young
assistant was excited.
    The computer man had the telephone receiver in
his hand and was about to tap Barbara Price's inter-
com button when Price called him instead. "Aaron,"
she said, "I've got David on the line. I think you'd




better listen to what he has to say." She paused.
"Hal just landed. He's on his way upstairs to his
office phone right now."
    Kurtzman heard a click, then McCarter's voice
said, "Aaron?"
    The computer man said, "Yeah, David, where are
you?"
    "Place called the Lido Club just outside Moga-
dishu," McCarter replied. "Don't worry--Barb's
scrambling the call." He cleared his throat and went
on to explain to Kurtzman what Haki had told the
men of Phoenix Force about Nerve Ending.
"You ever heard of it before?" McCarter asked.
"Rumors of a supergas, yeah," the computer man
said. "But never anything concrete, and never a
name."
    "Kiethley hid the documents pertaining to the
gas's manufacture and dispersion somewhere in So-
malia. My guess is he suspected the Followers of the
Truth had men inside the UN."
    As he listened, Kurtzman heard another line ring
in the mission control room. Through the glass he
saw Price pick up the phone again.
    "We know the box is here," McCarter told Kurtz-
man, "but we don't know where. The cult hardman
we grabbed and his friends were looking for it.
They'd already searched the UN building and the
annex and were about to leave when we showed up."
  "Then at least the Followers of the Truth don't

have Nerve Ending," Kurtzman said. "They didn't
find it."
    "They didn't find it. But our friend Haki says there
are other search teams looking other places, so by
now, who knows? Too bad Spencer Kiethley's not
still around. He's the only one who could have told
us where it is--or was."
    McCarter went on to explain a few of the details,
but for all practical purposes he was finished when
Price cut back in. "Aaron? David?" she said.
"Striker is on the other line. He's with Spencer
Kiethley."
  "Put him on!" McCarter said.
    A click sounded over the line, then Kurtzman
heard Bolan's familiar voice. "David," he began,
"Barb tells me you already know about Nerve End-
ing. Let me put Kiethley on, and he'll tell you where
to find the box."
    Yet another line began ringing in the mission con-
trol room as they all waited for Kiethley. Kurtzman
watched Price answer it through the glass again.
    A moment later a weak voice got on the line. "Mr.
McCarter," Kiethley said, "where are you right
now?' '
    "Just outside Mogadishu at a place called the Lido
Club. You know it?"
    "Damn!" Kiethley said. "You're right across the
road! Go across to the Anglo-American Club--men's
locker room, locker number 412. You got it?"
  "We're on our way," McCarter said. "I'll call




back from there in a couple of minutes." Another
click sounded as he hung up.
    Bolan got back on in place of Kiethley and said,
"What else, Aaron?"
    Before Kurtzman could answer, they heard another
line being picked up. "Aaron? Striker? Who am I
talking to?" The voice was Brognola's.
    Kurtzman and Bolan both filled in the director
from their points of view, teaming up to include the
intel McCarter had from Somalia. As they were
winding it down, Price came back on. "Gentlemen,"
she said. "Hold the line for Able Team."
    Carl Lyons was the next voice heard. "We're sit-
ting here in Ira Rook's living room," he said, "and
you aren't going to believe what he just told me."
    "Does it happen to have to do with a new nerve
gas called Nerve Ending?" Kurtzman asked.
    For a moment Lyons was silent. Then he said,
"How'd you know?"
Kurtzman told Lyons what the others had learned.
"So let me get this straight," the Able Team
leader said. "Kiethley hid the box that has the Nerve
Ending formula in it. He just told McCarter and his
boys where it is so they can go pick it up?"
      "Right," Kurtzman said. "Assuming that one of
the other cult search teams hasn't found it yet."
  "We don't know?"
  "We don't know."
    "Does anybody know what the cult has planned
if they get the formula?" Lyons asked.

    Now it was Kurtzman's turn to add to the barrage
of intelligence that had suddenly come down from
all ends of the mission. "To manufacture the gas and
hit thirty-nine different sites around the world,"
Kurtzman said. "The Great Hikari, known until two
years ago simply as Toshiro Ohara, is planning to
have his angels and brain-dead disciples take out mil-
lions of people all over the globe."
    For a moment all phone lines leading into Stony
Man Farm were silent.
  Then Bolan said, "Angels?"
    "Toshiro Ohara?" Lyons said. "You've IDed the
Great Hikari?"
    "Wait a minute," Brognola said. "How do you
know all this, Aaron?"
    Kurtzman cleared his throat. "Akira has been
monitoring the Japanese Defense Forces computers,"
he said. "Just a few seconds before you called in, he
intercepted a phone call from an agent of theirs
named Reiko Fukoto. Seems she's been sleeping
with the Great Hikari."
  "So she knows where he is?"
    "Both of them--Ohara and Mural--are in an old
castle in Okinawa. Fukoto informed her bosses that
it was owned by one of Hikari's converts."
    "Does this Reiko Fukoto have a list of the sites
they plan to gas if they get the Nerve Ending for-
mula?" Brognola asked.
    The phone in mission control was ringing again
and Kurtzman watched Price pick up the receiver as




