Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination 
encircles the world.
—Albert Einstein
A brilliant mind is a remarkable asset only if it belongs to a good man. It 
becomes dangerous when the man loses track of what's important in life. When 
greed takes hold, a brilliant mind is wasted.
—Mack Bolan
 
 THE
MACK BOLAN
LEGEND
Nothing less Hum a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack 
Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.
But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because 
of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese 
civilians.
Mack Bolan's second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency 
leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a 
one-man war against the Mafia.
He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of 
victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society's every rule. That same 
society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.
So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This 
time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a 
com­mand center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team 
and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.
But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror 
machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.
Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner 
has agreed to enter an "arm's-length" alliance with his government once more, 
reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.
 
 
Prologue
 
Could he kill a human being?
Bernard Craker had agonized over the deed for weeks. Could he really do it? He'd 
asked himself time and again. Did he actually have the fortitude it took to 
murder another human being? Craker honestly couldn't say. When the momentous day 
arrived, he pulled into the parking lot at Nanotech, Incorporated, as nervous as 
a lab animal about to be experimented on.
Craker's mouth went dry, and his palms broke out in a clammy sweat as he 
approached the wide glass doors. He glanced at the receptionist, old Mrs. 
Wilson, afraid she'd notice something strange, but she didn't even look up. Then 
again, she never had a word of greeting for him, probably because he never had 
any for her.
Craker had never been big on the social graces. He spoke only when spoken to, 
and then he was always brief and to the point. Some people took that as being 
cold and aloof. Craker saw it as being true to his na­ture. He was, after all, a 
scientist, and his time was much too precious to waste in idle chitchat with 
morons whose intelligence quotients were barely out of the double digits.
Craker was always that way. Back in high school
when other kids were involved in sports and dating, he buried himself in science 
books and wedded him­self to his microscope. Later, in college, while his peers 
indulged hi beer parties and chasing hot babes, he spent every waking moment 
pursuing an entirely different passion—microbes.
The hidden world of microorganisms had long fas­cinated him. Ever since the 
tender age of ten, when Craker stuck a slide on a microscope his grandmother had 
given him for his birthday, he'd been hooked. A whole new world had opened up, a 
tiny, invisible world most people ignored.
Not Craker. Discovering the secrets of the micro-verse, as he liked to call it, 
consumed him. He scrimped and saved to buy the best microscope on the market. He 
read all there was on microbiology and every related field, absorbing what the 
top minds dis­tilled like a sponge absorbing water.
It paid off. Craker graduated from Harvard with the highest honors. The faculty 
considered him a wunder-kind, a genius sure to make his mark. Job offers poured 
in, some from the most prestigious institutions in the country.
He picked Nanotech. Not because the pay was bet­ter, since to Craker, money 
didn't matter. Nor because Nanotech was a premier facility of its land, with a 
quality staff and state-of-the-art equipment.
No, Craker chose Nanotech because another mem­ber of his graduating class had 
done so. He went there specifically to be close to a certain young woman. And 
now, as he heard her call his name, Craker stopped and turned and quirked his 
mouth in what, for Craker, passed as a warm smile. "Good morning."
Helen Paisley wore her usual white lab coat. It fit
snugly to her small frame, its plainness complemented by her short-cropped hair, 
razor-thin features and the oversize glasses perched on the tip of her nose. A 
walking broomstick, as her coworkers liked to tease her, but to Craker she was a 
vision of loveliness to rival fabled Helen of Troy.
"Today's the day," Paisley said so only he could hear, gazing up and down the 
tiled corridor. "Are you up to it?"
"For you, anything," Craker said.
Paisley gave him an exasperated look. "That's not what I asked. Can you do what 
has to be done?"
"Without a doubt." But the truth was, Craker was plagued by doubts. He'd never 
killed anyone before. Animals, yes. Microorganisms, yes. But never another 
person.
Paisley took his elbow and steered him toward their lab. "If the results are 
what we anticipate, we'll have to act fast."
"I know. I just wish...." Craker stopped before he upset her.
"You wish what?"
"That this wasn't necessary. I like Ted. He's always treated me decently. And he 
has a wife and family."
"Bernie, Bernie, Bernie," Paisley said with a sigh. "How many times must I 
remind you? It's your pro­cess, isn't it? Your discovery? Do you want Nanotech 
to have the rights to it? Do you want them to take all the credit? Reap all the 
rewards?"
Craker answered without thinking. "The rewards aren't all that important." He 
regretted being so rash when her long, red nails bit deep into his arm.
"Not important?" Paisley yanked him through a swing door into a short side 
corridor that was seldom
used. "Don't start!" she hissed, checking to verify they were alone. "We've been 
all through this. You can't back out on me."
"I'd never do that," Craker assured her, and if she caught the tone of total 
devotion in his voice, she didn't let on. But he was quite sincere. He adored 
her, and had since they met in chemistry class, back in their freshmen days at 
college.
Nodding, Paisley squeezed his hand, took a deep breath to steady herself and 
pulled him back through the door. Their lab was the last room on the left. As 
they entered, Ted Proctor beckoned from the rear, where the cages were kept.
"It worked! It worked! Come see for yourselves!"
Craker couldn't contain his excitement. For the mo­ment he forgot about the foul 
deed he had to commit and rushed back. There, on the bottom of a wire cage, lay 
a small mound of hair, whiskers and tail that just yesterday had been a healthy 
white rat. The grisly pud­dle quivered as if the rat were still alive, which 
Craker knew was impossible.
Proctor beamed like a child at Christmas. "I still can't believe it! The nanites 
did everything you claimed they would, Bernie. And it took only twelve hours. 
Imagine if you had injected more of them!"
"Which reminds me. I need to check on some­thing." Pivoting, he walked to the 
cold-storage unit, which was about the size of a small freezer. Inside was the 
tray containing the six culture tubes.
Craker hated to waste one, but speed was essential. Gingerly removing a vial, he 
stepped to a table, picked up a syringe and inserted the needle into the 
solution.
"What are you doing?" Proctor asked as he walked toward him. "The test was an 
unqualified success. We
don't need to run another. I'll call Larson and have him come down to view the 
video."
"I'd rather you didn't," Craker said. The syringe was full. Holding it up, he 
peered into the barrel con­taining the amber fluid.
"You should be proud," Proctor said. "I wouldn't be surprised if you make the 
cover of Time or News­week. Hell, Larson will probably have you nominated for a 
Nobel Prize."
He placed his hand on Craker's shoulder. "In an­other month the whole world will 
have heard of your momentous accomplishment."
"No, they won't," Craker said, and plunged the needle into Ted Proctor's neck.
 
 
Chapter 1
 
Drug dealers were like cockroaches. They deserved to be exterminated.
Mack Bolan had learned never to let his feelings infringe on his work. He had a 
job, he did it. That was it. But there were occasions, such as this one, when he 
couldn't help but feel deep personal satisfaction at what he was about to do.
Below his vantage point on the roof of an old ware­house, a limousine had pulled 
into the parking lot. Out stepped a burly driver, two bodyguards wearing tinted 
shades and the main man himself, Alfonso Sweet, or the Sweetman, as he was known 
on the muggy streets of the Windy City.
The man known as the Executioner reached under his jacket and pulled a Beretta 
93-R machine pistol from its shoulder holster. From an inside pocket he 
extracted a sound suppressor, which he quickly at­tached to the barrel. A quiet 
kill was called for, so as not to involve Chicago's finest.
From where Bolan was crouched, he could see Lake Michigan, no more than half a 
mile to the east. To the north an airliner was on its final approach to O'Hare 
International Airport.
All round, the city bustled with life and activity.
The run-down warehouse district, though, was un-
naturally still, its denizens driven into cooler quarters by the warmth of the 
hazy afternoon.
Bolan sighted down the Beretta at Alfonso Sweet The man was dressed like a 
flashy pimp, in black pants and a red shirt. A wide-brimmed felt hat crowned 
Sweet's slicked black hair. Just as Bolan fixed a bead, Sweet leaned down, 
extended an arm into the limo and hauled out the last occupant.
The soldier stiffened. A boy of twelve or so, wear­ing scruffy jeans and a faded 
T-shirt, cringed, afraid Sweet would hit him. But the man only laughed and 
shoved the boy toward one of the bodyguards, who gripped the youngster by the 
back of the neck and propelled him toward the entrance.
Bolan slowly lowered the Beretta. He couldn't very well cut loose with the boy 
in the line of fire. He needed to get closer. Wheeling, he hurried to the roof 
access door, opened it, and hastened down a flight of stairs. There was little 
light He moved hi the gloom, his soft soles making no sound.
Earlier that day, Bolan had cased the warehouse. It was three stories high, as 
long as a battleship and half again as wide. The original owner had long since 
gone out of business, and it had stood derelict until the Sweetman claimed it as 
a base of operations.
According to the Feds, Alfonso Sweet was the cur­rent kingpin of Chicago's drug 
trade. Thanks to a widespread network of illicit contacts, Sweet was fun-neling 
cocaine and other hard drugs into the city by the ton. Heroin, crack, downers, 
the Sweetman was the man to see.
As a result, Sweet now had more money than Mi­das. And as was inevitably the 
case, with all that money came power. The best attorneys. A judge or
three hi Sweet's hip pocket. A crooked politician thrown in for good measure. So 
it was no surprise that when the local police busted Sweet, he was allowed to 
walk on a technicality. Or when the Feds arrested him, it was ruled entrapment.
Alfonso Sweet had a reputation of being untouch­able. Invincible. He was the 
idol of every street hood, the envy of every wannabe gangster. He was the man.
So what if Sweet pumped millions of dollars worth of drugs into Chicago every 
year? So what if he sold his drugs to minors, boys and girls barely into 
then-teens? So what if he turned them into addicts? So what if he ruined 
countless lives? Sweet didn't care.
But Mack Bolan did. When his good friend Hal Brognola, director of the Justice 
Department's Sensi­tive Operations Group, had brought Sweet's activities to his 
attention, Bolan had known what had to be done. So had Brognola.
Alfonso Sweet had to be taken down. Legal chan­nels hadn't worked. Proper 
procedure had failed. That had left Brognola with the solution of last resort: 
the Executioner.
The Everlasting War, Bolan called it. The war to reclaim America's soul. The war 
to save untold in­nocents from vile predators like Sweet who were im­mune to the 
law. But they weren't immune to a 9 mm Parabellum slug to the brain or heart.
Muted voices reached Bolan's keen ears. At the next landing he inched open the 
door, involuntarily wincing when a seldom-used hinge creaked ever so slightly. 
Easing through, Bolan catfooted down a murky hall that ended in the vast belly 
of the warehouse. Steel girders formed a spiderweb high overhead. Dusty
crates and boxes were piled high, and a musty scent was in the air.
Bolan threaded among the crates. They had been left by the previous owner, and 
Sweet hadn't gotten around to disposing of them. Only the section of ware­house 
nearest the loading bay had been cleared, and it was there, amid the littered 
remains of fast food and other trash, that Alfonso Sweet and his henchmen had 
taken the boy.
The youngster was seated in a folding chair, his hands gripping the seat. He was 
terrified. As well he should be, for angrily pacing in front of him was Sweet. 
Both bodyguards were to one side, indifferent. There was no sign of the driver.
"—in the hell do you think you are, runt?" Sweet was railing. "Dissin' me hi 
front of my boys?"
The boy squirmed nervously, then cast an anxious glance toward the front door.
"Don't even think about it," Sweet declared. "My men will whack you before you 
get five feet." Bend­ing abruptly, Sweet slapped the youngster, hard. "You 
listening, Deaver? You little bastard."
Deaver fearfully bobbed his chin. His eyes glistened with moisture, but he was 
resisting the urge to cry. "I hear you, Sweetman."
Sweet drew himself up to his full height. Snicker­ing, he motioned at his 
bodyguards. "Do you believe this kid? He has the gall to bad-mouth me in public. 
Me!"
"I didn't mean anything," Deaver bleated.
"No?" Sweet said testily.
"Honest. I just don't want any drugs. My mom says they're bad." When Sweet 
offered no reply, the boy grew bold and rattled on. "That's why I told Artie I
didn't want any. That's why I told him to quit pester­ing me. It was the drugs, 
not you."
Sweet sneered in rank contempt. "Lying sack of..." Leaving the statement 
unfinished, he placed his hands on his hips. "I heard what you said, boy. Artie 
told me all about it. How you told him to go to hell. How you said that you knew 
he worked for me, but you didn't care. How I'm scum."
"I didn't say 'scum,'" Deaver interrupted.
"Oh, that's right, Deaver. What were your exact words again?" Sweet made a show 
of scratching his chin. "Now I remember! 'Garbage,' you called me. And you went 
on and on about how only idiots turn to drugs. And how no one can make you do 
something if you don't want to."
The boy coughed lightly. "I just don't want any drugs."
"That's too bad," Sweet said. "Because, you see, I can't have folks going around 
bad-mouthing me. Can't have nobodies like you standing up to me, or anyone who 
works for me."
"But I didn't do any harm."
"Wrong, boy. You showed backbone. Others might get the idea they can show 
backbone, too. Then where would I be?" When Deaver didn't answer, Sweet grabbed 
the youngster by the front of his shirt. "I'll tell you where! Out of business 
in no time. And I can't let that happen."
"Why—" Deaver licked his lips "—why'd you bring me here?"
"To make an example of you, boy. An object les­son, as the cops would say." The 
drug lord sniffed and stepped back. "By tomorrow everybody in your school will 
understand what it means to cross me. And
when Artie or anyone else sells for me, no one will stop them."
"Are you going to hurt me?" Deaver asked. "I'm just a kid."
"What the hell does that have to do with any­thing?" Sweet asked, and cackled. 
"For your infor­mation, I wasn't much older than you when I got my start in this 
business. I ran bags for Lucky Willy. Nickel and dime, sure, but I had to start 
somewhere." His tone grew flinty. "Whether I hurt you or not is up to you."
"How's that?"
"Push for me, boy. You can lend Artie a hand. It'll show your whole school I'm 
the man, that I'm in control."
"I can't. My mom wouldn't like it."
"Your ma again. Close to her, are you?"
"She's my mother," Deaver stated, as if that ex­plained everything.
"A regular momma's boy." Sweet unexpectedly seized the youth by the shoulders 
and threw him to the concrete floor. "Well, pay attention, momma's boy. It 
doesn't make a difference to me how close you are to your mother. Keep giving me 
grief, and you'll be eating your teeth. Or maybe—" Sweet stopped and smirked, as 
if struck by an idea "—maybe my friends and I should pay your high-and-mighty 
momma a visit."
"No!" Deaver shoved up off the floor and cocked his puny fists. "Leave her be, 
you hear me? Leave her be!"
"What if I don't?" Sweet violently shoved the boy buck. down. "It would serve 
you right for not respect­ing me."
Flat on his back, Deaver stared in rising despair at his tormentor, tears 
flowing freely now.
"I can see it already," Sweet said sarcastically. "I'll take your momma on a 
date. Maybe out to the lake late at night. She much of a swimmer? Doesn't 
matter, 'cause when I'm done with her, she'll be breathing water, permanently." 
Sweet paused. "You follow me, you little smart-ass?"
Mack Bolan circled to the right, seeking to get closer. He still had no idea 
where the driver was.
"What are you saying?" Deaver asked, aghast.
"Do I have to spell it out?" Sweet swore a blue streak. "You either do as I say, 
or I have your mother killed."
Movement near the front of the building caused Bo­lan to freeze. The driver had 
emerged from a small office, carrying a cup of steaming coffee. The man brought 
it to Sweet, who accepted the Java with a grunt
"No one stands in my way, kid," the drug lord declared, and took a sip. "No 
one." He gestured at the enormous metal door to the loading dock. "At midnight 
tonight over a million bucks' worth of co­caine is due in. A million bucks! Does 
that give you any idea of who you're dealing with? Or why it's smarter to go 
with the plan than buck the man? You understand?"
Bolan couldn't help thinking that Hal Brognola would find news of the shipment 
extremely interesting. He continued to circle, keeping a wary eye on the 
bodyguards and the driver.
Sweet downed the rest of the coffee in great gulps. "Last chance, boy," he told 
Deaver. "What's it going
to be? Will you work for me? Or does your mother need to grow gills?"
Most boys that age would have given in. They would have been cowed by the 
dealer's fury and threats. Young Deaver, though, had more backbone than most, 
more grit. Rising, he stated in utmost ear­nestness, "Lay a finger on my mom and 
I'll kin you, if it's the last thing I do."
"Stupid brat," Sweet said, and slugged the boy in the gut.
One of the beefy bodyguards cackled. The other grinned. Neither was doing what 
he was paid to do, which suited Bolan just fine. Hunched low, he rounded a pile 
of busted crates and boards. Another thirty feet should do it.
The youngster was on his hands and knees, spittle dribbling over his lower lip 
and down his chin.
"Want to threaten me again?" Sweet baited him. '"Cause I got to tell you, I'm 
scared silly. About ready to piss my pants."
That struck the bodyguards as the height of hilarity. Even the dour driver 
joined in the mirth.
Amateurs, Bolan reflected. For all their street smarts, all their city savvy, 
they were as green as grass, all bluster and hot air. Oh, they'd squeeze a 
trigger readily enough, and kill anyone at the snap of Sweet's fingers. But they 
weren't anywhere near as deadly as they made themselves out to be. Luck, more 
than skill, explained how they had survived as long as they had, and their 
string of luck had just run out.
Squatting behind a grimy crate, Bolan adopted a two-handed grip on the Beretta 
and prepared to make his move.
Just then, a car horn blared outside, bringing the festivities to an end.
"Who the hell is that?" Sweet snapped. "Lap Dog, go take a look."
The stockiest hardcase strutted to the entrance. "It's Rufus and his crew," he 
shouted.
"Already?" Sweet said. "They weren't supposed to be here until midnight."
"Well, it's them, boss," Lap Dog assured him.
The drug lord tossed down the coffee cup and ad­justed his hat. "Don't just 
stand there, open up." Gripping Deaver by the neck, he pushed the boy against 
some boxes. ' 'Listen good, kid. Not one word out of you. Not one! You so much 
as sneeze, and your mother is maggot food. Got me?"
The youngster nodded.
Sweet moved to the left of the huge corrugated metal door as his three 
underlings raised it by hoisting a heavy metal chain. Outside were two vehicles, 
or­dinary sedans. Inside both were four men, all wearing similar brown leather 
vests and blue caps.
Their colors. They were members of Los Diablos, a gang based out of Los Angeles. 
According to the Feds, their specialty was drug-running.
The cars pulled inside, and the corrugated door clanked down. ";Hola, amigo! 
What's happening, Sweetman?" bantered the first man to climb out, a short slab 
of muscle sporting a pencil mustache and long sideburns.
Sweet and his visitor exchanged hand signals, then shook. "I could ask you the 
same thing, Carlos. What's the deal being eight hours early, man? Our agreement 
was midnight."
"Chill, bro," Carlos said. "We had to leave L.A.
in a hurry. The cops were on to us. A snitch got word they were due to raid, so 
we loaded up the stuff and split." Smiling, he clapped Sweet on the back. "I 
didn't think you'd mind, bro."
"Not at all, bro," Sweet said, mimicking him. "You wouldn't be much good to me 
in the slammer."
Carlos crooked a finger, and the rest of his gang climbed out. "We actually got 
here about half an hour ago and were waiting down the street for you to show. 
When we saw that tall dude let himself in, we figured you'd be coming soon."
Sweet's brows knit. "What tall dude?"
"The big guy in the trenchcoat. Tough-looking SOB." As an afterthought, Carlos 
added, " We saw him up on the roof just before you arrived."
Bolan's gut tightened into a ball. Backpedaling, he turned to make himself 
scarce. But it was too late.
"He's not one of mine." Sweet declared. "That means we've got uninvited company. 
Fan out, boys! Find him!"
Bolan ran fast, weaving farther into the maze of crates. He figured he could 
elude the searchers and swing around to reach the boy. Stopping to listen, he 
happened to look at the floor, at his footprints clearly etched in the thick 
dust. Damn, the soldier thought, and hurried on. This was his own fault, though. 
He'd been unusually careless in letting the Diablos see him. Sure, he hadn't 
known they were out there, but that was no excuse. A fundamental law of his 
profession was never take anything for granted. Not ever.
"Hey!" someone hollered. "Over here! I found some tracks!"
Halting again, Bolan resorted to a ruse to buy him­self time. He took four steps 
backward, placing each
foot in corresponding prints he had already made. Then he bounded to the left, 
beyond a stack of boxes, and looped around them.
The pounding of shoes and scuffing noises told the soldier gunners were 
converging from different direc­tions. He glimpsed one, moving away from him. 
Sid­ling past a crate, he stood stock-still when another fig­ure materialized, a 
lanky Diablo armed with a Smith & Wesson Model 4516.
The man was gazing off to the right. Bolan hoped he'd elude detection, but the 
very next moment the Diablo swiveled toward him and a widening of the man's eyes 
betrayed his discovery. The Smith & Wes­son jerked up but Bolan already had his 
machine pistol level. All he had to do was stroke the trigger. A 3-round burst 
cored the gunner's sternum, and the man collapsed to the floor.
"Did you hear something?" someone off to the left shouted.
"No," another answered.
"I did," chimed hi a third.
Bolan was in motion, gliding wide of the body. Soon he had an unobstructed view 
of the boy, who hadn't budged. Close by, Sweet and Carlos were con­versing in 
hushed tones. One of the Sweet's body­guards and two of Carlos's goons hadn't 
joined the hunt, either.
Both cars were unattended, but with the huge cor­rugated door down, using either 
was out of the question.
Sweet cupped a hand to his mouth. "Lap Dog, you hear me?"
"Yeah, boss," was the reply from deep in the warehouse.
"Take a couple of guys up on the roof. Maybe our visitor is still up there. 
Maybe he didn't make those tracks."
"Will do."
Bolan came to a final pair of boxes. He wanted to get the boy's attention, to 
signal for Deaver to duck, but the youngster was gazing wistfully toward the 
front as if he were considering making a break for it.
Suddenly someone began bawling, "Hey! Hey! Freddie has been whacked! Over here!"
Carlos and his two goons immediately dashed off to investigate, leaving Sweet 
and the lone bodyguard for Bolan to deal with. Rising, the soldier stepped into 
the open, firing as he did, his burst spinning the body­guard. Dead on his feet, 
the man fell with a loud thud.
Alfonso Sweet whirled toward Bolan as the Exe­cutioner swung the Beretta into 
play. Sweet thrust out his hands, his thin lips mouthing the word, "No!" 
Astonishment twisted his face as his torso was cored. Blood spurted, staining 
his expensive shirt, and he tot­tered drunkenly. Sinking onto his knees, he had 
enough life left to throw back his head and scream.
Deaver was riveted by the tableau. Bolan snagged him on the fly, grasping the 
boy's wrist and leading him toward the entrance. Shouts broke out all over, the 
gunners yelling back and forth in confusion, want­ing to know who had screamed 
and why.
Bolan had hopes of making it out unseen, but they were dashed on the cruel rocks 
of reality when a gun­ner materialized out of the murky ulterior, spotted him, 
and yelled.
"Sweet is down! The bastard is getting away!"
Gunfire erupted. Hunching as he ran, Bolan pushed Deaver in front of nun, 
shielding the boy with his own
body. As more rounds buzzed, he pivoted, returning fire, but the gunner sought 
cover and the burst sizzled empty space.
Another Diablo appeared just as Bolan and the youth reached the door. With 
rounds chipping the wall mere inches away, Bolan practically flung the boy 
through. Again he spun, on the heel of his foot, and this time his target wasn't 
as lucky. Three Parabellum slugs stitched the man's face, dropping him like a 
rock.
Then Bolan was out the door. He planned to spirit Deaver to safety—but the boy 
wasn't there. Glancing both ways, Bolan saw the youngster sprinting like mad to 
the east. He started to go after him but was brought up short by the rasp of car 
doors being opened.
The soldier faced the parking lot.
A third late-model Ford was parked next to Sweet's limo. Evidently, Carlos and 
company had driven from Los Angeles in three vehicles, not two, and the third 
had stayed outside while the two cars in which drugs had been stashed had gone 
in to be unloaded.
The four Diablos inside weren't simpletons. They realized something was wrong 
and popped out of their vehicle with their weapons ready, one of them snarling 
in Spanish for Bolan to drop his pistol and raise his arms.
Cutting to the right, the soldier bolted for the corner of the warehouse. 
Autofire chattered, perforating the wall and kicking up stinging shards of 
asphalt from the ground at his feet. Without slowing Bolan re­sponded. He had 
the satisfaction of seeing one of the Diablos keel over. Then he was at the 
corner and rac­ing around it.
Bolan figured Deaver would be all right The
youngster could lose himself in the alleys and side streets flanking the 
warehouse and eventually make his way home. With Sweet gone, so was the threat 
to Deaver and his mother.
The mission had been accomplished. All Bolan had to do now was to slip off 
unseen and he could be on the next jet east. He'd phone Hal Brognola from the 
airport, just in case something new had come up.
Belatedly, the soldier saw a side door opening up ahead. He dived to the right, 
behind a giant trash bin as a pistol cracked in regular cadence.
Now he had gunners behind him and in front. Bolan sidestepped to the end of the 
bin and peered around it A solitary Diablo was cautiously advancing.
Yells and the drum of pounding shoes rose from the front of the building.
Bolan had to move. Darting out, he nailed the ad­vancing gunner before the man's 
trigger finger could so much as twitch. Then he leaned against the bin, waiting 
for the three Diablos who were chasing him to cross his gun sights. But they had 
halted at the comer and were talking excitedly.
Bolan scanned the rear of the warehouse, which was bordered by a seven-foot-high 
chain-link fence. Climbing over it posed no problem, but reaching the fence 
alive did. The Diablos out front would unleash a hailstorm the instant he 
stepped into view. And at any moment more gunners might spill from the side 
door.
The soldier regretted not bringing his combat black-suit, crammed with useful 
items for situations just like this one. Or an M-16 with an attached grenade 
launcher. He'd counted on a swift insertion, achieving
his mission and vanishing before Sweet's people could collect their wits.
So much for his well-laid plans, Bolan wryly re­flected. He surveyed the fence 
again and spied a hole in the chain link, down low. It might be wide enough for 
him to wriggle through. Once beyond, stacks of empty pallets offered protection.
Tucking at the knees, Bolan girded himself. A few shots to discourage the 
Diablos, and he would be off. But as he raised the Beretta in a two-handed grip 
and looked out to mark their position, a deep voice boomed overhead.
"There he is! I see him!"
The soldier glanced up. Lap Dog and a pair of Diablos were at the edge of the 
roof, bringing their weapons to bear.
A heartbeat later two more gunners rushed out of the side door.
 
 
Chapter 2
 
 
Most men would have died then and there. Outflanked and outgunned, they would 
have gone down in a blaze of gunfire.
But the Executioner wasn't most men. Mack Bolan had honed his lethal craft in 
killing fields from one end of the globe to the other. He'd engaged in more 
combat than most men saw in a lifetime. His reflexes were razor-sharp, his skill 
second to none. In a crisis he reacted without thinking, instinctively doing 
what was needed to survive. He didn't waste precious sec­onds thinking about 
what to do; he automatically did it.
As the pair of gunners rushed from the side door, they ran smack into bursts 
from the 93-R. In the blink of an eye they were prone and bloody.
As they hit the ground, Bolan swept the machine pistol toward the roof and 
triggered more rounds. Alarmed, Lap Dog and the others scrambled back from the 
edge.
Without any hesitation, Bolan dashed toward the side door, emptying the magazine 
to discourage the Diablos at the front corner. Barreling into a narrow hallway, 
he pressed his back against the wall, dipped a hand into an inner pocket and 
palmed a new magazine.
Lap Dog was screeching for the Diablos out front to close in. Down the hall, 
muffled sounds stressed how untenable the soldier's position was.
Bolan ejected the spent mag and slapped home the fresh one. The empty went into 
the same pocket as he aligned an eye with the inner jamb.
All three Diablos were slinking forward.
Straightening, the soldier took a few deep breaths. Then he vaulted from 
concealment, the Beretta slanted almost straight up. The surprise on the faces 
of Lap Dog and the other two would have been comical under different 
circumstances. Caught flat-footed leaning well out over the roof, they were 
drilled through their chests and heads. Both gunners sprawled flat, but Lap Dog 
pitched over the rim, uttering a gurgling whine as he dived headfirst toward the 
unyielding pavement. The crunch of his impact was almost loud enough to drown 
out the next burst from Bolan's Beretta.
The lead Diablo crumpled. His friends showed their true colors by wheeling to 
flee. They were swift but not as fast as the 9 mm bullets that whizzed after 
them.
Bolan sped toward the fence. He had reduced the opposition by better than half, 
but Carlos, two or three Diablos and Sweet's driver were still unaccounted for. 
Gaining the fence, he dived to the hole. It was barely big enough. A last glance 
back, and Bolan flung him­self into the opening as if fired from a cannon. His 
trenchcoat snagged on the jagged links, but he freed it with a tug and crawled 
on through.
Running on, Bolan put the pallets between himself and warehouse. He'd done it. 
Now all that remained was to flag a taxi and head for O'Hare.
The next building was an upholstery business. Workers could be seen through a 
large glass window,
a woman mending a rip in a sofa and a man threading a spool. Neither paid any 
attention when Bolan walked by, the machine pistol hidden under his coat.
Traffic was sparse. On a whim he walked eastward, mingling into the light flow 
of pedestrians. No one acted concerned about the recent gunshots. Maybe they 
were used to it. Or maybe they simply didn't care.
At the intersection, while waiting for the light to change, Bolan scoured the 
adjoining street for some sign of Deaver but the boy was nowhere to be seen. The 
light turned green, and, the soldier stepped into the crosswalk.
Brownstones lined the thoroughfare, interspersed by small businesses. Bolan 
passed a pizza parlor, the aroma of baking pizza enough to make his stomach 
growl. Next was a throwback to a previous age, a tai­lor's. A little farther on 
was a deli.
Again Bolan had to wait for a light. Again he sought some trace of the boy. 
Looking over his right shoulder, he saw something that sent his hand rising 
toward his shoulder rig.
A brown sedan was coming up the street, one ex­actly like those driven by the 
Diablos. As it prowled closer, Bolan recognized the driver. It was Carlos, 
driving well below the speed limit. Two other gang members were with him, 
leaning out open windows and intently surveying the sidewalks.
Three guesses who they were after, Bolan mused. In his trenchcoat he stood out 
like the proverbial sore thumb, but if he took it off he would expose the 
hol­ster. Turning left, he ducked into the first doorway he came to.
None too soon. The light had changed. The brown
sedan drove through the intersection, Carlos looking up the street.
Bolan didn't think he'd been spotted. To play it safe he waited ten seconds 
before venturing to the corner. By now the sedan was almost to the end of the 
block. At the light, Carlos turned south.
Moving to the curb, Bolan searched in vain for a cab. As the old saying went, 
there was never a taxi around when someone needed one. He walked briskly, 
checking behind him every few steps to guard against another unwelcome surprise. 
At the junction where the Diablos had turned right, he went left.
The traffic soon picked up a little, but all of the Windy City's cabs seemed to 
have gone into hiber­nation. Bolan traveled several blocks without setting eyes 
on one. Pausing at another traffic light, he gazed westward and saw Deaver.
Oblivious to those around him, the boy was leaning against a wall, openly 
weeping.
Bolan walked over. As his shadow fell across the youngster, Deaver looked up in 
stark panic.
"Remember me?" Bolan said quietly.
Shock glued the boy in place.
"I won't hurt you," the soldier said. "I just wanted to make sure you were 
okay."
Sniffling, Deaver unfurled his forearm and brushed it across his face to wipe 
away the tears. "You're the one who saved me."
"Can you make it home on your own?" Bolan inquired.
Deaver ignored the question. "Who are you, mister? Why'd you whack the Sweetman 
like you did?"
"He had it coming."
The boy nodded. "That's true. My mom says he was the worst man alive. Pushing 
those drugs."
"Your mother sounds like an extremely wise woman."
"She's smart," Deaver said, smiling in genuine warmth. "And she cares for us. 
Ever since my dad walked out, she's had to work two jobs to keep food on the 
table for me and my brothers and sisters. But she never complains."
"Get on home, son. Tell her she won't need to worry about the Sweetman anymore." 
Bolan started to depart, but the youth snagged his sleeve.
"Look!" The youngster pointed to the west
Alfonso Sweet's driver was prowling up the avenue toward them.
"Quick," Bolan said, and taking Deaver by the hand, he hastened back around the 
intersection.
"What'll we do, mister?" the boy asked. "Brick isn't about to give up. He's like 
one of those bloodhounds."
"Brick?"
"That's what the Sweetman called him. He's mean, folks say, real mean. When the 
Sweetman needed someone hurt, he'd always have Brick do it."
So Bolan's work wasn't done. The boy wouldn't be safe until Brick was disposed 
of, too. "Leave him to me. Right now the important thing is to get you to 
safety."
"You taking me home?"
Bolan would like nothing better, but as fate would nave it, he caught sight of 
the brown sedan a block off. cruising their way. Carlos, like Brick, didn't give 
up easily.
"Stay close," Bolan said, and descended a short flight of stairs to a small 
bakery.
"Wow," Deaver declared. "This place smells good." •<
The fragrant aroma of freshly made loaves, buns and biscuits was thick. A young 
couple was at a table eating cinnamon rolls. At the counter a middle-aged woman 
was having an order filled. The proprietor, a portly man whose balding pate was 
crowned by a white hat, looked up. ,
"Be with you in a minute, sir." 
"No rush," Bolan said, stepping to a display case and pretending to be 
interested in a selection of pastries.
"Mister!" Deaver whispered, pulling on his arm and pointing. "He's found us!"
Brick was at the top of the stairs, facing the street, waving wildly. Carlos had 
to have made an illegal U-turn because moments later the sedan screeched to the 
curb and out slid the Diablos.
Bolan moved to the counter. "Is there a back way out?" he asked.
The proprietor was scribbling on a pad. "Sure, but it's not for the general 
public to use. It's only for deliveries." »
Bolan led the boy around the counter. 
"Hey! Didn't you hear me?" the owner said brusquely. "You can't go back there! 
It's not allowed."
"Make an exception in our case," Bolan said. A    « hallway brought them to a 
cramped kitchen. Ovens lined both walls, and a large table filled the middle. 
Halfway across, Bolan heard the front door open.
"Where are they?" I
"Where are who?" the proprietor replied.
"Don't play games with me! Where the hell are the tall bastard and the brat who 
came hi here?"
From the quaking fear in the owner's voice, Brick had to be holding a gun to his 
temple. "Out the back! They just went out the back way! Please don't hurt 
anyone! I don't want any trouble!"
Bolan gripped a doorknob and wrenched, but the back door wouldn't open. It was 
locked. Drawing the Beretta, he began to elevate a foot when a hint of movement 
at the other end of the kitchen brought him around in a crouch.
"Look out!" Deaver yelled.
A Diablo was framed in the hallway, his nickel-plated Colt gleaming in the 
fluorescent light.
They fired simultaneously.
Bolan felt air fan his ear. His own burst chopped title hood at the waist. 
Pivoting before another gang member could intervene, Bolan smashed his foot into 
the door, once, twice, three times. With a rending and splintering of wood it 
gave way.
Bolan hurtled out, yanking the boy with him. They were now in a litter-strewed 
alley, along with half a dozen trash cans. He ran to the right and saw a taxi go 
by the alley mouth, too far off for him to hail.
In the bakery a woman screeched hysterically. Glass shattered, and a man 
commenced howling in pain.
Deaver was wide-eyed with horror, so scared to death of being caught he could 
barely move under his own power. Bolan had to continually pull on the boy's arm. 
They were eight or nine yards shy of the street when Brick came flying out of 
the bakery and raised a Dan Wesson .44 Magnum howitzer.
Bolan tackled the boy, driving them both to the
ground as the revolver thundered, the booming retort echoing. Flipping onto his 
back, Bolan aimed the Ber­etta, but Brick sprang back into the bakery.
"We're dead, we're dead, we're dead," Deaver said over and over, tears streaking 
his puffy cheeks.
"Not yet we're not," Bolan snapped, and heaved upright They fled out the alley, 
nearly stumbling over pedestrians who had stopped cold on hearing die .44 Magnum 
revolver. A woman took one look at the Ber­etta and screamed. Others tripped 
over their own feet in their eagerness to get out of his way.
Bolan's ice-blue eyes narrowed. Firming his hold on the boy's wrist, he bounded 
into the avenue, di­rectly into the flow of traffic. His best chance of elud­ing 
Brick and Carlos lay in making it difficult for them to overtake him and the 
boy.
Deaver cried out. The woman on the sidewalk wailed louder as an onrushing 
station wagon slammed on the brakes and slewed to a lurching halt so close to 
Bolan he could have reached out and touched it
Deaver was clinging to Bolan as if he were drown­ing and Bolan were his life 
preserver. The soldier flew to me other sidewalk and turned west.
Sirens shrieked in the distance. The last thing Bolan wanted was to spend twelve 
hours under intense police interrogation before Brognola was able to bail him 
out
Another alley loomed. Running into it, Bolan set the youngster down so they 
could go faster. "Run!" he coaxed
The boy tried gamely, but he was still scared and tired and slowed them down 
drastically.
Looping his free arm around Deaver's chest, Bolan carried him. A Dumpster 
garbage bin blocked his view of the far end, so it wasn't until he had passed it 
mat
be learned the alley was blocked off by a high brick wall. Thwarted, Bolan spun 
to retrace his steps but saw Brick across the avenue, shouldering through a 
grow­ing crowd.
"Mister?" Deaver said timidly.
Bolan put him down. "Don't be afraid. I'll get us out of this." A door on their 
right was locked. So was the next one he tried.
"Mister?" Deaver said more urgently.
"What?" Bolan saw Brick glare balefully at them. It wouldn't be long before he 
waded through the on­lookers and opened up with the revolver.
"How about that one?" The boy indicated a shad­owed spot on the left.
Bolan did a double take. In a recessed archway was another door, partially open. 
Stenciled on it were the words, Employees Only. A broad but ill-lit corridor led 
into the bowels of a skyscraper. "It'll do," he granted, grinning. "You have 
eyes like a hawk."
"Thanks," Deaver said, swelling with pride.
Bolan hustled him inside, then closed the door and threw a heavy bolt someone 
else had thankfully ne­glected to. Taking the youngster's hand, he bolstered the 
Beretta and double-timed it past rooms filled with mannequins, cartons and 
shelves upon shelves of mer­chandise. "It's a store," he deduced.
"Harrah's, I think," Deaver said. "The department store."
Unexpectedly, a man came out of a stockroom, wheeling a boxed TV on a dolly. 
"Hey, what are you two doing back here?"
"We need the rest room," Bolan fibbed. "I must have taken a wrong turn 
somewhere."
The man glanced at Deaver and smiled. "You sure
did. Turn right at the next comer, then left when you reach the main floor. The 
men's room is up front, near the drinking fountain."
"Thank you kindly," Bolan said, ushering the boy along.
"That was slick, mister," the youngster compli­mented him. "Real slick." He 
paused as if uncertain whether to say something that was on his mind. "Tell me. 
You're not a drug dealer like the Sweetman was, are you?"
"No. Why would you think I was?"
"Drugheads whack each other all the time over turf and things," Deaver said. 
"Does that mean you're a cop?"
"I'm not a police officer, either."
"Then what are you, exactly?"
Bolan looked down. "Is it important?"
"To me it is, yeah. My mom says there are good and bad people in this world, and 
it's the bad folks who go around killing all the time. So does that mean you're 
bad?"
The Executioner chose his answer carefully. The question pertained to the very 
crux of his existence, to why he did what he did, to what made him different 
from a common vigilante. "Most people would call me one of the good guys, I 
think. I make it my busi­ness to make this world safe for people like you and 
your mother."
"You've whacked a lot of people, then? More than just the Sweetman?"
"A few," Bolan admitted.
"My mom says killing is evil. How can you be good if you kill?"
Bolan had wrestled with the same issue over the
years, since he first took up his crusade against evil in all its worldly 
guises. "If there were a rat in your house, what would your mother do?"
"Huh? What do rats have to do with anything? My mom hates rats. They bring 
disease. And they bite peo­ple. If we had a rat, she'd set a trap."
"She wouldn't try to tame it? Make it a pet?"
Deaver chortled. "You don't know much about rats, do you? The wild ones can't be 
tamed. They're too mean. The only thing to do is kill them."
"Exactly," Bolan said. "And there's no difference between a rat and the 
Sweetman. There's no changing mem, no way to stop them from spreading their 
filth except by ending their lives."
The boy pondered for a few moments. "I see what you're saying."
They stepped out into the bright lights of Harrah's, into the middle of the 
women's clothing department. Shoppers were everywhere. A young mother with a 
child of four or five in tow smiled as they walked by.
"I hardly ever get to come in here," Deaver men­tioned. "Everything costs too 
much."
Wide glass doors lay dead ahead. Just outside was a taxi waiting for a fare. 
Bolan moved a little faster, then abruptly veered into a side aisle, nearly 
jerking Deaver off his feet.
"Hey! That hurt! What's the matter?"
The brown Ford had pulled up behind the cab. Out hopped Brick and the three 
Diablos. Four abreast, they barreled into the store as if they owned the place.
The boy had seen them. "Oh, Lord! They're still after us! What'll we do, mister? 
What'll we do?" His cries drew the gazes of some of the shoppers.
Bolan retreated farther down the side aisle, saying,
"Keep it down. They haven't seen us yet." With all the clothing racks and 
counters, Bolan figured it should be fairly easy to give them the slip. Above 
all else, it was imperative a gunfight be avoided. There were too many 
bystanders around. Some were bound to be hurt, or worse.
"Can we make it out the back?" Deaver queried.
"Maybe," Bolan said. It was worth a try. Halting beside a gleaming marble 
pillar, he risked a quick look to see what Brick and the Diablos were up to. 
They hadn't moved. Brick and Carlos appeared to be argu­ing. Ready to sneak off, 
Bolan tensed when a police car pulled up out front, alongside the cab.
Two men in blue climbed out and came toward the department store, their hands on 
then: side arms. One was older with a bit of a paunch, the other so fresh-faced 
he had to be a rookie just out of the academy. They glanced at the brown sedan, 
and the older officer said something to his partner.
As yet, Brick and Carlos hadn't noticed them. But another Diablo did. Gesturing, 
he shouted, "Cops, man! Cops!"
Brick and Carlos spun. Carlos barked commands in Spanish, and all three Diablos 
ran toward the escalator. Brick, however, had the brains of his namesake. 
Ut­tering an oath, he swept the .44 Magnum revolver from under his jacket and 
pointed it at the young of­ficer, who threw himself flat on the sidewalk just as 
the cannon boomed.
Glass shattered and flew everywhere. Women screamed.
The older officer was out of shape, but he was a pro. His weapon flashed. In 
swift succession he banged off three rounds that nailed Brick dead-on. The
g man staggered, recovered his balance and squeezed off another shot. 
Fortunately, he missed.
The younger officer joined the fray, firing twice from his prone position. Each 
bored Brick's cranium, spraying gore and bits of skull every which way.
Both officers charged inside, weapons ready.
Carlos and his friends were almost to the escalator. They produced their 
hardware, firing as they ran, forc­ing the patrolmen to seek cover.
Sheer bedlam ensued. Shrieks and yells punctuated the gunfire as customers 
hugged the floor or crouched behind racks. Some sobbed uncontrollably. One woman 
had her hands over her ears and was snouting, "No! No! No!"
In all the confusion no one showed any interest in Bolan. Drawing the Beretta, 
he held it in front of him, down low where it couldn't be seen. The escalator 
was only a dozen paces away. As the Diablos started up, they poured a hail of 
lead at the officers.
Bolan waited until the two policemen were return­ing fire, then he let loose 
with three quick bursts. Thanks to the din of the battle, no one heard the 
sup­pressor's cough.
Carlos and the other two Diablos never knew what hit them. Carlos tumbled down 
the moving steps to wind up hi a disjointed heap at the bottom. One of the other 
gang members dangled half over the side rail.
Clasping Deaver's hand, Bolan took a circuitous route toward the entrance. No 
one else was moving yet except the officers, who were warily approaching the 
Diablos, their guns extended.
All eyes were on the policemen and the dead men.
Holding the Beretta under his coat, Bolan slipped from the building and turned 
right. The taxi driver and
several pedestrians were gaping at the carnage and didn't so much as glance at 
him or the boy. In the distance a swarm of sirens keaned like avenging 
ban­shees. Soon police would flood the area, cordoning it off. By then Bolan 
would be long gone.
"Let's get you home," he said.
Deaver, to the soldier's surprise, chuckled.
"What's so funny?"
"You are, mister. I saw what you did. Like I said, you're one slick dude. The 
slickest I've ever met."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
 