he answered. "Negative," Kurtzman said. "She says
Ohara and Mural are playing that one close to the
vest." He cleared his throat. "But keep in mind that
the cult plans to carry out these thirty-nine attacksin
it would have been forty, but Able Team already neu-
tralized the one in Brooklyn---even if they don't get
the formula for Nerve Ending. Fukoto's phone call
claims they'll just substitute satin."
    The line clicked yet again. Kurtzman glanced at
his watch. If Phoenix Force was right across the
street from the formula as Kiethley claimed, they'd
had time to get it and call back by now.
    "What good news," Lyons said sarcastically. "If
the Followers of the Truth have to use sarin, then
millions of people won't die. Just hundreds of
thousands."
    David McCarter's voice was calm and clear when
he said, "Count on the millions, Ironman." Again
the lines went silent for a moment as every member
of the Stony Man team digested exactly what that
meant. Then McCarter confirmed it. "We just arrived
here at the Anglo-American Club locker room. All
the attendants are dead. Locker number 412 has been
pried open." He paused, then everyone on the other
lines of the conference call heard him take in a deep
breath.
    "It's empty," the Phoenix Force leader stated.
"The Great Hikari and the Followers of the Truth
have got Nerve Ending."

Okinawa

 ICHIRO MURAI SLAMMED the door behind him and
 walked to the bed.
Reiko Fukoto opened her eyes and looked up.
Murai grabbed the woman by the throat and pulled
her from the bed onto the floor. A quick kick to the
temple rendered her unconscious again.
    "What--?" Toshiro Ohara blurted out, sitting up
in bed.
    "She is a spy!" Murai shouted. "She is with the
Japanese Defense Forces!" Looking at the floor, he
shook his head angrily back and forth. "I warned
you, Toshiro! I warned you!" He leaned over the
bed and slapped the Great Hikari across the face.
  Yoshiko, lying next to the cult leader, gasped.
    The Great Hikari's hand went to his face, rubbing
it. "I am sorry, Ichiro," he almost whined.
    Such a statement in such a tone of voice from a
god brought another gasp to the woman's lips.
    Murai turned his attention to the woman with the
big breasts. "Get her out of here before I kill both
of you!" he roared.
  Yoshiko looked to her god in horror.
    "My dear, perhaps you should go out and--"
Ohara started to say.
    Murai slapped Ohara again, cutting him off.
Reaching across the man in the bed, he grabbed
Yoshiko by the hair and jerked the nude woman
across Ohara and onto the floor. Still holding her
hair, he began to drag her across the room. Yoshiko




alternately panted for air and shrieked in pain as she
struggled to keep up on all fours.
    When Murai reached the door, he opened it. Mov-
ing behind the woman, who was still on her hands
and knees, he placed a shoe between her buttocks
and propelled her out into the hall where one of the
lesser angels was waiting to take her away.
    The man grabbed Yoshiko by the hair as Mural
had done, and dragged her down the hall.
    Mural slammed the door behind him again. He
looked from Fukoto to Ohara and felt his stomach
wrench--in anger toward the woman and disgust to-
ward the man. At that moment in time he would have
loved to have killed his old friend. But such a move
would be counterproductive. If they could escape to
another hiding place before the Japanese Defense
Forces arrived, the gassings could go on. Even if they
were captured here in Okinawa, the Nerve Ending
gas was already on its way to the distribution bases
and the attacks could be used as a bargaining tool.
    In either case the Great Hikari was still needed as
a figurehead for the Followers of the Truth. Damage
control was what was called for rather than revenge.
At least for the moment.
    "What did she tell them?" Ohara asked, a weak,
pitiful smile on his lips.
    "Everything, you fool! What we have planned,
where we are now. Everything except the list of sites
we plan to gas."
  "How did you catch her?" Ohara asked.
  "She did not know that our phones have automatic

recorders on them. The call was made last night, but
the recordings were not reviewed until this morning.
Which means the Japanese Defense Forces have had
her information for hours now." He lifted his wrist-
watch to his eyes. "I should expect them to kick in
our doors at any time."
    Ohara sat straighter up in bed. "It is too late,
Ichiro," he said. "Carver and LeForce and Araba
have already returned to the command bases on their
respective continents. The Nerve Ending gas has al-
ready been manufactured. There is no way to stop
US."
    Murai reached forward with both hands, closing
his fingers around the Great Hikari's throat. "You
fool!" he said again. "While you lie in bed having
sex with spies, some of us pay attention to the world
outside!" Ohara's eyes were bugging, and Murai
forced himself to let go of the man's throat. He alsø
lowered his voice, knowing he was still mad enough
to kill his old friend if he didn't get a grip on himself.
    "Let me explain the situation to you," he said.
"Carver is in America. LeForce is in Parris, and
Araba would have been in Riyadh if he had not been
killed in Sierra Leone."
    Ohara sat up straighter. "Muhammad Araba is
dead?"
    "Yes. When he left the meeting here, I sent him
to Freetown to take charge of Kiethley's interroga-
tion himself. The others were getting nowhere. Then,
late yesterday afternoon, someone drove a mail truck
into the house, killed them all and freed Kiethley."