Chapter 3
 
Medford, Oregon, was the largest city in the southern half of the state with a 
population of more than fifty thousand. It boasted a modern airport, a large 
business district and spacious parks. But compared to a bustling metropolis such 
as Chicago, and especially from the air, it seemed so small to Mack Bolan.
The soldier obeyed the flaring overhead light and fastened his seat belt as the 
airliner banked to make its approach. He'd caught the first available flight out 
of the Windy City after making a call to Hal Brognola in Washington, D.C., and 
being patched through to Central Point, Oregon, just up the interstate from 
Medford.
Brognola hadn't given Bolan a clue as to why he was needed, but the soldier knew 
his friend's tone and manner well enough to sense it was something big.
Medford's terminal was modest and orderly, a wel­come change from the madhouse 
at O'Hare. Bolan retrieved his bag and strolled out the automatic doors into 
gathering twilight. Brognola had promised to meet him, and as usual the big Fed 
was a man of his word.
A black car was at the curb, Brognola himself be­hind the wheel. Leaning across 
the front seat, he pushed the passenger door open. "Welcome to Oregon. Hop in."
Bolan tossed his duffel into the back, then got in. "Any repercussions from 
Chicago?"
"Nothing major," Brognola said, stepping on the gas. "I've had one of my agents 
make inquiries. Dis­creetly, of course. Some witnesses reported a tall man with 
dark hair in the company of a child, but the police don't know how the two of 
you fit into the general scheme of things."
"They haven't tracked down the boy?"
"No, he's out of it." Brognola braked at a stop sign. "From the sound of things, 
Striker," he said, using Bolan's code name, "it was a lot closer than you made 
it out to be."
Bolan shrugged before switching subjects. "So why am I in Oregon?"
Brognola didn't respond right away. They turned onto Airport Road, and again at 
Biddle. Finally he asked, "What do you know about Nanotechnology?"
"In a nutshell? It's a relatively new science that has to do with atomic or 
subatomic matter. Remember Splatterpunk? His enhanced biology nearly killed me."
Brognola grinned. "How can I forget that jugger­naut? Some are calling 
Nanotechnology the science for the new millennium. Experts say we'll be able to 
restructure the basic buildings blocks of matter, that it will give us control 
over the molecules that make up all life."
"So I'm here for a Nanotechnology seminar?"
The big Fed's grin evaporated. "No, you're here to see the firsthand result of 
Nanotechnology taken to the extreme." He paused. "Ever hear of an outfit known 
as Nanotech, Incorporated?"
"Can't say I have."
"They're one of the leaders in the field, specializing in a branch known as 
molecular robotics."
Bolan glanced at the big Fed. "Robots the size of molecules? The mind boggles."
"The possibilities are endless. Imagine designing artificial antibodies that can 
fight any disease. Cancer and strokes would be a thing of the past. Human life 
spans would increase by decades." Brognola scowled when a young couple in a red 
sports car zoomed by going twenty miles over the speed limit. "Or imagine being 
able to manufacture any product almost out of thin air. Nanotechnology has the 
potential to reshape human society."
The soldier leaned back.
"Or to destroy it," Brognola went on. "In the wrong hands, it could be deadly. 
Any lunatic with a lab could conceivably develop the means to wipe out 
civilization. Germ warfare will rise to a whole new level. Virulent plagues, for 
instance, could be made to order."
Bolan had an inkling where their talk was going. "Someone has come up with a 
tailor-made virus?"
"Not quite, but you're close."
A sign announcing Interstate 5 drew Brognola into the right lane. Once on it, he 
resumed. "Nanotech, Incorporated has been working on various projects for the 
government Defense related, mostly. Studying how Nanotechnology can be applied 
to warfare, that sort of thing." He increased speed to pass an old blue Blazer. 
"All under the strictest of secrecy, you under­stand. And fairly tight 
security."
"Fairly?" Bolan said.
"Ordinary precautions were taken. But Eric Larson,
the president of Nanotech, never anticipated some­thing like this happening."
"Like what?"
"One of the company's top scientists, Bernard Craker, is a Harvard grad. He, 
along with two col­leagues, Ted Proctor and Helen Paisley, have been working for 
months on a hush-hush project. Craker is a wizard at molecular robotics, at 
creating artificial molecules to perform specific functions."
"Nanites, they're called. Or at least that's what I've been told," Bolan said 
dryly.
"Right. Anyway, Craker recently made a major breakthrough. He developed a new 
nanite unlike any ever conceived. And early this morning he put it to use."
Brognola would say little else. He wanted Bolan to witness the result firsthand. 
Taking the Central Point exit, they followed a winding secondary road until they 
came to a five-acre property surrounded by an electrified fence. A gate guard 
admitted them without bothering to check their credentials.
"You call that security?" Bolan remarked.
"I've been here since two this afternoon," Brog­nola said. "He knows who I am."
They pulled up in front of the main complex. Two of Brognola's special agents 
were stationed at the en­trance, and more were inside. An elderly receptionist, 
appearing gravely distraught, was on the phone.
"Anything new?" Brognola asked an agent who greeted him.
"No, sir. We've checked every airline, every flight out of Medford, Eugene and 
Portland. The same with Sacramento and San Francisco."
"Bus terminals? The train?"
"Negative there, too, sir. Maybe they're traveling under assumed identifies, in 
which case they could be anywhere."
"Keep at it," Brognola said. "Unless the earth opened up and swallowed them, 
we'll find Cracker and Paisley sooner or later."
"Yes, sir." The agent motioned. "Mr. Larson is waiting in the lab, as you 
requested."
Bolan saw no evidence of Nanotech's staff, other than the harried receptionist, 
and mentioned it as he trailed Brognola down a hall.
"They're in the lunchroom for questioning," Brog­nola disclosed. "No one is 
permitted to leave until we're done."
Another federal agent stood guard outside a lab. Brognola nodded at him, and the 
man opened the door for them.
"Brace yourself, Striker. Just when you think you've seen everything, along 
comes something like this."
Like what? Bolan wondered. Whatever it was, it had Brognola rattled, and that 
took a lot. More agents were inside, along with a lanky fellow in a lab coat who 
was flipping through pages on a clipboard and a courtly gentleman hi his mid- to 
late-forties who wore a neatly pressed suit that contrasted with his dour 
expression.
"Mr. Brognola!" the latter exclaimed. "At last! Is this the man you went to 
fetch?"
The big Fed nodded but didn't introduce the soldier. "Show him the remains, if 
you please, Mr. Larson."
Eric Larson glanced at a white sheet spread over something in the center of the 
floor, and blanched. "Me? My ulcer is killing me as it is."
"I'll do it," offered the fellow with the clipboard. He held out his hand to 
Bolan.
"Jim Travers. Exploratory engineering is my field, but Mr. Larson thought I 
might be able to glean some clue as to what Bernie Craker was up to."
Bolan shook his hand without responding. Travers led him to the sheet, bent and 
folded it back on itself, revealing a crumpled lab coat, pants and a pair of 
shoes. Or such was Bolan's initial impression. But, peering closer, he saw the 
clothing had a lumpy qual­ity to it, saw hair visible below the color. "What—?"
"Allow me," Travers said, and took a ruler from a pocket. Sliding the tip of it 
under the front edge of the crumpled lab coat, which was unbuttoned, he 
carefully peeled the coat back. "There you go."
It took a full fifteen seconds for what Bolan was seeing to register. When it 
did, an icy sensation rippled down his spine. "This can't be."
"But it is," Hal Brognola said.
The clothes covered a hideous blob, a mass of sandy hair and human flesh. Below 
the hairline two green eyes gaped blankly above a collapsed nose and slit mouth. 
A pair of arms, resembling punctured inner tubes, lay coiled around the mass 
like twin dead snakes. Few other features were distinguishable, al­though there 
were two protruding bumps that Bolan took to be the buttocks.
Eric Larson, averting his eyes, commented, "You're looking at all that's left of 
Ted Proctor, one of our top researchers in molecular robotics."
"What happened to him?" Bolan asked.
Brognola grunted. "The sixty-million-dollar ques­tion. Our best guess is that 
every bone in his body is gone. Melted away. Or, rather, eaten."
Bolan tore his gaze from the repulsive remains. "Eaten?" Insight made him snap 
his fingers. "Nano-technology. Someone created something that could do this to a 
human being?"
Eric Larson nodded. "That someone is Bernie Craker. He was working on a special 
project with Proctor and Helen Paisley. Now Proctor is dead, and the other two 
are missing."
He waved a hand at Travers. "Cover him, Jim. Please. I'll be ill if you don't."
The scientist did as he was told.
Brognola sat on the edge of a table and folded his arms. "Give us another 
rundown for my friend's benefit."
"Again?" Larson said.
"If you would be so kind."
Frowning, Larson moved to a chair and slumped wearily. "At approximately 9:15 
a.m. our in-house mail boy was making his rounds, dropping off the mail for each 
department, when he found Proctor's remains. Once I was contacted, I followed 
the protocol in the Department of Defense directives and phoned Wash­ington. 
Within the hour Mr. Brognola had called back and informed me he was on his way."
"Tell him about the project," Brognola urged when Larson fell quiet
"It's a DOD operation," Larson divulged. "The wartime application of 
Nanotechnology. Craker was working on an ultrasecret form of nanite warfare, a 
means of incapacitating an enemy efficiently and swiftly."
"He succeeded, I take it," Bolan said, contemplat­ing the lump under the white 
sheet
"Evidently," Larson said bitterly. "The thing is, we know little more than you 
now do, I'm afraid."
"How can that be?" Bolan challenged. "Craker works for you, doesn't he? He was 
under your supervision."
"In a very broad sense, yes," Larson said. "But I left the day-to-day operation 
of the project to him. I grant the same latitude to every scientist in my 
em­ploy. All I required were periodic progress updates."
"You must have some idea," Bolan insisted.
"I've shown Mr. Brognola the updates," Larson re­sponded defensively. "All we've 
established is that Craker was on the verge of an achievement that would rock 
the scientific world to its very foundation. He was perfecting a new type of 
nanite, a self-replicated pred­atory molecule that would exceed the DOD's 
fondest expectations."
Bolan remembered what Brognola had said. "He developed a molecule that eats 
human bone?"
"That's my guess," Jim Travers said. "Remember that old video game, where yellow 
dots with teeth went around the screen eating the other dots? Well, the same 
principle applies here. Only in this case, Cracker apparently managed to program 
the molecules to consume calcium. Fascinating, isn't it?"
"Revolting is more like it," Bolan said.
"Not when you put it in perspective," Travers said. "It's no worse than any of 
the chemical warfare agents being employed by countries all over the globe. Fact 
is, Craker's method is a definite improvement."
"Tell that to Proctor."
Eric Larson cleared his throat "We've made a few assumptions based on what facts 
we've gleaned. For one thing, whatever Craker created is incredibly fast-
acting. Proctor was last seen alive at half-past seven this morning, when he 
arrived for work. We know that Craker arrived about eight, then left with 
Paisley at eight-twenty. Which would indicate that whatever was injected into 
Proctor took ten to fifteen minutes, or less, to do that."
"Are you sure it was injected?" Bolan asked. "How do you know the molecules 
weren't slipped into Proctor's coffee or a glass of water?"
It was Travers who answered. "Without being too technical, suffice it to say the 
nanites have a symbiotic relationship with the host body. In other words, they 
only come to life, and stay alive, when hi the human bloodstream. The rest of 
the time they're kept frozen."
"So it's not as if Crater could spray them over a city and wipe out half the 
population," Larson said, staring at Brognola. "Nor, I seriously doubt, will he 
go around injecting everyone he meets. Even if he did, the nanites aren't 
contagious. They don't spread by mere contact or via an airborne vector."
The big Fed faced Bolan. "Mr. Larson feels I've overreacted and gone a tad 
overboard in my security arrangements. He thinks I should open the gates and let 
everyone we've already questioned go home."
"They're my employees," Larson said, "my friends. I resent their being treated 
as if they're hi a concentration camp."
"Now who's overreacting?" Brognola retorted. "I'm just trying to get to the 
bottom of this. A lot of crucial questions need to be answered. Why did Craker 
kill Proctor? Where did Craker go afterward? And how does Helen Paisley fit into 
the picture?"
Bolan thought of an important aspect no one had brought up. "Are there more of 
these nanites?"
Larson bit his lower lip, then said, "We aren't sure. We have no idea how many 
Bernie developed. Mrs. Wilson, our receptionist, saw Paisley and him leave, and 
seems to recall Bernie was carrying a transport case."
"An insulated metal briefcase," Travers elaborated, "for the transport of 
fragile cultures. Heat resistant. Reinforced with steel bands. Virtually 
indestructible."
The implication, Bolan realized, was that Craker had taken more of the predatory 
molecules with him. "So you're saying he probably has enough to kill a lot more 
people. How many? Twenty? Fifty? A hundred?"
Larson and Travers exchanged worried looks. "A transport case can contain up to 
six large vials," the latter said. "We can't even begin to guess how many 
nanites it takes to do what was done to poor Ted. But I'd hazard a guess it 
wouldn't take many. Craker might have enough with him to kill thousands."
"Possibly hundreds of thousands," Larson said forlornly.
Brognola straightened. "Will you excuse us a mo­ment?" he said, and beckoned 
Bolan. Out in the hall he ran his hand over his hair, the craggy lines in his 
face deepening. "The most important question of all is, why did Craker steal his 
own nanites? I can only mink of one motive."
So could Bolan. "He intends to sell them to the highest bidder. Certain foreign 
powers and terrorist or­ganizations would pay a king's ransom to get then-hands 
on that transport case."
"We're on the same wavelength," Brognola said. "But so far we've uncovered no 
evidence that Craker has tried to flee the country."
"What do you want from me?" Bolan wasn't an investigator. His proper place was 
out in the field.
"I have a motel room registered in your name. Get some rest. As soon as we hear 
anything, I'd like for you to be the one who brings in Craker and Paisley. If 
they won't come willingly, and my gut instinct tells me they won't, then take 
whatever steps are necessary. Make no mistake. Bernie Craker poses a great 
threat to this country."
Bolan knew what his friend was thinking. In the wrong hands, the killer 
molecules could wreak untold havoc. One prick of a needle and whoever was 
in­fected was doomed. The nanites could be used to com­mit untraceable 
assassinations. Or whoever obtained them might find a way to spread them by some 
other vector, as Larson called it. Maybe by adding them to a city's water 
supply.
Brognola made it perfectly plain. "If you have to, send Craker back in a pine 
box."
helen paisley stood on a cliff overlooking the Pa­cific Ocean and giggled like a 
little girl. She was tin­gling with joy, happier than she had been in ages. And 
she owed it all to the geek she had despised ever since college.
"Helen?" Bernie Craker said.
She turned, and was reminded once again of how much he looked like a featherless 
vulture, with his ugly bony body and beaked nose. "What is it now?" she asked 
irritably. From the moment they left Nano­tech he had been griping constantly. 
Yet another of Ms many flaws; he was too negative about things.
"Is this wise? I mean, we're still in Oregon. By now
the authorities must be combing the countryside for us."
Paisley laughed in triumph. "Let them! They have no clue where we are."
"But they're bound to contact every police and sheriff department in the state. 
Every law-enforcement officer will be on the lookout for us."
"So?" Paisley said, growing more annoyed. "Ber­nie, have a little faith, will 
you? Oregon is a big state, with more square miles of wilderness than 
practically any other except maybe California and Washington. We could hide out 
here forever if need be."
"But—" Craker began.
"No buts about it," she informed him. "I have it all worked out. All we need to 
do is lie low until the meeting with Sprague. Then everything will be fine."
"I don't see why he couldn't have met us sooner."
"What did you expect? For us to hand the case to him at the main gate? Grow up, 
Bernie. A man like Sprague isn't about to commit himself until he's sure we have 
the goods. Now that we do, the money is on its way." Paisley's face brightened. 
"All that won­derful, glorious money."
"Ten million is a lot," Craker conceded.
"It's a fortune," the woman said. "More than you or I would earn in a hundred 
years. Enough for us to live in the lap of luxury for the rest of our lives."
"Live where?"
Paisley didn't answer. Instead she headed down the wooded path toward their 
campsite. A jay squawked at her from a fir tree, a squirrel chittered on a high 
branch. She inhaled the dank, tangy sea air and beamed.
"Live where?" Craker repeated.
"You'll see," Paisley said.
"I still can't believe we actually went through with it," Craker lamented. "I 
can't believe I let you talk me into this."
Paisley snickered. He had been putty in her slender hands, as easy to manipulate 
as a child. Which, come to think of it, emotionally he still was. Craker lived 
in his own little world, withdrawn from the rest of hu­manity, aloof in his 
lofty mental tower. But she couldn't deny he was a verifiable genius, and thanks 
to his smarts, she was going to be one of the richest women on the planet.
To be wealthy had always been Paisley's fondest dream. As a girl growing up in a 
lower-class neigh­borhood in Philadelphia, she had never been able to have all 
the clothes she wanted or the toys she desired because her parents never had 
enough money. In high school she had been shunned by the elite cliques, by all 
those rich girls who had everything fed to them on a silver spoon.
Paisley still remembered her senior prom when Carly Bannister, the daughter of 
an investment banker, had smirked at her and asked if she'd bought her prom 
dress at a discount store. Thinking about the insult, even now, Paisley flushed 
with anger.
Well, she thought, in a few days no one would ever make fun of her again for 
being poor. All her effort, all her years of intense study, of shaping her brain 
to be better and sharper than most, had paid off handsomely.
She had never been the richest girl, or the prettiest, or the most popular, but 
no one could dispute her in­telligence. She had passed all her classes with 
flying colors. And in science she had excelled to the point
where she earned a scholarship that enabled her to attend Harvard.
Paisley had chosen Nanotech after graduation sim­ply because she had never been 
to the West Coast, and it would be a relief to get as far as possible from her 
doting mother and gruff old father.
"Where did you ever come up with this wild idea of yours, anyway?" Craker said, 
intruding on her reverie.
"I'll never tell," Paisley said, smiling. She had been fourteen—or was it 
fifteen?—when she read an account in a newspaper about a government worker who 
sold secrets to a foreign government for hundreds of thousands of dollars and 
fled the country. He was never caught, never seen again. As the years went by, 
she read other news reports of military and industrial espionage and been mildly 
intrigued by the huge pay­offs. What if she had the opportunity to sell valuable 
information? Would she do it if she thought she could get away with it?
Obviously, the answer was yes. But Paisley could never have pulled it off 
without Bernie Craker and Miles Blatterfeld. She'd met Blatterfeld at a science 
convention in New Mexico. An overbearing pudgy man, he had come on to her at a 
bar one evening, trying to entice her to his bedroom. He'd also dropped a few 
hints here and there, hints that if she ever had information "others" might be 
interested in, he was the man to contact. She'd dismissed him and gone her way, 
but she never threw out the business card he'd slipped into her pocket.
A female friend had told her Blatterfeld showed up at all the conventions and 
was considered a harmless but persistent nuisance. He worked for a firm called
Global Intel, which had something to do with com­munications systems.
Paisley had forgotten about him and gone on with her life. But when Craker 
developed the Piranha Molecule, as he'd dubbed it, she'd remembered that pudgy 
little man and his card and how he might—
Suddenly, Paisley became aware that Craker was anxiously whispering her name. 
Blinking, she looked up.
Standing by their tent was a man in uniform.
 
Chapter 4
 
 
The three emissaries of death disembarked at Portland International Airport at 
eleven that night.
Alexander Sprague wore the most expensive suit money could buy. Custom made in 
France, it fit his lithe frame as perfectly as a second skin. His wavy brown 
hair hung over penetrating brown eyes. Around his neck was an elegant gold chain 
from Spain, on his wrist a gold timepiece from Switzerland, on three of his 
fingers gold rings fashioned in Germany. He ra­diated wealth and power much like 
the sun radiated light and heat.
At his heels walked two taller men, equally impos­ing. In the forefront was the 
Albino. His country of origin was as mysterious as the Albino himself. He had a 
name but never used it; no one other than Sprague knew his true identity. A 
white suit and tie complemented his exceptionally pale skin, while tinted 
sunglasses concealed his pink eyes from the world. He moved with a certain cold 
stiffness that belied his le­thal ability with his hands and feet. He was a 
consum­mate killer.
So was the man behind the Albino. Bartolome Char-ata was wanted by 
law-enforcement organizations on four continents. Argentinian by birth, he had 
made his mark by ruthlessly eliminating the enemies of a local
drug lord. When the drug lord eventually wound up in prison, Charata had become 
a freelance assassin, hir­ing out to whoever could afford his escalating fee.
In due course Charata came to the attention of Alex­ander Sprague, who 
recognized exceptional talent when he saw it. Charata agreed to work exclusively 
for the death merchant for the princely sum of one million dollars a year. A 
pittance to his employer, who routinely averaged one hundred million in tax-free 
income.
Charata had raven hair and a swarthy complexion and moved with a catlike ease 
that hinted at his enor­mous strength and extraordinary agility. By his own 
count he had slain 111 people, including more than a few women and children. His 
handsome, tanned face gave no hint that within the depths of his being lurked an 
emotionless monster who took perverse delight in killing.
A rental car awaited mem.
Alexander Sprague had arranged in advance every aspect of their trip to America, 
down to the smallest detail. He never left anything to chance. He was re­garded 
as a devious schemer whose brilliance had en­abled him to successfully elude the 
long arm of the law for more than two decades. He was without peer in his chosen 
trade. And his trade was marketing sto­len secrets.
As much as Sprague liked gold, he had learned early on in life that mere were 
certain things others were willing to pay more to obtain than they would for it 
or any other precious metal. State secrets, classified documents, industrial and 
military intelligence, all were much more valuable than the rarest of minerals.
To his credit, Sprague showed no favoritism. He
bought from anyone and sold to everyone. Nations, ideologies, political 
allegiances of every stripe, they meant nothing to him. The whole world was his 
marketplace.
Coming to America, though, didn't sit well with him. Sprague had never liked 
Americans much. They were so provincial, so dull, so predictable. Oh, there were 
a few like himself, men of discretion and influ­ence, but for the most part the 
population consisted of well-intentioned, honest folk whose virtuous natures 
turned his stomach.
Sprague could never understand people like that. As an abandoned, starving 
urchin roaming the streets of Marseilles, he had learned the most important 
lesson of his life: always look out for number one. Survival of the fittest 
applied to so-called civilized society as well as to the deepest jungle.
With not one but two Swiss bank accounts contain­ing more money than some small 
countries had in their treasuries, with palatial homes and sprawling estates in 
France, Spain and Germany, with a fleet of Rolls-Royces and Mercedeses at his 
disposal and an art col­lection that rivaled the Louvre, Sprague had more than 
any man could ask for. And yet, he constantly wanted more.
A tiny voice in the back of Sprague's mind had insistently goaded him for years 
to retire. To give up the trade and spend the rest of his life luxuriating hi 
the comforts he had amassed. Common sense told him it was the wise thing to do. 
But he couldn't bring himself to do it. He liked what he did. The trade was bis 
passion, his life. He thrived on the challenges, on the danger.
Coming to America was one of the most dangerous
steps Sprague could take. In Europe he had liaisons in high places who shielded 
bun from apprehension. In America he had few contacts but no safe havens to 
retreat to should the need arise. In America he was on his own. He had to rely 
exclusively on his wits to survive. And he wouldn't have it any other way.
Charata climbed behind the wheel. The Albino opened the rear door for Sprague, 
then got into the front. As the Cadillac wheeled from the terminal, Sprague took 
a cellular phone from his jacket and punched a number. "Blatterfeld? All is 
well? Good. We'll be mere to pick you up in fifteen minutes. Be ready."
Sprague gave the Argentinian instructions on bow to reach the motel where 
Blatterfeld was waiting.
"If you don't mind my asking, Mr. Sprague," the Albino said, "why involve that 
disgusting little weasel?"
"I should think 'swine' a more apt description. But suffice it to say that Miles 
brokered this deal, so I have insisted he be on hand for the exchange. As a 
precau­tion, you understand. Never trust anyone, eh?"
"You're taking too great a risk," the Albino said.
"Risk is the essence of existence. And in this in­stance the reward justifies 
the danger. Nanotechnology is the wave of the future. If this fellow, Craker, 
has done what Blatterfeld claims, I can resell the Piranha Molecule for any 
amount I care to set."
"It will have to be a lot to justify spending ten million dollars," the Albino 
said, "plus Blatterfeld's commission."
"The commission is a pittance," the Frenchman said. "And the ten million is what 
the Americans
would call a drop in the bucket when I can reap twenty times that amount in 
return."
"So much? Really?"
"Customers are always willing to pay more for such a unique item when they can 
also acquire the genius behind the item."
The Albino grinned. "I imagine this scientist, Craker, will be quite surprised 
when he learns of the deal you have struck Paisley."
Alexander Sprague laughed. "Surprised? He will be shocked. But then, he should 
know better. Any man who trusts a woman is asking for grief."
from six thousand feet up, the terrain below was an inky black carpet. No one 
would guess the Citation chartered by Hal Brognola was flying over Oregon's 
Coast Range, a nigged belt of mountains running from north to south.
Bolan consulted his watch and said aloud, "Four in the morning."
"We'll arrive in Brookings by four-thirty," the big Fed commented from his seat 
across the aisle. "By five we should be at the campsite."
An hour ago Bolan had been roused from a sound sleep by an incessant pounding on 
his door at the mo­tel. One of Brognola's men relayed the news he had ten 
minutes to dress and leave for the Medford Airport.
There had been new developments.
The first had been the discovery of Bernard Craker's car. The Chevy was found 
abandoned at the Medford Mall. Apparently, Craker and Paisley had switched 
ve­hicles. Since hers was still at Nanotech, they had ac­quired another 
somewhere. Brognola hoped they'd
stolen one, but the Medford police had no reports of any missing vehicles.
The second development had been the finding of a body at a campsite along the 
Oregon coast between Brookings and Gold Beach. A unique corpse, accord­ing to 
the bulletin released by the Curry County Sher­iff's Department. A "blob," was 
how they described the remains.
But it was the third development that had Hal Brog­nola in a funk.
"Are you sure about Sprague?" Bolan asked. "Are your sources reliable?"
"Oh, I'd rate Interpol as being fairly competent," Brognola quipped. "And they 
obtained their lead from la Surete nationale, the best France has to offer. 
There's no doubt whatsoever. Alexander Sprague and his two bodyguards left Paris 
under assumed names early yesterday, less than an hour after Craker and Paisley 
disappeared from Nanotech."
"And you're convinced Sprague is after the Piranha Molecule?"
"What else? It's right up his alley. We've learned that after a short layover in 
New York, he flew on to Denver and caught a connecting flight to Portland. He 
touched down about eleven." Brognola tiredly rubbed his forehead. "My guess is 
that a meet has been set up somewhere along the Oregon coast"
"It could be anywhere," Bolan observed. Finding out where would be like finding 
the notorious needle in a haystack.
Brognola smacked the armrest on his seat "We can't let the Piranha Molecule 
leave the country! Think of it in the hands of a Saddam Hussein or a terrorist 
organization."
"Who's this other guy you mentioned?"
"Miles Blatterfeld? We've had our eyes on him for over a year. Word is he acts 
as a middleman, brokering deals with big-time operators like Sprague. So far 
he's been too slippery for us. But I find it a remarkable coincidence that 
Blatterfeld flew to Portland yesterday afternoon from his home in New Orleans."
"He didn't use an alias?"
"No, believe it or not. He's a cocky little scumbag who believes he's too smart 
to be caught." Brognola removed a notepad from his jacket and flipped to a page 
with a folded corner. "He landed at four-thirty and went directly to his motel. 
We know he paid for two days in advance, and that at eleven-thirty last night he 
told the desk clerk he would be gone for a while and to hold all his messages. 
Then the desk clerk saw him get into a Cadillac and drive off."
"Did the desk clerk happen to note the license plate?"
"No, why should he? But we're running a check with every rental agency in 
Portland. Not many rent Caddys." The big Fed closed the notepad. "Only the best 
for Alexander Sprague. Always."
"You sound as if you know him," Bolan said.
"Not personally, but I had the chance to nail him once and blew it."
"That's not like you."
"I was new to the Bureau, less than a year in the field. We'd received word that 
a civilian contractor for the Navy was about to sell classified intel on our 
nu­clear subs. Sprague was the buyer. We caught the con­tractor but not him. 
Missed him by that much." Brog­nola raised his hand with his thumb and 
forefinger a fraction of an inch apart.
 
Bolan understood. "And it's bothered you ever since."
"Yeah. But you haven't heard the rest of the story. When we barged into the 
hotel suite Sprague had taken, we found a note on the end table."
"What did it say?"
"'To whom it may concern'," Brognola quoted, "'Nice try. Better luck next time.' 
He knew we were after him and wanted to rub it in."
"A man with a sense of humor."
"A mastermind, you mean. In his way, Alexander Sprague is almost as much of a 
genius as Bernie Craker. This time I'm not letting him slip through my fingers."
The remainder of their flight was conducted in si­lence. Bolan, who had switched 
his trenchcoat for a lightweight blue windbreaker, used the time to double-check 
his weapons. Under his left arm, as always, rode the Beretta 93-R. Under his 
right arm was a .44 Mag­num Desert Eagle. A spare 20-round magazine for the 
machine pistol and an extra 10-shot mag for the auto­loader were also nestled 
under the jacket, at his waist. In addition, Bolan had strapped a Solingen 
throwing knife to his right ankle.
Brookings's small airport was lit up like a Christ­mas tree. The locals were 
expecting the Citation. A Curry County deputy was on hand to meet mem.
"I don't mind telling you," Deputy Tom Saunders mentioned as he drove them north 
on Highway 101, 1 'it's the weirdest damn thing I've seen in fifteen years of 
police work. The way they had to scrape him up with shovels. And then how he 
sort of oozed into the body bag, like there wasn't a bone in his body."
"Has the victim been identified yet?" Brognola asked.
"Yes, sir," Saunders said. "It was a park ranger by the name of Howard. I met 
him once as, I recollect. Nice enough fellow." Since no one else was on the 
highway at that hour, the deputy switched on his high beams. "Howard was making 
the rounds of the camp­sites, making sure everyone had registered like they're 
supposed to, when it happened."
Brognola perked up. "Registered?"
"Sure. Haven't you ever gone camping at a state park? Campers have to fill out a 
little form with their name and license-plate number and stick it in a drop box. 
If they don't, they're liable to be booted out"
"Was the drop box at Harris Beach checked?"
"First thing. All the forms matched all the sites. Except there was no form for 
campsite seven, which is where Howard's body was found."
The ride to Harris Beach State Park took no time at all. It was just outside 
Brookings, the campsites situ­ated above a rocky bluff overlooking the vast 
Pacific. Site seven had been cordoned off with yellow tape. Since the sheriffs 
people had already gone over the area with a fine-tooth comb, Brognola asked to 
be taken on to the county morgue.
Half an hour of winding, tree-lined highway, at one point over a bridge that a 
sign proclaimed was the highest in Oregon, brought them to Gold Beach.
The morgue was cold, but then, Bolan couldn't re­call a morgue that wasn't. An 
attendant in his early twenties was dozing in a swivel chair. Deputy Saun­ders 
had to pound on the counter to wake him up.
"Catching up on your beauty sleep, Lester?"
Flustered, the attendant tried to put on a professional
air. "I was just resting my eyes. We usually don't have visitors at this time of 
the night."
"We're here to see Ranger Howard," the deputy said, "or what's left of him."
Lester woke up fast. "You are?" He looked at Brognola and Bolan as if expecting 
to be introduced, but when no one did the honors, he frowned and ad­mitted them. 
"Right this way, gentlemen. I hope you have strong stomachs. What you're about 
to see is enough to make you puke your guts out."
"Spare us the commentary," Saunders said.
"Excuse me for living," Lester cracked. "Can I help it if I'm a friendly kind of 
guy? Some people could stand improvement in that regard." He shot the officer a 
withering glance.
It was Nanotech all over again. After Lester pulled out the slab and lifted the 
covering sheet, Bolan found himself gazing at another obscene mound of flesh, 
glazed eyes and gaping limp mouth. The arms were strands of rope, the legs twin 
accordions.
"Watch this," Lester said, and gripped the de­ceased's brown hair. By pulling 
upward, he stretched the flesh as if it were putty, causing the eyes, nostrils 
and mouth to assume gruesome proportions, similar to a painted face on a 
balloon. "Did you ever see any­thing so bizarre in your whole life?"
Bolan went to slap Lester's hand away, but Sanders beat him to it.
"Sometimes, Les, I don't think you have the brains God gave a turnip. That's 
another human being you're playing with there."
"I know that," Lester said, but he let go. The flesh made a squishy noise, like 
gelatin poured from a bowl,
plopping down to assume its original shapeless con­tours. "What could do this to 
a person?"
Bolan had taken a strong dislike to the man. "What­ever it is, did you stop to 
think it might be contagious?"
"It could?" His Adam's apple bobbing, Lester stared at his palm. "Jeez. And I 
touched him! Shouldn't I run to the hospital or something?"
"If you're infected, it's already too late," Bolan said with a straight face. 
"In an hour you'll know for sure."
"How?" Lester asked.
"You'll look like him," Bolan said, nodding at the ranger's remains.
Hal Brognola replaced the sheet. "I've seen enough. Let's go."
Once outside, Saunders leaned toward the soldier. "Was that true what you said? 
About it being contagious?"
"No," Bolan confessed, and the officer burst into a belly laugh loud enough to 
wake up half of Gold Beach.
A faint pink tinge banded the eastern horizon, a har­binger of impending dawn. 
Birds were breaking into lively chorus, and somewhere a foghorn blared al­though 
there was no sign of any fog rolling in off the ocean.
Before leaving Medford, Brognola had given orders to have pertinent intel on 
Alexander Sprague and the two bodyguards faxed to the county sheriffs office. So 
Saunders drove them there next. The information was waiting, and while the big 
Fed coordinated efforts with the sheriff and made phone calls to bring in agents 
from as far north as Seattle and as far south as
Sacramento, Bolan sat on a bench and watched the rosy glow of the morning sun 
spread across the em­erald Pacific. It was rare for him to have quiet mo­ments 
like this, and he appreciated them all the more.
Brognola soon came out. "I'm liable to be tied up here for another hour or 
more." He placed a manila folder in the soldier's hand. "This is everything we 
have on Sprague. Grab yourself a bite to eat and go over it."
The big Fed fished a set of keys from his pocket, then pointed at a beige 
station wagon in the lot flank­ing the building. "The sheriff says we can use 
that one until my people arrive with a car for me. I didn't have time to rent 
one last night." As Bolan moved off, Brognola added with a grin, "It's the 
sheriffs personal vehicle, so try not to drive it off a cliff or anything."
"I'll do my best."
Bolan transferred his duffel from the patrol car to the station wagon, climbed 
in and drove down High­way 101, which also served as the town's main street. The 
first eating place he saw was called the Gold Egg, or some such, and was crammed 
with customers, even at that early hour. He learned why after he ordered. A 
mountain of delicious food arrived, scrambled eggs and thick sausage and 
pancakes smothered in butter and syrup, more than he could ever eat at one 
sitting. He washed it down with cup after cup of steaming black coffee, while 
studying the file.
Included were the only known photographs of Sprague, the Albino and Bartolome 
Charata. The one of the Albino had been taken from a distance, through a 
telephoto lens, and was too fuzzy to provide much
detail. Sprague's and Charata's were clear enough, and Bolan memorized their 
features.
The drone of friendly conversation at nearby tables, the good food, the smiling, 
warm waitress, filled Bolan with a sense of well-being and contentment. Usually, 
he was so caught up in his work that he failed to keep in mind the reason he did 
what he did. He was waging his one-man war against the forces of darkness for 
the benefit of people just like those around him: ordinary, decent citizens who 
had the God-given right to live their lives in peace.
Bolan finished eating. He slipped a large tip under his plate, paid at the 
register and strolled out into the growing warmth of the morning. Backing the 
station wagon from its slot, he started down Highway 101 to rejoin Brognola. 
Bolan didn't like having to sit around twiddling his thumbs, but until the Feds 
uncovered a lead to Craker's whereabouts, there wasn't much he could do.
As the soldier drove by a grocery store, he noticed two people at a pay phone in 
front. Both had their backs to him. One was a pudgy little man, the other quite 
tall with striking white hair. He was almost past them when the taller one 
turned.
For a fleeting moment Bolan thought he had to be seeing things. It wasn't 
possible. In his tremendous surprise he nearly slammed on the brake pedal but he 
had the presence of mind not to give himself away.
Since U-turns were illegal there, Bolan pulled into a small gift shop, waited 
for a line of cars coming the other way to pass, then headed back up Highway 
101. He held to the speed limit so as not to draw attention and went past the 
grocery store again.
There could be no mistake. The tall man with the
white hair and white suit was none other than the Al­bino, Alexander Sprague's 
bodyguard. The pudgy man on the phone, Bolan suspected, had to be Miles 
Blatterfeld.
Entering the next parking lot he came to, Bolan stopped and spied on the pair in 
the rearview mirror. He still couldn't quite believe his luck. It seemed so 
improbable that he had run into some of the very peo­ple he was on the lookout 
for.
Then again, Bolan recalled that Highway 101 was the only highway that ran the 
entire length of the Oregon coast. Anyone coming from Portland had to take, it 
if they wanted to reach most coastal points in the shortest amount of time.
Bolan also had to remember there weren't all that many towns along the cost, 
particularly the southern stretch. In a span of more than one hundred miles, the 
only towns of any size were Brookings, Gold Beach and Coos Bay, and even they 
weren't all that big. The rest were mainly small hamlets and communities 
lo­cated well off the highway.
So the coincidence wasn't as astounding as Bolan first thought. He saw 
Blatterfeld slam down the phone and watched as the pair walked to the rear of 
the lot where a dump truck was parked. They went behind it, to another vehicle. 
All Bolan could see were the head­lights and the grille, which was enough to 
convince him it was the Cadillac Sprague had rented.
The soldier debated calling Brognola. The closest pay phone, though, was the one 
at the grocery store, and it certainly wouldn't be wise to use it. He looked up 
the highway to see if he could spot another.
Calling Brognola was out of the question. The Cad-
iliac was driving from the parking lot. It turned north on the highway.
Bolan ducked before it passed him. The windows were tinted, so he couldn't see 
inside. He let them go a block before stepping on the gas and hung far enough 
back to avoid inciting suspicion. Fate had smiled on him. With a little more 
luck, if all went well, he might soon recover the Piranha Molecule.
The Cadillac crossed a long bridge over the Rogue River, leaving Gold Beach 
behind.
The highway's many twists and turns made it sim­ple for Bolan to shadow 
Sprague's vehicle. He won­dered if Sprague had already obtained the transport 
case from Craker and was returning to Portland to catch a flight out of the 
country. Or maybe the wily Frenchman had a boat waiting for him somewhere.
A few miles farther on the Cadillac suddenly veered onto a gravel pull-off 
offering a magnificent vista of the sea. There was nowhere for Bolan to pull 
over without being seen, so he had to drive by them. Mak­ing the best of it, he 
faced straight ahead, and after winding up a hill, he came to a scenic overlook 
and cut the wheel.
Jumping out, Bolan ran to a metal rail that pre­vented the overly curious from 
plunging to their deaths. He could see the pull-off but no sign of the Caddy. 
Puzzled, he concluded that Sprague had to be going back to Gold Beach, and gazed 
southward. But the Cadillac wasn't anywhere along the half-mile stretch to the 
next turn.
Concerned he would lose them, Bolan ran toward the station wagon. He pulled the 
door open and was swinging inside when the Cadillac cruised past the overlook, 
continuing on its way north.
Curbing an urge to race in pursuit, Bolan mentally counted to thirty, then 
followed. Several other vehicles had gone by, so there was no danger of being 
spotted. He figured he would place a quick call to Brognola from Coos Bay, the 
next town. By afternoon the whole affair might well be wrapped up.
Things were going right for once.
 