Ohara shook his head in disbelief. "The Defense
Forces?" he asked.
    Mural shook his head. "I do not think so," he
said. "Reiko had not yet made her call. And one of
our lesser angels returned from an errand in time to
see the mail truck leave the house. He said they
looked like Americans." Murai turned toward the
wall. "But without Araba, the thirteen Nerve Ending
sites in the Mideast cannot go forward. We now have
only twenty-six gas sites left."
    The Great Hikari leaped from his bed and hurried
toward the clothes closet. "Twenty-six is enough,"
he said as he opened the door and began rummaging
through the contents. "Millions will still die, and we
will still hold the world in terror and awe. We will
be able to name whatever price we like. But we must
leave here immediately." He grabbed a Western-
style shirt and a pair of blue jeans. With sunglasses
and his braid hidden under a baseball cap, he could
travel without being recognized.
    Another thought crossed Ohara's mind, and he
turned to Murai. "We must destroy all evidence of
what is about to happen," he said.
    Mural nodded. "I have already given that order.
The lesser angels are doing so," he said. "The gas
has been manufactured, formed into time bombs and
delivered to the primary sites in Paris and Wichita,
Kansas. At the appointed time, they will go to the
local sites throughout Europe and America to be
planted: Once that has happened, there is no way we
can be stopped."

AT ONE TIME, when security was a vital part of the
castle's role in violent feudal Japan, the wooded area
around the stone structure would have been kept
cleared so the guards in the watch towers could see
the enemy approach from a distance. But according
to Reiko Fukoto's report to her superiors, the owners
of the building during the past hundred years had
liked the privacy and atmosphere the trees lent the
castle and the forest had been allowed to grow up
within feet of the walls.
    Bolan silently thanked the owners for the cover
they had provided as he sprinted from the trees to
the wall. Combined with the dark night and Fukoto's
intel that Toshiro Ohara, a.k.a. the Great Hikari, and
Ichiro Murai were relying on a low profile rather than
on a massive security force, he could be relatively
sure of an unnoticed approach.
    Behind him Bolan heard Buchanan and Kiethley.
Kiethley was recovering quicker than Bolan had ex-
pected, and the Executioner had decided to grant his
request to come along on the mission's grande finale.
Kiethley had risked his life and been through hell--
he deserved a shot at the Great Hikari.
    Reaching up, Bolan grasped the rugged stones in
the wall and began to climb. The wall wasn't tall by
castle standards--no more than ten feet--and a mo-
ment later he rested on the ledge. Looking down, he
saw Buchanan pushing Kiethley up. Bolan reached
down, grabbed the man's outstretched arms and lifted
him to the top. White faced and panting, Kiethley
closed his eyes as Buchanan made the climb.




"You sure you're up to this?" Bolan whispered
in the darkness.
    Kiethley opened his eyes. "Wouldn't miss it for
the world."
    Bolan glanced across the open ground, seeing sev-
eral small outbuildings he supposed had once been
stables and soldiers quarters. Lights were on in the
windows of the main building, and he dropped to the
ground, then sprinted to the closest door. His eyes
scanned the doorway for alarm wires as he waited
for Buchanan and Kiethley to join him. Finding
none, he drew the Beretta with one hand, the Cros-
sada knife with the other.
    Buchanan and Kiethley arrived at the Execu-
tioner's side. The journalist gripped the subhilt
fighter in his left fist, a Colt Woodsman .22 with
sound suppressor in his right. The Woodsman had
come from the weapons locker on board the SR-71
in which Jack Grimaldi had whisked them from Sier-
ra Leone to Okinawa, as had the identical pistol
Kiethley carried and the Randall Model 13 Arkansas
toothpick the beaten Buchanan had chosen.
    The castle was ancient, but the doors leading into
it were modern. Nine small windowpanes covered
the top half of the door, and Bolan used the hilt of
his knife to smash the glass in the one nearest the
knob. Reaching through the- hole, he unlocked the
lock and led the other two men inside.
    What had once been a dark hallway was now
lighted by electric lamps and overhead lighting. The
Executioner led the way past ornate paintings of

dragons on the stone walls. Ahead he saw a cross
hall. He was ten feet away when he heard the voices.
    Bolan slowed, crept to the corner and leaned
around the edge. An open doorway stood ten feet
down the cross hall, and the voices came from there.
Motioning Buchanan and Kiethley to follow, he
rounded the corner, moved to the door, then peered
around the opening.
    Four men sat around a short table playing mah-
jongg. One had a long drooping mustache and wore
a black T-shirt. Seated next to him was a fat man
with a shoulder holster. Facing the door, Bolan saw
a young Japanese with a topknot, and the fourth
man--the oldest--had short gray hair. None of them
had the classic look of cult brainwashing in their
eyes. The fact was each, in his own way, looked like
a typical career criminal. Bolan guessed them to be
a party of the "angels" used as security by the cult.
    The Executioner stepped into the room with the
Beretta.
    A 3-round burst of quiet 9 mm rounds exited the
barrel, taking out the man with the mustache as he
looked up in surprise. Buchanan was right behind
Bolan, sending a double-tap of quiet .22-caliber slugs
into a fat man who was trying to draw a pistol from
his shoulder rig.
    Kiethley's turn came next, and he fired three times
with his Woodsman, the weapon barely whispering
as it spit .22-caliber Stingers into the face of the gray-
haired "angel."
 The man with the topknot evidently had no gun,




but Bolan saw the wakazashi short sword come out
of the scabbard as the man rose from the table,
screamed and lunged forward. The blade was half-
way to the Executioner's head when Bolan fell to the
floor in a classical pasata soto. The sword went over
his head as he thrust the Crossada into the man's
abdomen. Cutting upward as he returned to his feet,
the Executioner angled the blade up into Topknot's
heart.
    Bolan followed the hall to the staircase and took
the steps to the castle's second floor, the Beretta and
Crossada both ready in front of him. As he reached
the top of the steps, he spotted another man coming
down the hall. The man was pulling a nude Oriental
woman by the hair, forcing her to struggle along on
hands and knees.
    A 9 mm hollowpoint round drilled the man be-
tween the eyes. He released the woman's hair as he
slithered to the ground.
    Buchanan and Kiethley stopped next to his side as
Bolan knelt by the woman. "Reiko?" he asked.
    The woman shook her head, sobbing. "I am Yosh-
iko."
    Bolan glanced over her body. She wasn't hurt.
"Where's Reiko?" he asked.
    Yoshiko pointed silently back in the direction she
had come.
    "Wait here," Bolan whispered. "We'll be back
for you." He led the way on down the hall to a
closed door. On the other side he could hear two
voices---one angry, the other frightened.

  Grasping the knob, he threw the door open.
    The Executioner recognized Toshiro Ohara from
Kurtzman's description of the news tape photo. The
Great Hikari stood in front of an open closet door,
changing clothes. Another nude woman, Reiko, Bo-
lan assumed, lay unconscious on the floor.
    The third person in the room had to be Ichiro Mu-
rai. The cult's second-in-command turned toward
Bolan as the door hit the wall to the Executioner's
side. Murai hesitated for a moment, then his hand
shot inside his kimono and returned holding a .38-
caliber Nambu revolver.
    Bolan let the Beretta spit more lead. Two rounds
took the Great Hikari's confederate in the chest, and
the third rose to his face. The Executioner turned the
weapon on Ohara, but there was little need.
    The Great Hikari had fallen to his knees on the
floor and was weeping. "Please!" he cried. "Do not
hurt me!"
    Bolan fought the revulsion in his belly. The Great
Hikari didn't mind gassing millions to death but he
didn't like pain himself. "I want a list of all gassing
sites," he said. "I want them now."
    The Great Hikari looked up from his knees, tears
streaming down his eyes. "No," he whispered qui-
etly. "That is the only bargaining tool I have left."
      Bolan turned to Kiethley, then back to Ohara.
"You know who this guy is?" he asked.  Ohara shook his head.
    "Spencer Kiethley," Bolan said. "The bruises
came from your 'angels.'" The Executioner gave it




time to sink in, then turned back to Kiethley.
"Spence," he said, "the Great Hikari is all yours."
    Kiethley grinned as he walked forward. "You
know what they say about paybacks, Ohara?" he
asked.
    When the Great Hikari didn't reply, the beaten
American answered for him. "They're a bitch,
Ohara," he said. "A real bitch."

Kansas

A MORE CENTRAL United States location might have
been possible to find than Wichita, Kansas, but not
much more central.
    Lyons watched through the window of the C-17
Globemaster aircraft as Jock Reno lowered it through
the sky toward the Wichita airport. Below he could
see the Boeing and Cessna aircraft plants, an oil re-
finery and a huge field full of farm implements. Then
the runway appeared, and parked along the sides of
the grass he could see twenty-six Chevy vans with
civilian license plates.
    The Able Team leader was on his feet as soon as
the wheels of the big transport plane touched the tar-
mac. Moving back into the cargo area, he saw
Schwarz and Biancahales standing just inside the
door. An even one hundred Stony Man Farm black-
suits sat on the floor behind them. Most were study-
ing street maps of Kansas's largest metropolitan area.
    "Okay, heads up!" Lyons called out. "We'll de-
ploy alphabetically by team. Able will go first, then