Chapter 5
 
Alexander Sprague prided himself on his efficiency. He didn't like it when 
events didn't unfold as he de­sired, didn't like having his careful plans 
ruined. His trip to America was supposed to proceed according to a strict 
timetable. But now everything had gone to hell, and all the time and energy he 
had invested in obtain­ing the new nanotechnology was turning into a mon­umental 
waste. "We had better hear from Bernard Craker soon, Miles, or I will be 
disturbed. Most disturbed."
Miles Blatterfeld mopped a handkerchief at beads of perspiration on his 
forehead. "You worry too much, Mr. Sprague. If the police had arrested Craker, 
there would be some mention on the news. And there hasn't been."
Sprague stared flatly at the broker. "Has it occurred to you the authorities 
might wish to keep it hush-hush, as you Americans say? Craker could be in 
custody as we speak."
"When we get to Coos Bay, I'll call my motel in Portland again. The Paisley 
woman knows where I'm staying. Sooner or later she'll leave word on where we can 
set up a new meet. Wait and see."
"How long would you propose I wait? A day? Two days? A week, perchance?" Sprague 
willed himself to
remain calm. It wouldn't do for the loathsome little toad to know how he felt 
about Blatterfeld's inept han­dling of the matter.
"I'll bet we hear something by this evening," Blat­terfeld said. "They're 
probably lying low. You saw the police ribbons around that campsite. You heard 
the newscast a while ago. A park ranger was found dead there under mysterious 
circumstances. There must be a connection."
"You think so, do you?" Sprague said, envisioning the Albino's hands wrapped 
tight on Blatterfeld's throat.
"Helen Paisley won't let us down. She's too money hungry."
In mat regard, at least, Sprague had to agree. From what Blatterfeld had told 
him, Sprague had the im­pression Paisley was a cold, calculating witch who would 
sell her soul to the devil if the price was right. Which was fine by Sprague. 
People like Paisley were easy to deal with. They didn't suffer pangs of 
con­science, didn't try to change their minds at the last minute. Not that he 
would let her back out if she did. He was committed to obtaining the Piranha 
Molecule at all costs.
"They must have had a good reason for killing the ranger," Blatterfeld prattled 
on. "Maybe he was on to them."
"In your country do park rangers function the same as police?"
"Well, no, not to my knowledge," Blatterfeld said. "I thought they just keep 
tabs on things like camp fires and catch limits and the like. But I haven't been 
camping since I was a kid, so I can't rightly say."
Alexander Sprague leaned back and tried to admire
the spectacular scenery. He'd always loved the ocean. In France he owned a 
luxurious cottage situated on the Atlantic shore, and he made it a point to 
visit it two or three times a year to relax, to stroll on the beach and admire 
the sunsets.
Setbacks were inevitable, Sprague supposed. Usu­ally, though, his arrangements 
were so precise, so flawless, transactions were conducted without a hitch.
"It's definite, sir," Charata announced abruptly. "We're being followed."
"We are?" Blatterfeld blurted, and turned to look out the rear window. "Who by? 
That old guy in the rusty pickup right behind us?"
It never ceased to amaze Sprague how many idiots there were in the world. And 
how they flaunted their idiocy at every opportunity. "I sincerely doubt it, 
Miles. He has enough wrinkles to be your grandfather. Which one, Bartolome?"
"The station wagon about a quarter of a mile back."
Sprague had to hand it to the Argentinian. Charata was as sharp-eyed as a hawk 
and had an uncanny sixth sense for spotting the police and their ilk. It was 
Char­ata who had suggested pulling over a while ago to test whether they were 
being tailed.
"I noticed it in Gold Beach and it's been behind us ever since," the Argentinian 
said. "When we pulled off the highway it went by but pulled off farther on. Now 
it's back again."
"Did you see how many are in it?"
"Just one man. Dark hair. I only had a glimpse."
Blatterfeld mopped his glistening forehead again. "What do we do, Mr. Sprague?"
"What do you think we will do? We must dispose of him."
"But where there's one cop, there are bound to be more. Maybe he's not alone. 
Maybe they're about to close in on us."
"Your fear is showing, Miles," Sprague said sternly. "Have more faith in me. We 
have come too far to turn back now. However many there are, rest assured they 
will be disposed of."
"And face a murder rap? Isn't that too risky?"
Sprague was growing wearier of the simpleton by the minute. "Life, Miles, is a 
series of risks. We never truly know from one day to the next if we will be 
alive to greet the next dawn."
Blatterfeld wouldn't let it drop. "But if he's a Fed or a cop, killing him will 
bring a swarm of them down on our heads."
"Faith, Miles," Sprague reiterated. "Faith. In a very short while we will lure 
our friend in the station wagon into a trap, and you will witness, firsthand, 
how truly efficient I am."
"I'd never doubt you, Mr. Sprague," Miles said unconvincingly. "Not for a 
minute."
"I can't tell you how much your trust means to me."
the executioner rounded a curve and didn't see the Cadillac ahead, although the 
highway ran straight and unobstructed for the better part of a mile. A turnoff 
appeared, a sign announcing that on his left was Hum­bug Mountain. Why anyone 
would give a mountain such an odd name was beyond him. Cutting his speed, he 
spotted the Cadillac parked along with other vehi­cles near a hiking trial.
Four men had climbed out. Besides Blatterfeld and the Albino, Bolan recognized 
Alexander Sprague and Charata from the photographs Brognola had shown him. All 
four moved toward the trail.
Bolan kept going until he came to a point where it was safe to make a U-turn. 
When he pulled off High­way 101, the quartet was gone. Another sign declared 
that the trail was known as the Humbug Mountain Trail.
Parking as far from the Caddy as the space allowed, Bolan got out and warily 
walked over to it. No one else was around, so he tested the doors. They were 
locked. Moving to the trail head, he gazed up its wind­ing length for sign of 
his quarry.
It dawned on the soldier that Sprague might be there to meet Bernie Craker and 
Helen Paisley, that the deal was about to go down. He could recover the killer 
nanites and settle Brognola's decades-old score with Sprague in one fell swoop.
Loosening both the Beretta and the Desert Eagle in their shoulder holsters, 
Bolan walked into the woods. His shoes made no sound on the thick carpet of pine 
needles. Other than the chirping of sparrows and the whisper of the breeze, the 
forest was as still as a cemetery.
Around a bend came a couple and their three ca­vorting children. The husband 
wore a Mariners cap and had a beer belly. His better half looked unhappy, and 
Bolan learned why when he stepped off the nar­row trail so they could pass.
"You'd be smart to head back, mister," the woman remarked. "It's a long hike to 
the end, and there isn't much to see once you get there."
"Pay her no mind," the husband said to Bolan.
"Maude doesn't like to go anywhere unless it's in a car. The view yonder is 
terrific."
His wife took exception. "I don't mind a little walk­ing now and then, but it's 
a mile to the ocean, if not more. My feet are killing me, Harold."
They bickered until they were out of sight.
Giant pines hemmed Bolan hi as he moved on. It wasn't long before another man 
appeared, dressed in orange shorts and a flowered shut, glasses perched on the 
end of his nose.
A field guide to whales and dolphins was clutched in his left hand. Waving it, 
the man declared, "I didn't see one! Not one measly whale!"
"You didn't happen to see four men go by a short while ago, did you? They're 
friends of mine. One is an albino."
"Oh, I saw him, sure enough," the man said. "Scary fellow, if you don't mind my 
saying so. He wouldn't move off the trail to let me by until one of the others 
told him to." With a tiny wave, the man cheerily moved on, then halted short. 
"Oh, wait. You mentioned four friends, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"I only saw three. The Albino, a short guy who must be awful fond of doughnuts, 
and another guy in a spiffy suit."
"There wasn't a tall man with dark hair with them? A South American?"
"Hell, friend, I wouldn't know a South American from a Cuban. But no, I only saw 
the three. Maybe your other friend was off in the bushes somewhere."
"Maybe," Bolan said. Slipping his hand under his jacket, he gripped the Beretta 
but didn't draw it in case more hikers came along.
The woods were quiet now. The breeze had died, and no wild creatures were 
abroad. Bolan encountered another family on the way back to the parking area and 
asked if they had seen men answering the descrip­tion of Sprague, Blatterfeld 
and the Albino. They had, but like the whale watcher they hadn't seen Charata.
Giant trees grew close to the trail and reared high overhead. Bolan constantly 
scanned the lush under­growth. At each bend he slowed to check the terrain 
ahead. He was ready for just about anything.
The attack, when it came, proved him wrong.
Two patriarchs of the forest grew so close to the trail on either side that they 
hid whatever lay behind the next turn. Bolan slowed, as usual, and spied 
noth­ing out of the ordinary. Taking a few more steps, he halted and spun when 
greenery on his left rustled loudly, the Beretta flashing out as if endowed with 
a will of its own.
Bolan knew it was a trick when he heard the crack of a twig behind him. The 
Argentinian had thrown a rock or a stick to distract him, and now, before he 
could whirl back around, a slender wire whisked down over his head and around 
his neck.
It was a garrote, a lethal favorite of assassins when they needed to kill 
swiftly and silently. In the hands of an expert, it could kill in under a 
minute. And Char­ata was an expert. For the instant the wire encircled Bolan's 
throat, the Argentinian tightened the noose with brutal force, seeking to sear 
the wire into Bolan's flesh and choke off his breath.
But Charata had pounced just as the soldier drew the Beretta. The thin wire not 
only encircled Bolan's neck, it encircled the machine pistol as well. Charata's
vicious tug snapped the 93-R against the soldier's throat.
Now Bolan couldn't shoot, but Charata couldn't strangle him.
The wire bit into the sides of Bolan's neck. Even as it did, he whipped his left 
hand behind him, seized the killer's wrist, and surged forward at the waist 
Bo­lan hoped to flip Charata over his shoulder, but the Argentinian had braced 
himself by planting both feet in a wide stance, and the best Bolan could do was 
wrench Charata off balance. Instantly Bolan drove his elbow into the man's gut, 
not once but several times, and at the last blow Charata grunted and the garrote 
loosened,
Capitalizing, Bolan swept his left leg around the Argentinian's ankle, hooked it 
and executed a take­down, throwing himself and Charata backward. He landed on 
top and jammed his elbow into Charata's stomach again, with all his might.
A hiss issued from the killer. Pushing Bolan off, Charata heaved to his feet, 
his hand snaking under his jacket.
Bolan wasn't about to let him draw a gun or knife or anything else. Shoving 
upward, he rammed his shoulder into Charata's abdomen. The bodyguard snarled, 
his fingers closing on his adversary's neck.
Uncoiling like a steel spring, Bolan heaved the Ar­gentinian up and over. At the 
apex of his toss, Bolan's foot slipped, and suddenly both of them were tumbling 
down a short slope on the other side of the trail.
A small boulder materialized out of nowhere. Bolan twisted to avoid it but 
couldn't, the impact knocking the Beretta from his grasp. He winced as his ribs
spiked with agony. Despite the pain he surged up into a crouch.
Charata, though, had been a shade faster. A foot arced at Bolan's face and he 
ducked under it. A hand chopped at his neck, but the soldier countered with a 
forearm block.
Bolan saw the cutthroat's other foot rise. Pivoting, he absorbed the kick on his 
shoulder, allowing the force to knock him backward on purpose. Stumbling, he 
fell onto his back, and as he dropped, he brought the Desert Eagle into play.
But Charata wasn't there. Taking a single long stride, he executed an amazing 
eight-foot leap and bounded over a broad fern. Landing as lightly as a cat, he 
plunged into the lush growth.
Bolan rolled up onto his knees, training the Desert Eagle on the spot where the 
killer had disappeared. A few leaves were swaying, but other than that it was as 
if Charata had faded from existence. Bolan rose, swiv-eling right and left, 
alert for the slightest sound. There was none. The combination of pine needles 
and moss muffled any noise the Argentinian might make.
The glint of metal drew Bolan to the Beretta. Stoop­ing to snatch it up, he saw 
movement off to the left and flattened. Just in time. Silvery death sped out of 
the undergrowth. A throwing knife missed the top of Bolan's head by a quarter of 
an inch and embedded itself hi the soft soil behind him.
Bolan extended the Desert Eagle, his finger curled around the trigger. But again 
there was no target to shoot. Again the Argentinian had vanished. Shoving the 
Beretta into its holster, he crept deeper into the forest. Not so much as a leaf 
stirred. Squatting, Bolan waited for his adversary to give himself away.
In Brognola's file it had mentioned the Argentinian was highly skilled at 
wilderness survival, a legacy of the years Charata had spent working for a drug 
lord. The report noted that Charata was as at home in the wilds as his 
associate, the Albino, was at home in any city. They were opposites attracted by 
a mutual em­ployer, one whose skills had been honed in the Ar­gentinian jungle, 
the other a product of the urban jungle.
The intel hadn't been exaggerated. Only someone with exceptional skill could 
melt into nothingness as Charata had done. Someone whose skill equaled, or 
possibly surpassed, that of Bolan himself.
The seconds became minutes. Convinced the Ar­gentinian was gone, Bolan made a 
beeline for the trail. He came on it unexpectedly, and on a gray-haired woman 
using a cane who was so startled she clasped a hand to her throat and recoiled.
"My word! You scared the living daylights out of me!"
"Sorry," Bolan said, the Desert Eagle behind his back.
"You should know better than to stray off the trail like that," she scolded, 
shaking her cane at him. "Every step you take damages the ecosystem."
Bolan nodded and backed away, toward the ocean.
"Trails are here for a purpose," she declared. ' 'Why, if every Tom, Dick and 
Harry traipsed around wherever they wanted, before you know it all the woodland 
would be gone."
Bolan was more concerned about Alexander Sprague being gone. When the woman 
turned, so did he, tucking the Desert Eagle into his belt and jogging westward. 
The trail wound to its highest point, then
descended through shadowed spruce and firs to a prec­ipice hundreds of feet 
above the sea. Below, breakers crashed on enormous boulders.
Sprague wasn't there.
Bolstering the Desert Eagle, the soldier raced back up the mountain. He overtook 
the environmentalist, who heard him approach and, ironically enough, stepped off 
the trail so he could pass.
The closer Bolan drew to the parking area, the faster he ran. He had a good idea 
what he would find before he sped from the trail head.
The Cadillac was gone.
Annoyed at himself for not realizing sooner what Sprague was up to, Bolan 
hurried to the station wagon. Delving into a pocket, he palmed and inserted it 
into the door. As he was about to hop hi, he stiffened.
Both front tires were flat
Two hours later the Executioner squealed out in a spray of dust and headed north 
on Highway 101.
It had been a frustrating two hours. First Bolan learned there was no spare, and 
no jack to use even if there had been. He had no choice but to hitch a ride back 
to Gold Beach. Those he asked all said they were going in the other direction. 
Finally, a young couple pulled in and agreed to drive him for twenty bucks.
Once in Gold Beach Bolan ran into more setbacks. The first gas station he 
visited didn't have the equip­ment to repair tires and none to sell. The second 
gas station had only one person on duty, and he couldn't leave. The third was 
run by a barrel-chested man who fired up a tow truck, took Bolan to Humbug 
Mountain and towed the station wagon back so the tires could be patched and 
refilled.
While the soldier waited he put in a call to Hal Brognola and gave the big Fed 
an update. Brognola, who was still waiting for Justice Department personnel to 
arrive, reported there had been no developments.
When Bolan expressed concern that Sprague al­ready had the Piranha Molecule and 
was attempting to flee the country, Brognola commented, "He can try but it won't 
be easy. I've doubled security at Portland International and Seattle-Tacoma. 
Every departing passenger is being closely checked. I've put the Coast Guard on 
alert, and they've increased patrols along the Oregon coast"
"But what if he's hired a private pilot and flies out of a small local airport?" 
Bolan mentioned.
"He'll still need to catch an overseas flight at one of the international 
airports, and I'll have all of them covered before too long." Brognola sounded 
confi­dent. "He's not giving me the slip this time, Striker. No way."
The station owner came over to say the vehicle was ready, and Bolan resumed the 
chase. He was acting on the assumption that since Alexander Sprague had been 
heading north initially, odds were Sprague was still doing so.
Speed-limit signs flashed by, but Bolan ignored them. He had a lot of lost time 
to make up for. On the straightaways he pushed the speedometer to eighty. On the 
curves his tires screamed in protest.
Coos Bay was the next town. Two towns in one, actually, because Coos Bay blended 
into another called North Bend. Between them they boasted a pop­ulation of 
upward of thirty thousand. It was the largest population center along the entire 
Oregon coast with buildings six or seven stories high, and bustling traffic.
It was here, Bolan suspected, he would find Alex­ander Sprague. There was an 
airport larger than the one at Brookings, and a sprawling shipping port made 
possible by the best natural harbor for hundreds of miles. In addition to dozens 
of ocean-worthy vessels that sailed in and out each day, the docks were lined 
with scores upon scores of private craft, some big enough to travel to Seattle 
or to Los Angeles.
If Sprague wanted to leave the country, Coos Bay was made to order. If not, if 
Sprague didn't have the transport case yet; if a monkey wrench had been thrown 
into the works by the park ranger's murder, then Coos Bay was a perfect spot for 
Sprague to meet Craker.
Rather than waste fruitless hours running all over the place, Bolan called the 
airport and asked if Sprague had chartered an aircraft. The manager in­formed 
him that no one by that name was listed.
Next Bolan flipped to the commercial listings and phoned the boat charter 
outfits. None reported anyone remotely resembling Sprague hiring a boat.
Since his own effort had proved to be of no avail, Bolan rang Brognola again and 
gave him an update.
"We all have to wait until something breaks," the big Fed said. "Rent a room. As 
soon as I hear any­thing, I'll let you know."
Sometimes it seemed as if he spent half his life waiting, Bolan thought.
"My people have arrived," Brognola disclosed. "I'll be dispatching them up and 
down the coast, cov­ering all the bases. We'll draw a net so tight, not even a 
mouse could slip through."
Alexander Sprague was smarter than any mouse, but
Bolan didn't bring that up. "What about Craker and his lady friend?"
"Still no clue. Since they have a tent and camping gear, they could be anywhere. 
Off hiding in the woods, most likely."
"So you don't think Sprague has the nanites?"
"Not yet, no. Blatterfeld has been calling his motel in Portland every half hour 
or so, asking if there have been any messages. It sounds to me as if he's 
frantic to hook up with Craker. If the deal falls through, it's his butt in the 
sling. Sprague won't take it too well."
"There's hope, then," Bolan said.
"There's always—" Brognola began, then stopped.
Bolan heard muffled voices, as if the big Fed had placed a hand over the 
receiver and was talking to someone else. Out in the harbor a ship was leaving 
port. Fishing boats and pleasure crafts sprinkled the bay around it.
"Striker?" Brognola's optimistic tone was gone.
"Bad news?"
"You tell me. I don't know what to make of it. I've just been informed another 
body has been found."
"More of Craker's handiwork? Another blob?"
"No. An elderly woman at a place called Humbug Mountain. Isn't that where you 
told me Sprague stopped?"
An awful certainty came over the soldier. "Yes."
"Edith Harkness was her name. A retired librarian out of Eugene. Some hikers 
found her when their dog started whining and digging at a pile of leaves."
"How was she killed?" Bolan asked, although he knew.
"They haven't done an autopsy yet, but it says here strangulation by a wire or 
rope." Brognola paused. "Sounds to me like a garrote."
 