Baker. You already have your drivers assigned. Take
the closest van and move onto your preassigned lo-
cation." He paused. "Check in by radio as soon as
you're set up." He paused. "Any questions?"
  No hands rose.
    "Then there's just one other thing to remember,"
Lyons declared. "We don't want anyone getting
through the perimeter defense. But remember what
these cult freaks are holding. It's called Nerve End-
ing, and if even one of the canisters is pierced by a
stray round, half of Wichita is going to die." He
paused a final time, letting the gravity of the situation
sink in, then said, "All right. Let's do it."
    Without further ado the Able Team leader led
Schwarz and Blancanales off the C-17 and into the
closest van.
    Lyons drove, entering the city proper and turning
onto Kellogg, Wichita's main drag. Next to him in
the shotgun seat, Blancanales kept a map open in his
lap.
    "Take the next right, Ironman," the psy-op expert
said as they stopped at a red light. "Looks like two
blocks, then a left."
    The light turned green. Lyons guided the Chevy
through the intersection to the next cross street and
turned. The team found itself in an older middle-
income housing area. Two blocks later the van turned
left onto Barclay. The house they wanted, 1138,
stood another two blocks down.
    Lyons cruised past the address, seeing several cars
parked outside. He knew they were there to pick up




the Nerve Ending canister-bombs that would then be
transported to the various sites around the country.
Glancing into the rearview mirror as he passed the
house, the big ex-cop saw one of the blacksuit vans
pull in against the curb a block behind. The five-man
teams would encircle the house, cutting off every
possible avenue of escape. They were there as a pre-
caution in the unlikely event that any of the cult
members or angels slipped past Lyons, Schwarz and
B!ancanales.
    The radio mounted on the dashboard of the van
coughed static, then a voice said, "Charlie to Able.
Come in Able."
    In the back of the van Schwarz lifted a walkie-
talkie to his mouth. "Roger, Charlie," he said. "We
read you."
"Charlie Team in place," the voice stated.
"Affirmative, Charlie," Schwarz replied. In the
mirror Lyons saw Schwarz make a mark on the clip-
board in his lap.
    The Able Team leader turned at the next comer
and drove past another of the blacksuit vans. He saw
the driver with a microphone to his lips and a mo-
ment later heard, "David Team to Able. David in
place, Able."
"Roger, David." Schwarz made another mark.
Lyons cruised on, passing more vans and listening
as the rest of the backup teams found their positions
and called in. Returning to Kellogg, he saw a black-
and-white Wichita PD car driving toward them. That
didn't bother Lyons.

    Brognola had used his Justice Department position
to pull strings from Washington and ensure that local
authorities would steer clear of the neighborhood.
  The black-and-white moved on.
    The Able Team van was still on Kellogg when the
final team called in. "That's it, Ironman," Schwarz
said.
    Lyons turned back, driving slowly toward the
house again. "You hear how Mack hit the house in
Freetown?" he asked Schwarz and Blancanales as he
turned the final comer.
"With the mail truck?" Blancanales asked.
Lyons's intentions suddenly dawned on both of the
other Able Team commandos as he floored the ac-
celerator and pulled up over the curb in front of the
house. Both men braced themselves and grabbed
their Calicos.
    "Schwarz, with me," Lyons said. "Pol, take the
rear." Then the front bumper of the Chevy hopped
up the two short steps, smashed the front of the one-
story wood-frame house and the time for talk was
over.
    Lyons dived from the van, bringing his Calico 960
into play as soon as he hit the hole in front of the
van. Inside the living room, he saw roughly twenty
faces look up in surprise. Some had the now familiar
zombie look of the crazed Followers of the Truth
devotee. Others had the dark look of the men the
Great Hikari called his angels.
 But no matter how they looked, the surprise on the




faces didn't last long. All of the men reached for
weapons.
    Lyons scanned the room, looking for signs of the
Nerve Ending containers. Seeing none, he flipped the
Calico to full-auto and sprayed the men before their
guns came into play. Bodies flipped and flopped onto
the living-room carpet as Schwarz stepped in at his
side. A few return rounds went zinging past his ear
as both Able Team commandos continued blanketing
the living room with full-auto rounds.
    Then, suddenly, only Lyons and Schwarz re-
mained standing.
    The Able Team leader motioned Schwarz to the
right and moved to the left. Quickly he checked each
man for a pulse, and, finding none, moved from the
living room into the hall. The next order of business
was to secure the canisters of Nerve Ending.
    The Able Team leader found them in a bedroom
halfway down the hall. The canisters stood roughly
three feet tall. They were arranged in rows against
the wall, three rows, four canisters to each row.
  That made twelve.
    But Lyons had been told that there were thirteen
gassings planned.
    The soft sound of shoes on carpet came from down
the hall. Lyons aimed the Calico that way and fol-
lowed the noise. He came to another bedroom and
looked inside.
    A tall black man stood in the center of the room
next to the bed. "Don't move, motherfucker," he
said.