Chapter 6
 
Approximately sixty-one miles south of Coos Bay lay the hamlet of Ophir. Euchre 
Creek Road ran eastward from it, winding deep into the mountains, into rugged, 
remote country seldom visited except by hardy camp­ers, hikers and hunters.
Well off the road, in a clearing screened from the air by overhanging limbs, 
Bernie Craker and Helen Paisley had pitched their tent. Parked close by was 
their van, which belonged to a friend of Paisley's. They had propped tree limbs 
against it as camouflage.
Craker had a small fire going and was on his knees stirring the chicken soup 
they were having for supper. He didn't have much of an appetite, but Paisley 
in­sisted they eat. She was in excellent spirits, which amazed him in light of 
what she had done. When the tent flap parted and she emerged, as dazzling as a 
cen­terfold in her halter top and shorts, he remarked, "I still can't believe 
you did that."
"Did what? Killed that ranger? How many times are you going to bring it up?"
"You haven't shown any remorse," Craker men­tioned. Unlike himself. The vivid 
memory of Ted Proctor oozing to the tiled floor like so much soggy putty haunted 
his every waking moment.
"Why should I?" she said. "Oh, I know he claimed
he was there to check if we had reserved the campsite. But how do we know that 
was the real reason? I think he was stalling, keeping us there until the police 
ar­rived. That's why I injected him with the Piranha Molecule."
Few events had ever shocked Craker more. When she had whispered to him to keep 
the ranger talking while she went into their tent, he'd had no hint of what she 
was up to. When she came back out, she'd been smiling and friendly, her hands 
clasped behind her back. Neither he nor the poor ranger saw the syringe she 
held. Craker remembered her looking around to ensure they weren't being watched. 
Then she had walked up close behind the unsuspecting ranger and thrust the 
syringe into his neck.
The man had tried to cry out. But Paisley had growled at Craker to put his hands 
over the man's mouth and Craker had done so, clamping it fast while the ranger 
heaved and struggled for the few seconds it took the nanites to activate.
Craker had felt the ranger's head deflate, felt the flesh collapsing in on 
itself as the bone underneath was devoured. Even now he shuddered, wiping his 
palms on his pants as if to cleanse them of the sensation. "He might have been 
sincere. We shouldn't have mur­dered him."
Paisley's sunny disposition clouded. "Drop it, will you? I swear, sometimes you 
can be a royal pain in the ass."
"I'm sorry. I don't mean to be." Upset, Craker set down the wooden spoon and 
slumped back, his chin drooping to his chest. In his estimation it was all going 
haywire. By now they were supposed to have made the exchange and be winging 
their way to Paisley's
mysterious hideaway where they would live out the remainder of their days in 
bliss. "I just don't want any harm to befall you. It was one thing for me to 
kill Ted. I can live with the thought of my going to prison if we're caught, but 
not with you spending your life be­hind bars. I'd never allow that. Never."
Paisley sat next to him and draped her arm around his shoulders. "I'm the one 
who should apologize. I shouldn't have snapped at you. But I can't help being a 
little tense, you know?"
"What do we do next?" Craker was letting her make all the decisions. She had set 
up the sale, after all, and only had their best interests at heart.
"After we eat we'll drive to Ophir and I'll phone Portland. If Blatterfeld isn't 
there, I'll tell him to meet us at, say, noon tomorrow."
"Where?"
"Let me think." Paisley considered for a bit. "It can't be Brookings. The police 
are bound to be swarm­ing all over, looking for us. We could drive back to Gold 
Beach, but maybe it's better to pick somewhere farther away. Coos Bay, for 
instance. It's big enough that we can move about freely without worrying about 
the cops."
"Coos Bay, then," Craker said. It hardly mattered to him. Just so they got rid 
of the transport case and were paid the ten million dollars. Then it was off to 
parts unknown, to paradise with the woman he adored.
"Ah. You're smiling."
"I can't wait to be with you, Helen. The two of us, together forever." Craker 
bent to kiss her and she al­lowed him to, her lips pressed tight together. He'd 
asked her once why she didn't French kiss, and she had told him she didn't like 
to.
"Be careful what you ask for in life," Paisley joked. "You just might get it."
"Spending my life with you will make me the hap­piest man alive," he assured 
her.
"Don't forget the ten million. It can buy a lot more happiness."
"I don't care about the money. I care about you." Craker had a thought. "But 
what if Sprague won't pay us the full amount?"
She lowered her arm. "Why wouldn't he?"
"Out of the original six, we only have four vials left."
"So what?" Paisley dismissed it with a toss of her head. "Sprague won't mind. 
He'll understand why I had to kill the ranger. As long as he gets what he really 
wants, he'll fork over the ten mil."
Craker didn't understand. "What can he really want besides the nanites?"
Paisley froze an instant, then uttered a brittle laugh. "What else, indeed? The 
vials are all he's interested in, silly."
' 'What will he do with them?''
"Probably sell them to the highest bidder. If I had his contacts, I'd sell the 
damn things myself and make a lot more than he's paying us." A gleam came into 
the woman's eyes. "I could get twenty million, maybe, or even thirty."
Sometimes Craker couldn't help wondering if the money was all she really cared 
about. But then she would smile at him, and touch him and his doubts evaporated 
like dew under the morning sun. She had told him she cared. What more did he 
need? He felt a sudden urge to place his hand on her leg, but didn't. She became 
upset when he took undue liberties. "Ten
million is more than enough to last the two of us for the rest of our natural 
lives."
"It is a lot, isn't it?" Paisley said, and grinned.
the news disturbed Mack Bolan. He couldn't stop thinking about it for the rest 
of the afternoon. It made no sense whatsoever for the Argentinian to have 
mur­dered Edith Harkness. Why had Charata deemed it necessary to garrote a 
harmless old lady?
Bolan thought about it all the way to the burger joint where he grabbed a bite 
to eat. He thought about it during his meal. And it was still uppermost on his 
mind when he signed the register at a beachfront mo­tel, the Seashell Resort.
There had to be a reason, Bolan reflected, as he plopped his duffel on the bed 
and moved to the win­dow to open the drapes. Charata was too much of a 
professional to kill someone on a whim. It wouldn't sit well with his employer. 
Bodies had a way of at­tracting the authorities.
The question nagged at Bolan, but try as he might, he couldn't answer it. He 
attempted to put himself in the Argentinian's shoes, to think like him. Harkness 
might have seen Charata come out of the woods. Yet if so, so what? The woman 
didn't know him. To her he was just another hiker. Maybe she had chewed him out, 
as she had Bolan, for venturing off the trail. But, again, what difference did 
that make? Being lectured to was hardly enough cause for Charata to strangle 
her.
There had to be something Bolan was missing, some important aspect he had 
overlooked. Harkness had seen Sprague on the trail, but that couldn't be it So 
had others and nothing happened to them.
That meant Edith Harkness had been singled out
But, again, why? What was so different about her that she deserved to die?
The riddle defied explanation. Bolan was thinking himself in circles. He opened 
the drapes by jerking sharply on the cord, then slide the balcony door wide and 
stepped outside. The sun was setting. Seagulls soared overhead, crying shrilly, 
begging handouts from several people on different balconies, above and below 
him.
The soldier leaned on the rail, his mind racing like a car engine at Indy. 
Maybe, he mused, he was looking at it all wrong. Maybe the sequence of events 
might supply a clue. He recalled being jumped by Charata, moving up the trail, 
then encountering Harkness. While the Argentinian had kept him occupied, 
Sprague, Blatterfeld and the Albino had gone back to the parking area, and one 
of them, no doubt the pale bodyguard, had punctured the station wagon's tires.
It was strange, though, Bolan noted, that they flat­tened his tires before 
learning whether Charata had finished him off. Perhaps it had been a precaution 
on Sprague's part, in the event Charata failed.
Bolan felt he was missing something, though. He recalled going to the overlook, 
finding no one there, and running back up the trail, passing Harkness a sec­ond 
time. It was only a minute or two after he saw her that he reached the cars.
An electric jolt coursed through him. Why hadn't he seen it sooner? he chided 
himself. The Argentinian had killed the teacher after the tires were flattened, 
after Alexander Sprague and the others left in the Cad­illac. To what end? For 
the savage thrill? Out of anger that he'd failed?
An answer sprouted full-blown, so obvious that Bo-
lan couldn't believe he had overlooked it: Charata needed transportation. He 
didn't have a car. Sprague had left him stranded on Humbug Mountain. So the 
Argentinian killed crusty old Edith Harkness for the keys to her vehicle.
The scenario was logical but it had a flaw. Why would Sprague desert one of his 
most trusted under­lings? According to the Feds, the pair had been to­gether for 
years. Bolan couldn't see Sprague doing so unless they had agreed to link up 
later.
The shrill call of a seagull brought Bolan back to the present. The ocean was 
swallowing the sun. Twi­light was descending.
Bolan placed his elbow on the rail and his chin in his hand. He almost had it 
figured out. The only part that still didn't make any sense was why Charata 
hadn't gone with Sprague. It was almost as if the Ar­gentinian had stolen 
Harkness's car for a specific purpose.
Why did Charata need a car?
The soldier straightened and pivoted toward the sliding glass door. A slug 
thudded into the wall beside him, missing his head by mere inches. Another 
ripped into the rail he had been leaning on, showering splin­ters onto the 
balcony. Bolan threw himself inside, onto his belly, and eeled over to the bed 
to retrieve his duffel. Rummaging inside, he found his binoculars.
There had been no sound, no gun blasts. A sup­pressor was being used.
Moving to the right, out of the line of sight of any­one below, Bolan rose and 
eased the drapes just far enough to scan the grass and scrub. The binoculars 
magnified every blade, every leaf. He started close to
die motel and searched outward until he saw the shooter.
Bartolome Charata was moving toward the beach. He looked both ways before 
stepping from cover, cast a last glance at the Seashore Resort and jogged 
southward.
Bolan tossed the binoculars on the bed and rushed out He took the stairs three 
at a time and ran to the south corner of the building. Angling into the field, 
Bolan poured on the speed. The reason Edith Harkness had been slain was now 
crystal clear. The Argentinian had wanted her car in order to shadow him without 
being caught. All afternoon Charata had to have bided Ms time, waiting for the 
perfect chance, the perfect shot. And the plan had very nearly worked. It was a 
mike Bolan was still alive.
The notion of the feisty librarian losing her life on his account angered the 
soldier. She had done nothing to deserve her ghastly end. She had simply been in 
the wrong place at the wrong time and paid a terrible price.
Not that Bolan needed any, but her death gave him added incentive to bring 
Sprague and his coldhearted assassins to bay.
The sun was almost gone. Charata had timed his attempt just right. Under cover 
of the gathering dark­ness he could make his escape.
But not if Bolan could help it
The grass was razor thin and nearly as sharp. It slashed Bolan's hand, cutting a 
knuckle. He skirted a thorny shrub, vaulted a piece of deadwood as thick as a 
telephone pole and started across a sandy tract. It bogged him down, his feet 
sinking into the shifting sand with each step, the sand getting into his shoes.
Bolan spied his prey fifty yards ahead. Charata wore a jacket much like his own, 
only the Argentinian's was brown. The collar was up, probably to make it harder 
for passersby to identify Charata should they be ques­tioned by the authorities 
later on.
Another ten yards and Bolan would be within reli­able range. He slid the Beretta 
out, removed the sound suppressor from an inner pocket and quickly attached it
The Argentinian was slanting toward the ocean. At the water's edge he stopped 
and turned.
Bolan had begun to slow. A mound of sand offered concealment, and he dropped as 
Charata surveyed the field, then hastened on. A gap in the grass gave the 
Executioner a clear shot, but he didn't raise the ma­chine pistol.
Turnabout was fair play. Charata had used Hark-ness's car to tail Bolan to the 
motel, so it was fitting Bolan use Charata to get to Alexander Sprague.
The killer bent and picked up a stone. Bolan couldn't guess what he intended to 
do with it He watched him cock an arm and throw it into the sea, hurling it as 
far as he could, just like a kid would do.
Bolan paralleled the beach for as long as he could, until the field ended at a 
row of cabins. Darting from one to the next, he saw the Argentinian move inland, 
toward a walkway leading to a small shopping center.
Halfway up, Charata halted to scan the beach. Nod­ding to himself, as if 
satisfied no one was after him, he climbed to the top and paused under a street 
lamp that had just come on to light a cigarette. Exhaling a puff of smoke, he 
strolled out of sight.
Not wasting a second, Bolan sprinted to the walk­way. He raced to the top, the 
Beretta under the flap of
his jacket The Argentinian was gone, yet there hadn't been time for him to drive 
away. Bolan roved along the row of stores, peering into
each window. In a small cigar shop he spotted Charata buying a carton of 
cigarettes. Backing into the door-way of a bridal boutique, Bolan bided his 
time. When Charata appeared carrying a brown paper sack and
moved toward a compact car, the soldier swiftly crossed the lot.
Charata gripped the door handle.
"Didn't anyone ever tell you smoking will kill you?"
The Argentinian glanced over his shoulder. If he was the least bit surprised, he 
didn't show it. "I thought I hit you, American," he said in calm, clipped 
English.
"You thought wrong." Bolan was holding the Ber­etta at waist height, the 
suppressor pointed at the
killer's midsection. "We'll do this by the numbers. No sudden moves. Do exactly 
as I tell you."
"Why not shoot me and be done with it? It's what I'd do."
"Don't talk unless I say you can."
Charata smirked.
"Put the bag on the roof, then lace your fingers behind your head and spread 
your legs," Bolan commanded.
After the killer obeyed, Bolan moved in closer, gouging the Beretta into the 
base of his spine. One-handed, Bolan frisked him, finding a Clock 17 fitted
with a stubby sound suppressor in a black leather rig
under the left arm. He tucked it into his belt. He also 
and two spare clips. No other guns, no more throw-
ing knives and no garrote.
"Now take the keys and bag and walk around to the passenger side," Bolan 
directed him. He followed several paces behind. Other than a woman walking her 
dog and a couple of kids playing tag near the stores, no one was around.
Charata stopped next to the door.
"Unlock it and slide over to the steering wheel. Do it slowly, and keep your 
hands where I can see them."
Mocking him, Charata exaggerated every move­ment, turning the key in slow 
motion, opening the door as if it weighed a ton and easing into the car as if he 
were thick molasses oozing from a bottle. Grin­ning, he gripped the wheel with 
both hands.
Bolan got in and tossed the paper bag into the back seat. "Now start it. And no 
sudden moves."
"Are we going somewhere?" Charata broke his silence.
"You're taking me to Alexander Sprague."
"You think so, do you?"
"I know so."
The Argentinian snorted. "What makes you believe I would betray Sprague, 
American? You insult my integrity."
"I didn't know you had any." Bolan tapped the Beretta. "But this should be more 
than enough incentive."
"You are mistaken," Charata said with contempt. "I'm not afraid to die. And even 
if I was, I know your country. I know how your system works. Officers of the law 
can't go around shooting people. You must read me my rights. You must take me 
into custody without harming me. So you are bluffing."
"You think so, do you?" Bolan mimicked him.
"Am I wrong?"
"Who said I'm an officer of the law?" Bolan raised the machine pistol. "I'm not. 
And I'll do whatever it takes to stop Alexander Sprague from leaving the U.S. 
with the Piranha Molecule."
"You truly are not a policeman?" Charata showed real surprise. "Then who are 
you? Why are you doing this?"
"Who I am is unimportant."
"Are you after the Molecule for yourself? Is that it? Or has someone else hired 
you to obtain it?"
Bolan nodded at the ignition. "Start the car."
Charata did so, reluctantly. "I still won't take you to Sprague. I'm not a 
turncoat. No threat could ever make me betray him.''
The killer had his right foot near the gas pedal, his left against the side 
panel.
Bolan flicked the Beretta's selector switch to single shot and shot him through 
the left leg, just above the ankle.
Arching his spine, Charata grit his teeth to keep from crying out. His brawny 
hands clamped onto the steering wheel so tightly, his fingers were white. 
Gasp­ing, he fought the pain, the shock, then glared. "Damn you!" he grated. 
"Damn you to hell!"
"Take me to Sprague or I'll keep shooting," Bolan said. "Your choice."
Already Charata's pant leg bore a dark stain that was spreading rapidly. 
Grimacing, he started to lower a hand toward the wound.
"No, you don't. Keep both hands on the wheel."
The hatred in the Argentinian's dark eyes was boundless. "For this you will 
suffer, American. I can kill fast or I can kill slow. Your death will be the
slowest ever, and before I'm done, you will beg to be put out of your misery."
"Get moving," Bolan remarked.
Glowering, Charata shifted into gear and drove to the exit. Gritting his teeth 
to suppress the torment, he turned left.
"Stick to the speed limit," Bolan ordered. "We don't want to attract attention."
Charata's brow creased. "You are as wary of the police as I am. So, plainly, you 
work outside the law, just as I do." He winced, then said, "A man like you must 
have his price. Name it, and it's yours if you let me go."
"You're trying to buy me off?"
"My employer has been most generous. I have enough money to retire, but 
retirement is not for men like us, eh? So how much? A quarter of a million in 
your country's currency? Half a million? Let me go my own way and it's yours."
"Just keep driving."
"Are you crazy, man? How can you turn down my offer? All we need is a phone. 
I'll call my bank and have the funds transferred. Then you can talk to your bank 
to prove it has been done."
"All I'm interested in is the nanites."
"Ah. I see. Why take a paltry half million when you can sell the Piranha 
Molecule for many times as much? But you are in for a surprise, American. My 
employer doesn't have it."
"Nice try."
"I'm telling the truth. Things have not gone as Sprague had planned."
Bolan tended to believe him, and was greatly re­lieved. Keeping Craker's 
creation from falling into the
wrong hands was paramount; ending Sprague's career was secondary. "Take me to 
him anyway."
"You didn't hear me?"
When Bolan didn't answer, Charata fell quiet. They were driving through the 
business district, and traffic was heavy. It was slow going, with repeated stops 
at traffic lights. Meanwhile, the stain on the Argenti­nian's leg spread wider 
and wider.
At the next light Charata looked at him. "I would very much like to know who you 
are. Just your first name, if you would."
"I wouldn't"
"You're here to kill Sprague, are you not? You kill for hire just as I do."
"The light is green."
Charata drove on. "The way you move, the way you fight, I should have realized 
the truth sooner. In many ways we are brothers, no?"
"No," Bolan said. "And I told you not to talk."
"One last thing, then," Charata said. "If you're like me, you know that when we 
are hired to do a job, we do it or we die. There is no middle ground. No turning 
back once we have given our word. It's what separates professionals from 
amateurs."
"Your point?"
"My point is that I'm willing to do whatever it takes to stop you from harming 
the man I work for." And with that, the Argentinian spun the steering wheel and 
tromped on the gas pedal, ramming the car up over the curb.
The engine roaring to a crescendo, the vehicle hur­tled toward a plate-glass 
window.
 
Chapter 7
 
The general store in Ophir was a converted log cabin. It smelled of must and 
dust, of meat and cheese and chocolate, and many more scents Bernie Craker 
couldn't identify. Shelves crammed with items for sale lined every square foot. 
Name it, the store had it. Ev­erything from toothpicks and batteries to hammers 
and nails.
The proprietor was a kindly old gentleman who greeted them with a smile when the 
tiny bell above the front door tinkled. "Howdy, folks. What can I do for you 
this fine day?"
Paisley sashayed in ahead of Craker. "We need to use your pay phone."
"Help yourselves," the old man said, bobbing his whiskered chin at the front 
corner. "Is it local or long distance?"
"What business is that of yours?" Paisley snapped.
Craker saw the proprietor was flabbergasted, and the scientist didn't blame him. 
His sweetheart had no cause to be so rude.
"Well, young lady, if it's long distance I have plenty of change should you need 
it," the man said.
"Oh." Laughing, Paisley responded, "Sorry. I guess my city manners are showing. 
I'm not used to people being so friendly."
"Where are you folks from, if you don't mind my curiosity?"
Paisley was deliberately vague. "Back east."
Craker dogged her to the corner and heard her snicker in amusement.
"Will you look at this? It's an antique rotary phone. I didn't think the phone 
company still used these."
The owner overheard her. "They want to put in the Touch-Tone kind, but I keep 
turning them down. That phone has been here pretty near as long as I've owned 
this place, going on forty years. You could say it's a fixture."
"Whatever," she said under her breath.
To Craker she whispered, "Keep the old coot oc­cupied so he doesn't listen in."
The scientist walked to the counter and studied a rack of candy. "I could go for 
a snack," he com­mented.
"You seem a bit peaked," the oldster said. "Are you feeling all right, son?"
"I've been having trouble sleeping," Craker said. Afraid the man would pry into 
why, he justified it by saying, "We're camping up in the mountains. I'm not used 
to sleeping on the ground, I guess."
"What you need is a better sleeping bag," the man said. "I happen to have the 
best on the market. You'll swear you're sleeping on a mattress. And it's only a 
hundred-and-forty-two dollars.''
"Thanks, but I'll stick with the one I have," Craker said. "We're only going to 
be up there one more night." That was, if all went well and Paisley con­tacted 
Blatterfeld. She was dialing the number, her back to them.
The bell over the front door tinkled again. Craker
looked, and his blood grew as cold as a glacier. Into the store came a state 
trooper in a crisply pressed uni­form and a wide-brimmed hat tilted at an angle.
"Hello there, Officer Williams," said the owner.
"Hi, Floyd," the trooper returned, sauntering down the center aisle with his 
thumbs hooked in his belt. "It's been a while."
"A couple of months, at least," the shopkeeper agreed. "Having another jelly 
bean attack?"
Williams chuckled. "How did you guess? Can I help it you have the tastiest jelly 
beans this side of the Mississippi?" He reached the counter and smiled at 
Craker. "I can wait my turn."
"No, please, you go first," Craker said, his voice squeaking. A horde of 
butterflies were fluttering in his stomach and his legs suddenly felt weak. "I 
haven't made up my mind yet."
"That your van outside?" the trooper inquired.
"Yes," Craker said, his nervousness mounting. "Why?"
"Noticed you have a crack hi the windshield. You should get it fixed before it 
spreads. They always do. First thing you know, you'll be driving along and hit a 
bump or rut and the windshield will shatter. Had that happen to a couple near 
Salem once. The husband lost control and crashed into a tree. Killed the wife."
"We'll be sure to get it fixed."
The shopkeeper had turned and was scooping jelly beans from a small bin into a 
paper sack. "I had that happen to me, too, about twenty years ago. Scared me 
half to death." He paused. "How many do you want? A quarter pound? More?"
All three of them heard a scraping noise and looked around. For a moment Craker 
couldn't believe his own
eyes. He saw Paisley advancing with a long-handled ax raised high. But surely he 
was mistaken, surely she wouldn't do such a thing. Then the ax whipped down, and 
the keen edge cleaved into the state trooper's fore­head, splitting it like a 
watermelon, shearing through flesh and bone clear down to the nose.
"Dear God in heaven!" the shopkeeper blurted.
Paisley's face was contorted hi a ferocious mask. Craker, stunned, watched as 
she wrenched the ax free and Williams slumped to the floor, spurting scarlet 
like a fountain. She spun toward the counter, toward the shopkeeper, whose eyes 
widened to the size of wal­nuts. He thrust out both hands.
"No! Please!"
Paisley wasn't to be denied. She swung again, the ax catching him as he stumbled 
sideways. It bit deep but not deep enough.
Tottering, the old man clutched at a shelf, scattering merchandise in a noisy 
rain. He gaped at Paisley in disbelief. "Please!" he sputtered, red froth 
rimming his mouth. "Don't!"
She did. Bracing her legs, she arced the ax into the top of his skull, finishing 
what she had started. She left it embedded, letting go of the polished wood 
han­dle as the man crumpled. Breathing heavily, she looked over the counter at 
his body, then at the state trooper's, and smiled.
"What have you done?" Craker exclaimed in horror.
"Saved our butts."
"That officer didn't know who we were!" he said shrilly. "He would have gone on 
his way none the wiser! You shouldn't have done it!"
Paisley gave him the same ferocious look she had
given the others. "You're pathetic, do you know that? I'm so sick and tired of 
your whining." She grabbed him by the front of his shirt. "How stupid are you? 
He knew who we were, all right."
"You're only guessing—" Craker tried to protest and was shaken so violently his 
vision briefly blurred.
"Hasn't it sunk in yet? I'm not letting anyone— anyone at all—stand in the way 
of my getting that ten million. You say the trooper wasn't a threat. I say he 
was. So I took care of him. End of story." Paisley pulled him toward the door. 
"Now let's get out of here before someone else shows up."
"This can't be happening," Craker said. "It just can't."
"Grow up," she said resentfully. "And try to look at the bright side for once."
"There's a bright side to murder?"
"I didn't use any of your precious vials, did I? I improvised this time, and did 
a damn fine job if I say so myself."
The scientist stared forlornly at the red pool spread­ing outward from the 
trooper. Of all the ways to de­scribe what she had done, "damn fine job" wasn't 
one of them. Paisley was changing, becoming more vi­cious and coldhearted with 
every passing hour. Or had she always been that way and he was merely seeing her 
true self for the first time?
No, that couldn't be, Craker reflected, shaking his head. She was still the same 
marvelous, considerate angel she had always been. The setbacks were weigh­ing 
heavily on her shapely shoulders.
"Be thankful I'm with you," Paisley said. "You wouldn't last an hour on your 
own."
Craker opened his mouth to point out that he
wouldn't be involved at all if not for her, but he closed it again. She might 
take it the wrong way and she was already mad enough. "Whatever you say, sweet 
one. Whatever you say."
the EXECUTIONER'S reflexes were second to none, but he had no time to do 
anything other than brace both hands against the dashboard before the car 
smashed into a store with a resounding din that had to have been heard several 
blocks away.
The car bounced wildly. Bolan's head was slammed against the roof, and for a few 
seconds pinwheeling points of light danced before his eyes. He heard screams, 
shouts, curses. Shaking his head to clear it, he saw a mannequin in a skirt and 
blouse loom in front of them. It was plowed under. Suddenly the car swerved, 
slamming him against his door.
Simultaneously, Charata's door swung open and the killer dived out. Landing on 
his shoulders, he rolled, die momentum carrying him into a rack of clothes.
Bolan lunged at die steering wheel just as a jewelry counter appeared, a 
terror-struck woman riveted in place beside it, her hands at her throat. Yanking 
the wheel, he missed her, but he couldn't completely miss the counter. It 
dissolved in a barrage of broken glass and wood.
Again the car bounced and lurched. Bolan jammed the brake pedal, bringing the 
vehicle to a sliding, screeching stop. Then, throwing the gearshift into Park, 
he sprang out. From the look of things, the store specialized in apparel for 
ladies, and it was a sheer miracle none of the customers had been harmed. He 
rotated toward the last spot he had seen Charata.
"Look out! That man has a gun!"
The Argentinian was gone. Bolan didn't linger, ei­ther. To do otherwise, to try 
to track the trail of blood from Charata's wound, invited arrest.
No one tried to stop Bolan as he jogged toward an exit sign at the rear. Most of 
the women were cow­ering on the floor and wouldn't even look at him, per­haps 
out of fear he might shoot them.
An empty side street brought the soldier to a busy avenue, which he crossed. A 
huge crowd had gathered at the shattered storefront, with more arriving every 
second.
Bolan hiked westward, the Beretta wedged into his belt, his jacket zipped to 
hide the Glock. He didn't stop until he reached the beach, and then only long 
enough to ensure no one was following him. As he walked past the lobby of the 
Seashore Resort, the scrawny desk clerk, who wasn't much over eighteen, came 
hurrying out.
"Hey! Where have you been, mister?"
"For a walk," Bolan said. "Why?"
"A guy just told me something big is going on downtown. The cops are all over 
the place, a whole block is cordoned off, the works. And here I am, stuck at 
work. I miss all the good stuff." The clerk gazed longingly toward the center of 
Coos Bay. "I was hop­ing maybe you knew what happened."
"It will be on the news soon enough," Bolan pre­dicted, and went up to his room.
Once again Charata had given him the slip, and Bo­lan liked it even less now 
than the first time. His only consolation was that he had learned Sprague didn't 
have the Piranha Molecule. News Brognola would be interested in. He put in a 
call to Gold Beach and was
told the big Fed had gone out for something to eat and would be back within the 
hour.
Bolan left a message for Brognola to call him, then stripped and treated himself 
to a shower. He had just finished and was toweling himself off when the phone 
jangled.
"You're keeping your usual low profile," were the first words out of Brognola's 
mouth. "Reminds me of the time you blew up half of Tokyo Bay."
"It was one warehouse and a couple of ships," Bo­lan corrected him. "How did you 
hear about Coos Bay so soon?"
"Every chief of police and sheriff along the Oregon coast has been put on notice 
to call me if anything out of the ordinary happens," Brognola said. "And, silly 
him, the Coos Bay chief thought that having someone crash a car through a store 
window in the middle of downtown qualified."
"For what it's worth, Charata was to blame," Bolan said.
"I'm all ears. Fill me in."
The soldier shared the essentials, ending with, "So Sprague and Blatterfeld are 
definitely somewhere in Coos Bay, waiting to hear from Craker."
"I'd already gathered as much. I have an agent tak­ing all the calls at 
Blatterfeld's hotel in Portland, pre­tending to work there. He reported hi a 
while go and told me Helen Paisley had called and left a message for 
Blatterfeld. She's set up a meet for tomorrow at noon."
"Where?"
"At Bayside Park, off Lakeside Drive. Very public, very smart of her. I told my 
man in Portland to relay
the message. If we play our cards right, we can bag them all in one fell swoop."
"How do you want to play it?"
"I was going to call in an army of federal agents and marshals, but Sprague has 
a reputation for being able to smell a trap a mile off. The fewer operatives I 
use, the better."
"How few?"
"Four agents to take them into custody, with you as backup to take down anyone 
who tries to give us the slip. I'm driving up with the agents. We should be 
there about midnight."
"Anything else?"
"Just that a minute ago word came down the wire of a state patrolman discovered 
dead in a little country store at a place called Ophir."
"Our third blob?" Bolan speculated.
"Not this one. Someone took an ax to his head. The owner of the store was also 
found murdered. It's too soon to tell whether Craker and Paisley are implicated, 
but it doesn't match their MO." Brognola sounded weary. "As for you, you know 
what you have to do."
"As soon as we hang up. There's a place called the Pacific Inn a couple of 
blocks north."
"Got it"
Hanging up, Bolan dressed, packed and slipped past the lobby without disturbing 
the desk clerk, who was reading a comic book. Tossing his bag into the station 
wagon, he drove to the Pacific Inn and took a ground-floor room for the night 
under a different name than he had used at the Seashore Resort It was a basic 
precaution on the off chance Charata or the Albino, or both, paid a visit to the 
Seashore Resort in the middle of the night.
Bolan called in an order for a large pizza to be de­livered and settled in to 
catch the late news and an update on the debacle downtown.
Twenty minutes later a knock on his door brought Bolan to his feet with the 
Desert Eagle in his right hand. "Who is it?"
"Pizza."
Standing to one side, Bolan carefully turned the knob. A man in a red shirt and 
hat gave him a lopsided grin.
"I don't have all night, buddy. I have six more de­liveries to make before my 
shift is over, and I'm run­ning late."
Bolan stuck the Desert Eagle into the back of his pants and pulled his wallet 
from his pocket He stepped out to pay, accepted the warm cardboard box and 
sniffed it. The aroma of cheese and Canadian ba­con made his mouth water.
"Hope you enjoy it," the deliveryman said, touch­ing his cap.
The cool breeze gave Bolan pause. He gazed to the south, beyond a string of 
small businesses, beyond the Seashore Resort, toward the south end of Coos Bay, 
and Coos Head, where the bay flowed into the sea.
The next moment the night flared as brightly as the sun.
A billowing fireball erupted skyward close by, roil­ing outward like a mushroom 
cloud, and a concussive wave of irresistible force slammed into Bolan like a 
battering ram, flinging him against the door. His win­dow and most others on the 
side of the inn facing the blast exploded in shards, as did those of every 
building in sight.
The deliveryman covered his face with his arms as his windshield blew out.
With the blast came blistering, scorching heat, so intense Bolan felt as if the 
skin on his chest was being burned from his body. He ducked, dropping the 
card­board box, which spilled open.
The fireball rose to its apex, a volcanic mix of or­ange, red and yellow, then 
folded in on itself, con­tracting on its source—the Seashore Resort.
Bolan rose, donned a shirt and shoes, and locked his door. Screams filled the 
salt air as he sprinted southward. The Resort's roof was gone, as was half of 
the north wall. But the true extent of the devastation wasn't apparent until 
Bolan passed the last of the smaller buildings adjoining it.
The Seashore Resort was a shambles. A gaping cav­ity engulfed in flames was all 
that remained of dozens of rooms. Only a few at each end had been spared, but 
the flames were spreading so rapidly that they, too, would soon be consumed. 
Debris was everywhere. So were bodies, and bits of bodies lying on broken 
bal­conies, amid the ruins, and in the parking lot.
It was plain to Bolan that the epicenter of the blast had been in the vicinity 
of the room he had vacated. He'd left because he thought Charata or the Albino 
might try to put a bullet in his brain in die middle of the night, but they had 
gone him one better. They had set off a bomb. With a total disregard for human 
life, not caring how many innocents were caught in the blast, they had blown up 
the Resort specifically to kill him.
Fury filled the soldier, fury that they would be so barbaric, fury for all the 
lives lost, fury that, as in the case of Edith Harkness, he was indirectly the 
cause.
The sound of weeping restored Bolan's self-control. A woman in a tattered robe, 
bleeding from various wounds, was feebly crawling away from the flames. Running 
over, he picked her up and carried her a safe distance, then ran back to find 
more survivors. The heat was awful, the flames leaping from room to room as if 
alive, devouring all in their path.
Sirens knifed the night, and a police car screeched into the lot A young officer 
jumped out, gaped in shock, then recovered his wits and snatched up the mike to 
his radio. He yelled for help, for fire engines, for ambulances, for backup, the 
works.
No one tried to stop him as he walked away. Bolan had done all he could. Now it 
was up to the police and firemen.
The Pacific Inn was lit up like a Christmas tree. Lights glowed in every window, 
and faces were pressed against every pane. The balconies were crammed.
As Bolan opened his door, it bumped something on the floor. He had forgotten 
about the pizza. It had long since grown cold. Placing it on the table, he pried 
an undamaged piece off the box and sank into a chair. He didn't bother to switch 
on the light. He just sat there in the darkness, taking small bites now and 
then, eating out of habit, his appetite largely gone. How long he sat there, he 
couldn't say. Centuries, it seemed. It had to be past midnight when a knock came 
at the door.
"It's open, Hal," Bolan said.
Brognola switched on the light before entering. He glanced at the pizza, then at 
Bolan. They had been friends for so long, they knew each other so well, that 
Brognola understood without having to be told, as he
proved by saying, "You can't blame yourself, Striker."
"Can't I?"
"Alexander Sprague is responsible. Him, and him alone. His killers never do 
anything without his say-so. He had to give the orders."
"It wasn't a little old lady this time," Bolan said. "I counted ten, maybe 
eleven bodies, and the count will grow."
Brognola sat in another chair. "You can't let it get to you."
"Easier said than done."
"Why? Because of Harkness? Because you had talked to her, liked her? Because 
that made it personal?"
Bolan propped his cheek on his fist.
"Senseless deaths are part and parcel of our busi­ness. These aren't the first, 
they won't be the last. But why am I lecturing you? You know all this just as 
well as do."
"Every now and then—" Bolan said, but didn't finish.
Brognola did it for him. "Every now and then our inner armor develops a chink. 
The mental armor we wear to hold the horror at bay. The armor that enables us to 
get on with our lives."
He inspected the pizza, tore off a ragged strip and took a bite. "Has anyone 
ever told you that pizza is a lot better when it's hot?"
Despite himself, Bolan felt his inner tension drain­ing away. "You've never had 
cold pizza for breakfast? You're depriving yourself of a culinary treat."
The big Fed got to the point of bis visit. "About tomorrow. We'll try to take 
Sprague alive if at an
possible. I don't want a gun battle in the middle of a public park in broad 
daylight. Too many bystanders. And enough people have already died."
"Amen to that."
"I brought a present for you."
"And that would be...?"
"A special rifle. This time you'll be able to make sure no innocents are harmed. 
If things go sour, you can take whatever steps are necessary to put Alexander 
Sprague and his bodyguards out of commission."
For the first time in hours, Bolan smiled.
 
Chapter 8
 
Bayside Park was abuzz with activity and laughter. It covered fifteen acres, 
including a tract of woodland, a spacious belt of grass and a strip of pristine 
beach. An asphalt path for joggers and bikers wound through the park, dotted by 
benches for those who would rather sit than move about. A playground for 
children and a gazebo for adults to rest out of the sun completed the picture.
It was a favorite haunt of Coos Bay's residents. Families on picnics had spread 
out blankets and dishes of food. People were throwing Frisbees, flying kites, 
playing soccer.
A few, less interested in exercise, were reading books or magazines. Children 
scampered all over, hol­lering and giggling.
Out on the beach men and women were sunning themselves. Kids played in the surf 
or built sand castles.
By the Executioner's reckoning, there had to be close to seventy people in the 
park, innocents he was determined wouldn't come to harm. On the local news that 
morning, the final tally of the Seashore Resort fire was placed at fourteen 
dead, twenty-three others hos­pitalized, seven hi critical condition.
Mack Bolan was on the flat roof of a one-story util-
ity- shed at the edge of the trees, where he had an elevated view of most of the 
park. More importantly, no one could see him. For if they did, they might be in 
fear for their lives.
On the roof beside him was the carrying case that had contained Hal Brognola's 
"present" Now the present was pressed to Bolan's right shoulder.
The big Fed had taken into account the conditions under which the soldier would 
be working, and had selected a weapon ideally suited for Bolan's needs. It was a 
Remington 700, but not standard issue in any respect Instead of the black 
synthetic stock the manu­factured model came with, this one had a special 
McMillan A-2 fiberglass stock, the cream of the crop, similar to the stocks 
specifically designed for sniper use by the United States Marine Corps.
An ambidextrous adjustable saddle cheek-piece had been fitted to the stock for 
use with night-vision de­vices. On top of the rifle was a Bushnell 10 x 40 
scope, on die front end a Cherokee bipod for added stability.
But the modification that pleased Bolan the most was the Ciener suppressor. 
Custom made, it was sec­ond to none in quality and effectiveness. It reduced the 
noise of a shot to the level of a whisper, and would prevent a panic should a 
firefight break out.
Two boxes of federal .308-caliber ammunition had been provided. Bolan had 
already opened one and loaded the rifle. His eye pressed to the scope, he 
scanned Bayside Park for the umpteenth time since he had arrived.
The meeting between the renegade scientists and Alexander Sprague had been set 
for noon. Bolan had arrived two hours earlier and climbed a ladder at the rear 
of the shed when no one was looking. He had
been there ever since. Now it was quarter to twelve, and Brognola's four Justice 
Department agents were in place. One was dressed as a hot dog vendor and was 
selling food and drink from a stand near the play­ground. Another was hi shorts 
and a sleeveless shirt, lying on a blanket with an open magazine. The third, a 
woman, was at a park bench feeding seagulls. That left the last man, in swimming 
trunks and an aloha shirt, out on the beach. Between them, they had the whole 
park covered.
Brognola was never one to leave anything to chance. So he had insisted his team 
wear wires so they could communicate, and asked Bolan to wear one to keep tabs 
on what was going down.
Strict silence had been maintained, per Brognola's orders. But now the tiny 
earphone in Bolan's ear crackled with the voice of the phony hot dog vendor.
"This is Agent Burke. I have visual. I repeat, I have visual on three of the 
four wolves at the north end of the park. Everyone acknowledge."
"Jensen, copy," said the female agent on the bench.
"This is Rom," the man on the beach responded. "I acknowledge."
The guy on the blanket was last. "Agent Sloan. I copy, too."
Bolan swung the scope toward the north parking lot. A black Lincoln had pulled 
up, and Alexander Sprague, the Albino and Miles Blatterfeld had emerged. The 
Argentinian wasn't with them, which was disturbing. Sprague would want both 
bodyguards by bis side for such an important a meeting. The leg wound had been 
worse than Bolan thought it was, or a random element had now been added to the 
mix.
Sprague was cautious. He halted at the footpath and
surveyed the park carefully. So did the Albino. Blatter­feld, on the other hand, 
was merrily chattering away like a chipmunk, perhaps out of relief that the deal 
was about to be completed.
They entered the park, the Albino in the lead, bis white jacket unbuttoned, his 
tinted sunglasses con­stantly roving from side to side, alert for threats.
Sprague was also looking all around, but for a dif­ferent reason. Thanks to the 
scope, Bolan could see every hair, every wrinkle, on Sprague's face. And read 
every emotion. Sprague was looking for Craker and Paisley, and he was plainly 
angered when it became apparent they weren't there.
Bolan had been on the lookout for them, too. Brog­nola had shown him photos of 
the pair, so unless they wore disguises, the soldier would have no problem 
making them. A check of his watch showed it was seven minutes before twelve. 
Still plenty of time.
Alexander Sprague shielded his eyes with a hand and gazed toward the beach. He 
frowned, then said something to the Albino. They moved on, and when they were 
midway into the park they stopped at an empty bench, Sprague and Blatterfeld sat 
down. The Albino took up a post behind it.
Sloan, the agent on the blanket, had shifted so he was facing them. Holding his 
magazine so they couldn't see what he was doing, he opened his back­pack and 
took out a pencil-thin directional microphone hooked to a portable amplifier in 
the pack. la another few moments he had the unit activated and was feed­ing the 
input into the earpieces of the special team.
The soldier heard the hiss of static, then Sprague's voice.
"—should have been here by now, Miles. I don't like this."
"Be patient, Mr. Sprague," Blatterfeld responded. "Paisley won't let you down. 
She doesn't want to blow this."
"I sincerely hope so, Miles, for your sake," Sprague said.
Through the scope Bolan saw something Blatterfeld didn't: Sprague glancing at 
the pudgy man hi utter contempt.
"I don't want anything to go wrong, either," Blat­terfeld said. "This is the 
biggest deal I've ever bro­kered. It'll put me in the big time. Once word gets 
around, people will beg for my services."
"Once word gets around?" Sprague repeated harshly. "Miles, you continue to 
disappoint me. I thought I made it clear. Secrecy is essential. I haven't lasted 
in this business by shouting what I do from rooftops."
"No, no, no. You misunderstand. I'd only whisper it in a few ears here, a few 
ears there. Gossip will do the rest. My reputation will grow by leaps and 
bounds."
"No ears, Miles. Period."
"But Mr. Sprague," Blatterfeld said, "that's not fair. You know how hard I have 
to work to get ahead. I go to every damn scientific and industrial convention 
and seminar I can, just on the off chance I'll meet someone willing to spill a 
secret."
"Life is seldom fair, Miles. Usually, it's the oppo­site. As for the rest, you 
work too hard because you lack discipline and foresight."
"I was the one who set this up with Paisley," Blat­terfeld said in self-defense.
The Albino spotted them the second they stepped onto the path. "Here they come, 
sir," he informed his boss.
Bolan swung around, fixing the scope on Blatterfeld and Sprague.
"At last!" Blatterfeld said, jumping to his feet. "Let's go meet them and get 
this over with!"
"Yell a little louder, why don't you?" Sprague clucked like an irate hen. "Stay 
calm, Miles. Patience is called for. A man in my position must never appear too 
eager."
"But this is a done deal. The amount has been agreed on. What difference can it 
make?" Blatterfeld wanted to know.
"Fools rush in, Miles. Fools rush in." Sprague stared at the broker until 
Blatterfeld sat back down.
"Hell, what can go wrong at this point?" Blatter­feld said merrily. "I told you 
not to fret. I told you she would come through. And there isn't a cop in sight. 
You went to all that trouble to have Charata cover you and you won't even need 
him."
The Argentinian was there. Bolan raised his head and gave the entire park the 
once-over without spot­ting him. His earphone crackled. Burke, the special agent 
in charge, came on.
"Bird's Eye, did you copy that?"
"I copied," Bolan responded.
"Any sign of the fourth wolf?"
"Negative." Bolan peered through the scope, checking every vehicle in the 
parking lot. It was cru­cial Charata be located.
"We can't let that stop us," Roth said. "You hear me, people? We take them down 
as planned."
The risk was enormous. Charata would pick off the
Feds unless Bolan could pick off Charata first. He swept the scope across a 
hedgerow, then in among the trees, probing every patch of shade, every bush big 
enough to conceal a grown man. Nothing unusual aroused his suspicions. Wherever 
Charata was, he was well hidden.
Paisley and Craker passed the bench where Jensen sat, still feeding seagulls. 
They walked by her without a glance.
Alexander Sprague rose. Miles Blatterfeld took that as his cue to do likewise, 
and stepped in front of the secrets' dealer, all teeth and joy.
"Ms. Paisley! What a pleasure to see you again! And this fine gentleman with you 
must be Mr. Craker. I can't tell you how glad I am to make his acquaintance."
Helen Paisley stopped well short of the three men. Ill at ease, she glanced at 
the Albino. "What's he do­ing here? I thought I told you, Miles. Only Sprague 
and you. No one else."
Alexander Sprague gestured suavely. "Blame me, not him, mademoiselle. My friend 
goes everywhere I do. But had I known it would disturb you, I would have made an 
exception in your case."
Paisley bit her lip, then shrugged. "What's done is done. Let's conclude our 
business together."
"I would like nothing better," Sprague said.
"Are you ready to deposit the money in my over­seas account as I specified?" 
Paisley asked.
Bernard Craker looked at her. "Your account? What about the five million that's 
to go into mine? Half for you, half for me, remember?"
"Not now, Bernie," Paisley said, shushing him.
To Alexander Sprague, she said, "Did you bring a cellular phone?"
Sprague waved an arm at a father and son flying a kite. "Surely you don't expect 
to do it here and now? I must insist we complete our transaction in private."
"Not on your life," Paisley said. "No offense, but how do I know I can trust 
you?"
Miles Blatterfeld nervously intervened. "My dear Helen, I assure you Mr. Sprague 
is reliable. I'd never broker an exchange with someone who isn't and risk losing 
my commission."
"The implied insult aside, Ms. Paisley," Sprague said a trifle indignantly, "you 
must try to meet me halfway. Bear in mind I'm not insane. Therefore, I'm not 
about to give you ten million dollars without confirming you have held up your 
end of our arrangement."
"And how do you propose to do that?"
"That's quite simple. By testing the nanites to see if they do as you claim." 
Again Sprague waved an arm, encompassing the people all around them. "Which, you 
must admit, we can hardly do under the present circumstances."
"Where, then?" Paisley inquired.
"I went for a ride last night to take in the sights. North of here, across the 
bay, there are miles and miles of sand dunes. A spot where we wouldn't be 
disturbed."
"Those dunes are part of the Oregon Dunes Na­tional Recreation area," Paisley 
said. "I've been there before."
Bolan was still searching for Charata. He had cov­ered Bayside Park from north 
to south and east to west, without success, and he was running out of time.
The Feds weren't about to let Sprague and the others leave, and the second they 
moved in, Charata would open fire.
Paisley hesitated. "I don't know."
"Consider the other part of our agreement," Sprague said. "I can hardly do that 
in public, either, can I?"
"What other part?" Craker asked. "Helen, what is he talking about? Why do I have 
the feeling you haven't told me everything?"
"You're imagining things, Bernie," Paisley said.
"What other part?" Craker persisted.
Alexander Sprague took a few steps toward the ve­hicles. "I'm sorry, Bernie. 
This is hardly the time or place to squabble. All your questions will be 
answered in due course. Would you like to ride with me or use your own car?"
"I'm not going anywhere until I get some an­swers," Craker said. "For starters, 
am I or am I not entitled to half the ten million?"
Bolan didn't blame the scientist for being upset. It didn't take a genius to 
tell something wasn't quite right.
"Of course you are," Paisley said sweetly, placing her hand on his arm. "Please, 
Bernie. Bear with me a little longer. You trust me, don't you?"
"With all my heart and soul."
Peering through the scope, the soldier saw that Craker was gazing at Paisley in 
lovelorn devotion. It put everything in a whole new light. He began to won­der 
just how much of the theft and murders were Craker's doing and how much were 
Paisley's.
"We're agreed, then?" Sprague said. "Bring your
car around and you can follow me to the dunes. I'll wait for you in the parking 
lot."
"Give us five minutes," Paisley said.
The moment of truth had arrived. Once again Bo­lan's earpiece crackled. "This is 
Burke. Move in, peo­ple. Easy does it. Don't shoot unless you have to. There are 
too many civilians."
Sloan rose onto his knees and reached into his back­pack. Jensen stopped feeding 
the seagulls and moved toward the conspirators. Roth was hurrying from the 
beach, while Burke had removed his cap and apron and was moving toward the 
asphalt path. He was the farthest away.
"I still can't find Charata," Bolan said into the mouthpiece. "We should wait 
and take them at the dunes."
"Negative on that suggestion," Burke responded. "The Argentinian is bound to 
show himself any sec­ond now. When he does, take him down."
Bolan would like nothing better but the outcome wasn't preordained. If he knew 
where the killer was concealed it would be a different story, but he had 
searched the park repeatedly with no result. Charata could be anywhere.
Agents Jensen and Sloan were now close enough to get the ball rolling. Jensen 
was ten yards from Craker and Paisley, Sloan about the same distance from 
Sprague's bunch. It was Jensen who drew her weapon first, adopted a Weaver 
stance, and bawled, "Federal agents! Stop where you are!"
Special Agent Sloan instantly did the same, training his Sig-Sauer on the big 
man himself, on Alexander Sprague. "You're surrounded! Do exactly as we say!"
Agents Burke and Roth were running to the aid of
their companions.
Bolan's eye was glued to the scope. He saw Paisley and Craker rooted in 
astonishment. Blatterfeld had au­tomatically thrust his hands into the air, 
while the Al­bino stood as immobile as a statue. And Sprague—he smiled, but he 
offered no resistance.
It appeared as if the plan had worked just fine. The Feds had everything well in 
hand.
But it was an illusion.
The first shot cracked like a bullwhip, only ten times louder, rolling across 
Bayside Park and halting every man, woman and child in their tracks. Sloan was 
flung forward as if kicked in the back, his arms flung out. He stumbled, tried 
to raise his gun and folded at the knees, the exit wound in the center of his 
sternum pouring scarlet.
Bolan could tell the shot came from the north end of the park, but he couldn't 
pinpoint the exact location.
The second shot nailed Jensen. She was anxiously glancing right and left, 
seeking the shooter, when a heavy-caliber slug smashed into her chest. It lifted 
her off her feet and flung her like a rag doll onto her back.
Bolan was desperate to locate Charata. He swept the scope over the parked 
vehicles, over the hedgerow. Nothing.
Sprague had turned toward Paisley and Craker. "Come with me!" he yelled. "You'll 
never reach your own car! Hurry!"
The pair looked at each another, and Helen Paisley nodded. They raced toward the 
other three as Roth, coming from the beach, shouted for them to freeze.
At a word from Sprague, the Albino entered the
fray. Drawing a pistol, he swung toward Roth and el­evated it.
Bolan would be damned if he'd let another agent die. He sighted on the pale 
bodyguard's left ear and stroked the trigger. The Remington made a thwip sound, 
the blast suppressed by the Ciener. Across the park a large chunk of the 
Albino's head flew outward in a spray of blood and bone fragments.
Alexander Sprague hadn't noticed. He was running toward the cars with 
Blatterfeld close behind. Paisley and Craker, younger and in better condition, 
had al­most caught up to them.
But someone else had noticed. Someone who con­sidered the Albino a friend. In 
front of the hedgerow a six-foot section of grass was rising, physically 
de­taching itself from the ground as if in defiance of grav­ity. Bolan brought 
the scope to bear and saw it was Bartolome Charata, clad in camouflage clothes. 
The Argentinian had been lying in a shallow trough, no doubt dug the night 
before after the section of sod was carefully cut and peeled back like a banana 
skin.
No wonder Bolan had been unable to spot him.
Charata had thrown caution aside. The death of the Albino had incited a savage 
rage, and straightening, he pointed his rifle toward the utility shed.
Bolan saw the killer's scope fixed on him. He rolled to the right a heartbeat 
ahead of the shot, which whizzed through the space he had occupied.
Special Agent Burke whirled toward the Argenti­nian and banged off several swift 
rounds. In his haste he had to have missed because Charata was unaf­fected. The 
killer responded in kind, a single boom of the rifle sufficient to fell Burke as 
if he had been wal­loped by a sledgehammer.
Only Roth was left, and he did the only prudent tang to do: he dived onto his 
stomach and fired from a prone position.
Bolan took aim and squeezed off another shot at Charata just as the Argentinian 
moved. The .308 round Kicked up dirt, missing by a hair. Bolan quickly worked 
the bolt, smoothly feeding another cartridge into the chamber. But Charata fired 
first Bolan rolled again, to the left this time.
Screaming bystanders were streaming toward the trees, toward the beach, toward 
the cars. A steady flow passed in front of Roth, blundering into his line of 
fire. Rom jumped to his feet but still couldn't get a clear shot.
Charata had shrugged off the sod cover and was sidestepping toward the parking 
area, limping, but moving briskly nonetheless.
Bolan brought up the Remington. The split second that the crosshairs settled 
squarely on the killer's chest, the soldier pressed his finger to the trigger. 
The stock kicked into his shoulder as he fired.
The shot scored. The Argentinian was catapulted backward and landed on his side, 
his arms and legs askew.
"You did it!" Bolan's earpiece blared with Roth's voice. "You bagged the son of 
a bitch!"
Alexander Sprague and the rest were nearing the Lincoln. Sprague had glanced at 
his bodyguard as Charata went down but showed no reaction and didn't break 
stride. Almost as if Sprague didn't care, as if the lives of his bodyguards were 
of no consequence.
Until he learned the real reason Sprague had been so unconcerned.
Bartolome Charata wasn't dead. Incredibly, rising to his feet, he swayed 
slightly, then steadied himself and trained his rifle on the roof of the utility 
shed.
 