     Lyons froze. In one of the man's hands was a 1911
 Government Model with the hammer cocked, the
 manual safety off. In the other hand was the missing
 Nerve Ending canister.
     "Carver," Carl Lyons said under his breath. With-
 out thinking, he switched the Calico's selector to
 semiauto.
     Carver saw the movement and hugged the gas can-
 ister closer to his chest and face, covering his vital
 areas and making a snap shot from Lyons's Calico
 impossible. Peering around the side, he cackled.
 "Archangel Carver, if you don't mind," he said.
 "Don't try what you're thinking." He tapped the
 canister with the barrel of the .45. "Or I'll kill our
 friend here." He laughed hideously.
    "What do you want?" Lyons said. "You
can't--"
    Running footsteps sounded behind him, then
Schwarz ground to a halt at Lyons's side.
    "Freeze!" Carver called out. "Both of you!" He
jammed the barrel of his pistol tighter against the
metal container. "Put down your weapons."
    When Lyons and Schwarz didn't obey, Carver
roared, "Now, dammit! Or I swear to God I'll blow
this damn thing up and kill everybody for miles!"
    "Angels shouldn't use language like that,"
Schwarz said. "That kind of talk will get back to
heaven."
    "Shut up!" Carver shouted. "Shut up and put
down the guns, or I swear--"
  "Do what he says, Gadgets," Lyons ordered.




Schwarz turned to Lyons and frowned. "Ironman,
he'll just shoot us and then--"
    "Do it!" Lyons ordered. Slowly he bent forward
and set his submachine pistol on the carpet.
    Schwarz stared into Lyons's eyes. The Able Team
leader saw a sudden understanding cross the other
man's face. Schwarz set his weapon down next to
Lyons's.
    Carver backed his way to the window. His gaze
glued to Lyons and Schwarz, he set the Nerve Ending
can on the floor but kept the .45 pressed against it.
With his free hand he fumbled for the latch on the
window behind him, found it, then lifted the glass.
    A chilly wind blew into the bedroom from the
backyard as Carver climbed through the opening
backward. When all but his head and arms was out-
side the house, he reached back in and grabbed the
canister. "Your friend was right, fool," he said to
Lyons. "I am gonna kill you." The .45 rose away
from the Nerve Ending gas and toward the Able
Team commandos.
    Lyons wore his own .45 and the Colt Python.
Schwarz had his Beretta and S&W. But bolstered as
they were, they would be of no use. As the huge bore
of Carver's Government Model pistol looked Lyons
in the face, both men might just as well have been
unarmed.
    The explosion sounded, and Carver's gun hand
jerked.
    Lyons smiled; he had felt no pain. But more im-
portant than that, he had just seen the right side of

Carver's head blown to the side of the window.
Carver slumped below the window, out of sight in
the backyard.
    Blancanales took the "archangel's" place in the
open window and looked down at his feet. "Suppose
he's a real angel now?" he asked.

Paris, France

BOLAN COULD SEE the C-17 Globemaster III taxiing
along the other runway as the SR-71 set down in
Pads. Pushing Toshiro Ohara in front of him, he de-
planed quickly, followed by Bobcat Buchanan and
Spencer Kiethley.
    Jack Grimaldi would stay behind the controls of
the supersonic aircraft and be ready to lift them off
should they encounter political problems while in
country. Brognola had already cleared them through
customs, it appeared, and similarly to what Bolan
knew the G-man had done for Able Team in Wichita,
a phone call from the U.S. President should have the
gendarmes here under control. But you never knew
what kind of bedfellows politics would make when
you crossed the borders of another country, and it
wouldn't hurt to keep the SR-71's engines warmed
up.
    The Executioner pushed Toshiro Ohara ahead of
him across the tarmac to where two sedans--one a
Cutlass Brougham, the other a Ford Taurus--waited.
Again Brognola had paved the way for transport, and
the Paris CIA station had been instructed to leave the




vehicles parked at the airport. They'd also been or-
dered to ask no questions.
    Bolan watched his captive out of the comer of his
eye as they neared the cars. Ohara had given them
no trouble whatsoever since they'd left Okinawa. The
man was a con a~ist, not a fighter; he'd proved that
back at the castle even before Spencer Kiethley had
a chance to mete out any of the braises he owed the
man. Kiethley had barely raised a fist when Ohara
spouted out the locations of the central sarin and
Nerve Ending storage bases in Paris and Wichita.
Kiethley hadn't had to strike him once.
    The American who had suffered so at the hands
of the Followers of the Truth cult had looked a little
disappointed as he lowered his fist. But he hadn't had
the heart to beat the man for no reason once they
had the information they needed.
    Followed by his two fellow Americans, the Exe-
cutioner hurried toward the sedans. He saw Phoenix
Force sprinting toward the cars from the opposite di-
rection.
They met at the vehicles; introductions were short.
"Guys," the Executioner said, "you've met Bob-
cat. This is Spencer Kiethley."
    The men of Phoenix Force nodded. McCarter
turned to Bolan. "You've got the directions?"
    Bolan nodded. "According to our friend here--"
he gripped Ohara's upper arm and saw the man
wince "--they're in an old hotel in the Place Pigalle.
I won't ask you if you're familiar with the area."
  Buchanan, Kiethley and Phoenix Force all chuck-

led. Pigalle had long been infamous as Paris's pri-
mary area of prostitution.
    "The Hotel Manet," Bolan said. "The public
thinks it's closed for remodeling. We won't find a
better place to get our act together than right here,
so let's get the details out of the way right now. I'll
take Buchanan, Kiethley and Ohara in the first car.
The rest of you follow us in the other vehicle. The
Manet is three stories and a basement, and sits on
the comer. Three exitsmfront, side and one that leads
out into the alley in back. When we get there I'll
take Buchanan and Kiethley in the front. We'll go
directly to the third floor and clear it. David, you,
Gary and Rafael enter through the side and take the
second floor. Calvin, you and T.J. take the alley, then
cover the ground floor and basement. Ohara says it's
just a lobby and storage downstairs."  All of the men nodded.
    "Then, if there aren't any questions, let's get this
over with before every person in town not wearing
a gas mask is dead." Bolan dropped behind the
wheel of the Cutlass.
    Kiethley got in next to him, with Buchanan push-
ing Ohara across the back seat before sliding in him-
selK
    "You do not need me anymore," Ohara whined.
"Why not let me go?"
    Kiethley snorted. "Just like that? After all we've
meant to each other?"
    "I think we'll hold on to you, O Great One," Bu-
chanan said. "You might be lying about the hotel,




in which case I won't show the mercy on you old
Spence here did."
    Bolan twisted the key in the ignition and started
the Cutlass's engine.
    "It is the right address," Ohara insisted. "And it
is over. I will never be able to get my organization
back together after all this. But I still have money. I
could make you all rich men .... "
    Kiethley swiveled in his seat and backhanded
Ohara across the mouth. "Shut up."
    The Cutlass led the way away from the airport into
downtown Paris. With the Taurus trailing close be-
hind, they zoomed down the Rue de Rivoli past the
Louvre and Tuileries Gardens, passed through the
opera district, then entered Montmartre and the Place
Pigalle.
    Hookers of every size, shape and description
walked the sidewalks as Bolan guided the Cutlass
onto a side street. A man wearing heavy women's
makeup, a dress and a derby hat stepped out into the
street, forcing the Executioner to stand on the brakes.
The fires squealed, leaving robber on the pavement.
The man-woman didn't seem to notice.
    Bolan pulled to the curb a half block from the
Hotel Manet and killed the engine. Exiting the ve-
hicle, he opened the trunk.
     Brognola had come through again. Inside the trunk
 were six M-16s and several dozen extra magazines.
     The Taurus pulled in behind the Cutlass. McCarter
 got out and opened his own trunk.

  A few minutes later the men from Stony Man
Farm were armed and walking down the quiet street.
  "Spence," Bolan said, "watch over the Great One
  here. If this is a set up, I don't want him sneaking
  off."
    Kiethley grabbed the braid at the back of the Jap-
anese guru's head and jerked. "I'll do just that."
    The few pedestrians they saw took one look at the
armed men and headed the other way. When they
reached the comer, Bolan, Buchanan, Kiethley and
Ohara walked toward the front entrance. McCarter,
Manning and Encizo angled off toward the side en-
trance while James and Hawkins broke into a jog
toward the alley down the side street.
    Bolan began running, too, as they reached the front
steps. He held the M-16 in front of him as he looked
up to see a sign announcing that the Manet was
closed for repairs. Lowering a shoulder, he hit the
front door and felt it burst open in front of him.
    The lobby looked empty as the Executioner
searched for the stairs. He spotted them to his left
and hurried that way. The hotel was strangely silent
as he sprinted up the steps, turned the comer at the
landing and jogged on. Behind him he heard the run-
ning footsteps of the other three men. Below he heard
McCarter and James kick the side and back doors.
    Bolan had passed the second floor and was half-
way up the steps to the third when he heard the first
shots ring out behind him. He resisted the urge to
backtrack and assist below--he had assigned the first
and second floors to McCarter and James. They




could handle the jobs, and it was his duty to continue
to the top. No operation could be successful unless
everyone followed orders, and that included the Ex-
ecutioner.
    Bolan reached the top Of the steps to the third
floor. He came out in a small waiting area with
chairs, couches and tables. Beyond it was a narrower
hall. As the Executioner moved toward it, a door
opened.
    A glassy-eyed cult zombie bearing an Uzi was the
first to step out of a room. He was also the first to
fall to the Executioner's M-16. More doors opened
along the third-floor hallway, revealing more cult
gunners. More zombies appeared. Operating as if on
remote control, they rushed Bolan, firing various
weapons. A cult follower with a Heckler & Koch 93
fell to one 3-round burst. A cultist with a Japanese
Howa fell to another. Still, they charged mindlessly
forward, programmed to serve their master, the Great
Hikari...or die trying.
    By now Buchanan, Kiethley and Ohara had
reached the waiting area. Buchanan and Kiethley
fanned out to the Executioner's sides, and began fir-
ing. Together the three men downed cultists until
their rifles ran dry, then dropped the magazines and
inserted fresh loads.
    Bolan fired the last 3-round burst into a bald man
wearing khaki work pants, a matching shirt and a
Greek fisherman's cap. The revolver in his hand
dropped to the floor, and he fell clumsily to the floor
on his back.

    More shots rang out froill the floors below, but the
third floor suddenly went quiet. Bolan glanced to the
side to see Ohara cringing in the corner of the wait-
ing area. As he watched, Kiethley grabbed a fistful
of the man's shirt and pulled him forward.
    Bolan strode forward to the bald man, who stared
up at the ceiling. A trickle of blood ran from the
comer of his mouth. He had fallen awkwardly onto
one arm, which was twisted and appeared to be bro-
ken underneath him. Other footsteps approached, and
in his peripheral vision the Executioner saw Kiethley
push Ohara up to his side.
    The bald man's eyes saw the Followers of the
Truth leader and focused on him. Even though he
was dying, the Executioner could see his irises were
clear. He wasn't one of the Great Hikari's followers
but one of the hired criminals~the angels.
    Ohara looked down at him. "Jean-Marc," he said.
"I...am sorry."
    "Yes..." Jean-Marc LeForce almost whispered.
"You...should...be." The arm that had appeared to
he broken suddenly shot out from under his back.
The revolver he had dropped as Bolan shot him was
in his hand once more.
    Bolan and Jean-Marc fired at the same instant. The
Executioner's 3-round burst from the M-16 obliter-
ated the man's face.
    The .357 Magnum round from Jean-Marc Le-
Force's revolver did the same to the Great Hikari.
Toshiro Ohara was punched to his back on the floor,
dead before he landed.




    Bolan took the left side of the hall with Buchanan
taking the right. They found no other cult members.
But neither did they find any of the thirteen Nerve
Ending canisters they were looking for.
    The firing was still going strong on the second
floor when Bolan led the way down the stairs. He
heard footsteps running toward him as he neared the
halfway landing and stopped, raising his rifle. A mo-
ment later a man in jeans and a black T-shirt turned
directly into the barrel of the M-16.
    For a moment the man froze, looking up at the
Executioner. He was Caucasian, and his eyes were
clear--an "angel." He confirmed it by saying in a
resigned voice, "Oh, shit."  Bolan pulled the trigger.
    The man danced on the end of the M-16, then fell
to the ground.
    The Executioner heard sporadic fire below on the
ground floor as he moved on, turning the comer and
looking down the hall at McCarter, Manning and En-
cizo coming out of rooms. Bodies littered both the
waiting area and hallway. Some--the cultists--wore
strange combinations of Oriental dress, and others--
the angelsmwere dressed more normally.
    The three Phoenix Force men walked forward.
"No one left in the rooms," McCarter said. "At least
not alive."
  Bolan nodded. "Any sign of the Nerve Ending?"
  "Not that we saw," Manning said.
     The sporadic fire on the ground floor continued.
 "Let's go give Calvin and T.J. a hand," Bolan said,

turning. He sprinted down the final set of steps and
turned into the lobby. It was as empty as it had been
when he first entered the Hotel Manet.
    Bolan heard a final shot that sounded as if it came
from the other side of the large room. Moving cau-
tiously that way, he saw another set of steps leading
downward. These stairs were narrow, and the M-16
would be hard to maneuver. He let it fall to the end
of his sling and drew the Desert Eagle.
    Voices came from the basement of the hotel. At
first the Executioner didn't recognize them. But as
he neared the end of the steps, James's deep baritone
became distinct.
    Several bodies lay at the foot of the steps, looking
as if they'd been shot on the stairs and rolled to the
bottom. Bolan stepped over them and into the base-
ment.
    He found himself looking down the barrels of two
M-16s.
    James and Hawkins recognized him and lowered
their weapons. They stood next to a boiler and in
front of an enclosed chicken-wire storage cage.
Through the wire, the Executioner could see the tall
canisters he knew were filled with Nerve Ending.
    James produced an all-purpose multitool from his
pocket and began to cut through the wire as Bolan
pulled a walkie-talkie from his pocket and pressed
the mike button with his thumb. The signal left the
basement of the Hotel Manet in Paris, shot up to a
satellite miles into space and was relayed back down
to Stony Man Farm in the Blue Ridge Mountains.




    "Striker to Stony Man Base," the Executioner
said.
    Barbara Price's voice came on loud and clear.
"Stony Man Base. Go ahead, Striker."
  "Mission complete."

/411115i11;IJ!1 JUI5IIGU 15 mreulreneu wnen
  ex-cops take the low into lheir
           own hands ....

DON PiNDI.EI~N'm

mACK BOLAII

Deliverance, a right-wing organization made up of former
law-enforcement officials, is bringing back the code of vigi-
lante justice--executing criminals and noncriminals without
due process.

As their campaign of misguided violence escalates, Bolan is
called in to quell the fires that have erupted in urban battle-
zones across America and to bring the leaders in to face
their own trial without jury.

  Available in October 1998 at your favorite retail oufiet.

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