Chapter 9
 
The Executioner flattened as the Argentinian's weapon boomed. He intended to 
rise and put another slug into the killer but Charata kept firing, one shot 
after an­other, pinning him down. Five shots. Seven. Ten. Eleven.
The fusillade stopped and Bolan lifted his head. Alexander Sprague and the 
others had piled into the Lincoln. Charata was beside it, about to climb in.
The soldier sighted down the Remington. Before he could shoot, Charata gained 
the safety of the vehicle.
Bolan had a clear glimpse of the Argentinian's rifle just before the door closed 
and recognized it as a Parker-Hale Model 85, an expensive marksman's weapon in 
the same caliber as his Remington. The 85 was manufactured with McMillan stocks, 
as well as bipods. In terms of caliber, accuracy and construction, Bolan's 
Remington and the Parker-Hale were similar. But in one regard the 85 had a 
definite edge—it came with a detachable M-14-type magazine, with either a 10- or 
20-round capacity. Charata had chosen the latter.
In effect, Bolan had been outgunned, beaten at his own realm of expertise. It 
was galling to watch the Lincoln zoom from the lot, to know that despite his
best efforts three good agents were down and might be dead.
Bolan shoved the boxes of .308 ammo into the car­rying case, did the same with 
the Remington and ripped the case closed. Rather than waste valuable sec­onds 
using the ladder, he moved to the edge of the roof, gauged the drop and jumped.
Pandemonium ruled Bayside Park. People were still fleeing in panic, their yells 
and wails rising to a fren­zied chorus.
Bolan raced toward the parking area, resisting the tide of bystanders who 
buffeted one another like stam­peding livestock. He came to where Jensen had 
fallen.
Roth was on his knees next to her, cradling her head in his lap. Tears brimming 
his eyes, he said in torment, "She's dead! The bastard killed her!"
"I'm sorry," Bolan said.
"We were engaged," Roth said, the tears pouring like rain. "We were going to be 
married next year."
Bolan gripped the agent's shoulder. "Get on the horn to Brognola. Tell him what 
happened. Request medical assistance and backup."
"Married," Roth repeated blankly, overcome by the enormity of his loss.
The agent would be of no help to anyone if he was swamped by shock. Bolan shook 
him, hard. "Agent Roth? Listen up."
"Sir?" Blinking, the young Fed roused himself.
"Did you hear what I just said?" Bolan demanded. "Get to a phone." When Roth 
nodded, Bolan held out a hand. "But first I need your keys."
"My keys?"
"To the car the four of you came in. I need it to
go after Sprague. You were driving, so you must have the keys."
"Oh. Yes, yes, I do." Mechanically, Roth reached into a pocket and produced 
them. Then his hand dipped to Jensen and he stroked her hair. "She was the 
sweetest woman who ever lived."
"Call Brognola," Bolan commanded, wishing he could stay. But he couldn't. Duty 
came before all else, and his duty lay in recovering the Piranha Molecule. "Did 
you hear me?" he asked when the man just knelt there.
Roth nodded. "I will. I promise. You can count on me. I'm fine now, sir. 
Honest."
The young Fed was anything but fine. Still, Bolan had delayed long enough. He 
sprinted to the parking lot, glancing back once to see Roth tenderly lowering 
Jensen to the ground.
The unmarked sedan was in the last row, near the exit. Bolan tossed the 
Remington into the back seat and got in. The Lincoln only had a four or five 
minute head start, he figured. He should be able to overtake.
At fifty miles an hour the soldier careened onto the street and headed north, as 
they had done. He was playing a long shot, but it was the only one he had.
Sprague had proposed concluding the deal with Paisley and Craker at the Oregon 
Dunes National Rec­reation Area north of the bay. It was possible Sprague would 
still go there, since he had no idea the Feds had been eavesdropping.
If Bolan couldn't catch up, finding them would be a challenge. He had never been 
to the recreational area but he had seen it on the map, and if he remembered 
correctly, the dunes extended north from Coos Bay for
something like forty miles. A lot of territory for one person to cover.
The plain truth was that Sprague had done it again. He had outwitted the Feds 
and was on the verge of acquiring one of the deadliest instruments of war ever 
conceived, a tiny robotic molecule that could shift the global balance of power.
Bolan drove faster.
bernie craker had never been so miserable in his life. Hunched over in the 
Lincoln's back seat, he clutched the transport case and prayed he made it out of 
the mess alive. Or, rather, the mess Paisley had gotten him into.
All that shooting, all those screams, all the blood and gore when the 
bodyguard's head was blown half off. It had been terrible. But not, Craker had 
to admit, any worse than seeing his beloved bury an ax into those men at the 
country store. Through sheer will­power Craker stilled his churning stomach and 
sat up straight.
Sprague was at the wheel, driving like a madman. Minutes ago they had left the 
environs of Coos Bay and North Bend and crossed the long bridge over the north 
end of the bay to Shorewood. Now they were barreling up the coast highway.
Next to Sprague sat the dark-haired man with the rifle, an aura of violence 
about him like an evil halo. The piercing glare he inexplicably bestowed on 
Craker was more than mildly frightening.
Paisley was on the scientist's right. Astoundingly, she was smiling as if she 
were having a marvelous time. Patting his knee, she whispered, "Soon, lover! 
Soon we'll have all that wonderful money!"
How she could think of such a thing at a time like that was beyond Craker. The 
ten million had never mattered much to him, and he cared even less now. He just 
wanted them to go off somewhere together, to live out the rest of their lives in 
mutual bliss. Was that asking too much?
Miles Blatterfeld was by the other door. A nervous wreck, he kept saying over 
and over, "Oh God, oh God, oh God." Occasionally he gnawed at his finger­nails 
and squirmed in his seat.
The east side of the highway was bordered by trees, but the left side, Craker 
saw, was an unending series of rolling sand dunes, stretching as far as the eye 
could see into the hazy distance. He expected Sprague to pull off at any moment 
but the Lincoln sped on, putting mile after mile behind them.
"When are we stopping?" Paisley asked. "I want to wrap this up and be on my 
way."
"Be patient, mademoiselle," Sprague said. "I must ensure we aren't being 
followed. Another five or ten miles should be enough."
"Oh God," Blatterfeld resumed his lament. "Oh God, oh God."
"Will you kindly be quiet, Miles," Sprague said. "Your whining is starting to 
grate on my nerves."
"Can you blame me?" Blatterfeld responded. "The Feds are on to us! They must 
know all about me, must have a warrant for my arrest! What am I to do?"
Sprague passed three cars in a row, zipping by them as if they were standing 
still. "Surely you realized this might happen one day?"
"Yes, of course. But I never actually thought it would. I mean, things like this 
happen to others, not to me. Never to me."
"Denial is a poor substitute for foresight."
They drove in silence for a while, which suited Craker just fine. He toyed with 
the idea of backing out of the deal, of telling Sprague he was sick of the 
kill­ing and he wanted nothing more to do with any of it, but he couldn't. Not 
with Paisley counting on him. Not when the ten million meant so much to her. For 
the angel of his dreams he would do anything. Walk on burning coals. A bed of 
nails. Anything at all.
A turnoff appeared, no more than a rutted track sprinkled with tufts of short, 
dry grass.
Sprague braked, saying, "This is perfect, no other cars in sight." Cutting the 
wheel, he pulled off the highway. The track meandered deep into the dunes, 
shifting sand on either side. A hundred yards in he brought the Lincoln to a 
stop and killed the engine.
"At last," Paisley said.
Sprague pushed his door open. "Everyone out."
Craker was glad to comply. He arched his back and gazed westward, where the blue 
of the Pacific con­trasted with the light brown of the sand. A boat was sailing 
south, a large yacht, possibly. What he wouldn't give to be on it, Craker 
thought, to sail off to parts unknown and forget the nightmare he was in­volved 
in.
Sprague moved to the front of the car and placed a foot on the bumper. "When you 
are ready, Charata," he said.
The dark man with the rifle had gone to the trunk and was placing it inside. 
When he was done he walked around to join his employer.
"Shall we wrap this up, then, everyone?" Sprague said.
Paisley laughed. "Need you ask?"
"First there is the matter of the test I mentioned," Sprague reminded her. "To 
verify I am buying the genuine article."
"How do you propose to conduct this test of yours?"
"Show me how the Piranha Molecule is adminis­tered," Sprague answered, "and the 
test will take care of itself."
Paisley turned. "Bernie, you heard the man. Be a dear and show him how to fill a 
syringe."
Craker didn't see what good that would do. They needed a test subject, a cat, 
maybe, or a dog. But since it would please Paisley, he set the transport case on 
the hood, opened it and removed a syringe from a pouch inside.
Sprague came closer. "Four vials? I thought Miles mentioned six."
"We had to use two," Craker revealed, and briefly explained. "But these four are 
more than enough. With just one you could replicate as many nanites as you want"
"Fascinating. Truly fascinating."
Craker lifted one of the vials and inserted the nee­dle. "What do you intend to 
test this on? Size directly determines the amount, since the effectiveness of 
the Piranha Molecule is hi proportion to the weight to mass ratio of the 
subject."
"You don't say," Sprague said, grinning. "I will take your word for it, Mr. 
Craker.
"But tell me. Does it always take a full vial to kill one grown man?"
"It shouldn't, no," the scientist said. "I used a full one at the lab because we 
had to dispose of Proctor
quickly and quietly. Helen just followed my example with the park ranger."
"How much, then, exactly?"
"Oh—" Craker considered a moment, then filled the syringe about one-tenth full. 
"This is all it should really take."
"That little? May I?" Sprague took the syringe and held it up to examine the 
contents. "Who would ever guess to look at it? It reminds me of ale."
Blatterfeld walked toward them. "All this is well and good, Mr. Sprague. But 
what about the money? What about your promise to keep me out of prison?"
With no warning whatsoever, Sprague jabbed the needle into Blatterfeld's neck 
and injected the nanites.
Helen Paisley gasped.
Craker was too stupefied to do anything.
As for Blatterfeld, he jerked back, clapping a hand to his neck, and stared in 
disbelief at the now empty syringe in Sprague's hand. "What have you done?"
"I needed a test subject, Miles. It couldn't be Char­ata or Bernie, here. By the 
process of elimination that left you."
"Nooooooooo!" Blatterfeld cried, staggering as if drunk. "You can't do this! We 
had an agreement!"
"The agreement was that you would keep our trans­action secret," Sprague said. 
"But you have proved to be untrustworthy in that regard."
"I promised I wouldn't tell anyone!" Blatterfeld exclaimed in rising terror. 
Reeling, he pressed a hand to his forehead. "I feel so weird, so dizzy. No, no, 
no! Not this! Anything but this!"
Sprague nonchalantly gave the syringe to Craker. "Should it be taking this long? 
Nothing is hap­pening."
Then something did. Blatterfeld sobbed as his bones began to be eaten away. The 
flesh on the lower right side of his face melted inward as the jawbone 
under­neath was consumed. Mewing like a kitten, Blatterfeld clutched at his 
face, only to scream when his cheek and temple caved in under his touch.
"Do my eyes deceive me?" Alexander Sprague de­clared. "This is better than I 
dared hope!"
Craker was filled with revulsion. Revulsion at the terrible erosion of 
Blatterfeld's cranium, revulsion at how happy Sprague was, and, yes, revulsion 
at himself for his part in the whole affair. Were it in his power, he would turn 
back the clock to that fateful hour when he agreed to Paisley's scheme and 
refuse to go along with it.
Blatterfeld was attempting to talk, but the lower half of his face resembled 
soggy clay. Groping wildly at thin air, he stumbled and fell onto his knees. The 
nan­ites were multiplying with lightning speed. What was left of his hair sank 
as low as his ears, which in turn folded inward from both sides. He screamed 
again, or tried to, as the rest of his body was transformed into the same 
shapeless blob the others had wound up as. In another minute it was over. Miles 
Blatterfeld was gone, a victim of his own greed.
Sprague walked to the blob and poked it with a toe. "Sensational, Bernie. I dare 
say I'll earn more for you than I have for all the secret information I have 
ever sold combined."
"For me?" Craker said. "Don't you mean for the Piranha Molecule?"
"Ah. That's right." Sprague glanced at Paisley. "You haven't told him yet, have 
you? Would you rather enlighten him or should I?"
Craker turned to her. "Tell me what? What is he talking about?"
Paisley looked sheepish, like a little girl whose hand had been caught in the 
cookie jar. "Well, you see, lover, things aren't quite the way they seem. My 
deal with him isn't what you think it is."
Confusion knifed through the scientist, confusion and then the dawning of 
growing horror. "You wouldn't! You couldn't!"
"What can I say?" Paisley's expression said it all. "Why do you think I've 
worked so hard to keep the police from getting their hands on you? I agreed to 
turn the Piranha Molecule and you over to Mr. Sprague for the ten million."
"But why me?" Craker shouted.
Alexander Sprague responded. "No other scientist can do what you have done. As 
unique as these nanites are, you are even more so. Certain parties would pay any 
price for the privilege of picking the secrets in your brain."
Craker was dumbfounded. His insides felt as if steel claws were shredding his 
very soul. Nausea washed over him and he sagged onto the hood in heart-rending 
despair. She had betrayed him! The one who meant everything to him, the woman he 
adored more than life itself, had literally sold him out, as if he were a rare 
lab animal for sale to the highest bidder! In the depths of misery, he groaned 
aloud.
"Come, come, Bernie," Sprague said. "Your future is not as bleak as you think. 
Cooperate with those who buy you, and they will reward you handsomely."
Paisley's expression had softened. "I never wanted you to come to any harm, 
Bernie. You must believe that"
Craker looked at her. "All this time," he said, his voice so choked with emotion 
he didn't recognize it, "you were leading me on, stringing me along, pre­tending 
to care for me so I'd do what you wanted."
"That's not entirely true," Paisley said defensively. "You're not too bad. Just 
not my type."
Sprague interrupted. "Enough maudlin sentiment, if you two don't mind. Helen, 
we'll take you to a tele­phone and conclude our transaction. Then Bernie and I 
can leave the country."
"That won't be easy with the Feds after you."
"They are a minor nuisance, no more," Sprague said. "I have a contingency plan 
in place for just such an eventuality. Now, shall we be going?"
Craker couldn't say what made him do what he did next. Straightening, he held 
the syringe close to his own neck and declared, "I'm not going anywhere with 
anyone! Stay back! Or so help me, I'll bury this needle!"
Sprague smiled. "You're being juvenile, Bernie. You haven't refilled it with 
nanites. So stop bluffing."
"There are a few drops left," Craker said. "It will take longer, but the result 
will be the same." Grabbing the case, he edged toward the driver's door. "I'm 
leav­ing. Don't try to stop me."
Charata moved toward him but Sprague gestured. "No! We can't take the risk. He's 
much too valu­able." Sprague nodded at Paisley. "But she isn't. Take out your 
pistol, Bartolome, and aim it at her head."
The dark-haired killer obeyed, showing no more emotion than would a rock.
"Now you just hold on!" Paisley exclaimed.
"Shut up!" Sprague focused on Craker.
"Put down the needle and the case, Bernie, or my associate will splatter her 
brains all over the sand."
"Which one of us is bluffing now?" Craker challenged.
"Unlike you, my young friend, I never do. So what will it be? Her life for your 
own. A fair trade, no?"
"Do you really think I care if you shoot her? After what she's done?"
"Yes, I do, Bernie. Life is full of sweet ironies. And the irony here is that 
you still love her. A lot. I can see it in your eyes."
Craker looked at Paisley, then at the gun Charata held, and his resolve melted 
like hot wax. Damn his stupidity, but he did still care! Even though she had 
betrayed him, even though she had ground his devo­tion into the dust, he still 
felt as strongly for her as he ever had. He still loved her.
"Time is short, Bernie," Sprague coaxed. "I need to put my contingency plan into 
effect if we're to leave the U.S. by tomorrow. So make up your mind. I'll give 
you ten seconds." Pausing, he started counting them down. "Ten, nine, eight, 
seven—"
Craker wanted to scream in frustration, to rail at the world for the injustice 
of it all.
"—six, five, four, three—"
Paisley, Craker saw, was hypnotized by the pistol, her face chalky with dread.
"—two, one," Sprague counted, then sighed. "All right. Time for a decision. What 
is it to be, Bernie? Does she live or die?"
mack bolan was beginning to think he had lost them. It had been more than ten 
minutes since he left Coos
Bay, and he still hadn't caught sight of the Lincoln. Sprague could have turned 
off anywhere along the many miles of beachfront that made up the Oregon Dunes 
National Recreation Area.
The soldier slowed at each turnoff to scan the park­ing areas, but he had yet to 
spot them. He decided to put in a call to Brognola and request an air search. It 
would take an hour or so for the Feds to get planes up, but they could cover a 
lot more territory a lot faster.
At the next town Bolan would place the call. He rounded a sharp curve, and 
suddenly he had to slam on the brakes or rear-end a cement truck stopped dead in 
the middle of the road. Poking his head out his window, Bolan saw a long line of 
vehicles in front of the truck. Getting out, he moved into the other lane to try 
and find out what had caused the traffic jam.
The driver of the cement truck had his door wide open. "Hope you're not in any 
hurry, buddy," he called good-naturedly.
"Do you know what's going on?" Bolan asked.
"Some damned road construction is to blame," the driver groused. "I was just on 
the CB with a big rig up yonder. Road crews are tearing up the highway, laying 
new asphalt, and they only have one lane open."
"And they have traffic this backed up?"
"You haven't heard the rest," the driver said. "About twenty minutes ago along 
came an RV, some joker from out of state. He ran off the edge and flipped it, 
blocking the one lane. A tow truck is supposed to be on its way, but you know 
how long these things can take." The man swore. "This will put me way behind 
schedule."
For Bolan, the tie-up was a blessing in disguise. Sprague couldn't possibly have 
gone by before the mishap took place, and must be just ahead. Climbing into the 
car, Bolan reached into the back, opened the gun case and quickly separated the 
scope from the Remington. Holding it under his jacket, he walked around to the 
far side and climbed the slope flanking the highway.
Two more cars had pulled in behind him. They were being filled hi by the driver 
of the cement truck.
Bolan climbed thirty feet to a flat boulder from which he could see clear to the 
end of the traffic jam. The RV was still across the road. One by one he checked 
each vehicle. Not one was a black Lincoln.
The soldier lowered the scope and pondered. Evi­dently Sprague had pulled off 
farther back. Even if Sprague had completed the deal and now had the Pir­anha. 
Molecule, he was bound to continue north, away from Coos Bay and the hornet's 
nest of law-enforcement activity he had stirred up.
All Bolan had to do was wait for the roadblock to be cleared, then find a spot 
where he could watch the highway without being seen and wait. The Lincoln would 
come along, and he could shadow them to their destination.
There was still hope.
 
Chapter 10
 
The Executioner learned from his mistakes. The first time he had tailed 
Alexander Sprague, someone caught on although he had taken every precaution. He 
sus­pected one of the bodyguards, probably the Argen­tinian.
So now, when the Lincoln passed him late that af­ternoon, he waited twice as 
long before he pulled out in pursuit.
For three-quarters of an hour Bolan had been parked behind a myrtle wood gift 
shop, only the front end of his car poking out, just enough for him to see the 
highway. Anyone coming from the south wouldn't spot him unless they looked back.
There was a pay phone at the front of the shop, but as tempted as Bolan was to 
call Brognola, the phone was in plain view of the highway. He opted not to 
chance it.
The call could wait.
Then the Lincoln went by. Unlike the Cadillac, its windows weren't tinted. Bolan 
saw Charata at the wheel and Sprague beside him. In the back seat were Helen 
Paisley and Bernie Craker. Craker was gazing toward the gift shop, looking 
out-and-out miserable.
Miles Blatterfeld, however, was missing. Bolan didn't know what to make of it. 
Possibly the pudgy
little man had received his commission and gone his own way. The soldier didn't 
give him any more thought. In the scheme of things Blatterfeld was small­time, 
his days of brokering secrets over. The Feds would track him down soon enough.
Bolan was more interested in where Sprague was headed. It was unlikely to be 
Portland, since Sprague was bound to suspect the airports were being watched. 
Seattle was the next major metropolis but the same applied. Nor could Bolan see 
Sprague trying to cross into Canada. The checkpoint personnel would be on alert.
That left escape by sea, either down to California or perhaps Mexico. For 
someone as devious as Sprague, slipping through the federal cordon would be 
child's play.
The Lincoln stuck to the speed limit, doing nothing to draw attention. The 
highway meandered through the mountains toward Tillamook. On a hunch Bolan 
checked the glove compartment and found a book on Oregon. According to it, about 
twenty-two thousand people called Tillamook home. No airport was listed, but the 
town was located near Tillamook Bay. While not a major port, there were plenty 
of docks and boat ramps.
If Alexander Sprague needed an out-of-the-way spot to charter a boat to take him 
out to sea, it was perfect.
Consequently, Bolan wasn't surprised when the Lincoln slowed as it neared 
Tillamook. Soon it turned, not toward the docks, but at a seafood restaurant. 
Sprague was smiling when he got out and handed the transport case to Charata, 
who had switched his cam­ouflage clothes for a jacket and pants.
Paisley and Craker shuffled inside as if they were walking to their doom.
Sprague picked a table affording a view of the bay, and which provided Bolan a 
view of the fugitives from a gas station two blocks away.
Hunched in his seat so only his eyes were above the dashboard, Bolan watched 
them through the scope. Sprague joked and laughed with the waitress. The 
transport case was on the floor between his legs.
Bolan stared at it. The Piranha Molecule was so close, yet there was nothing he 
could do, not when the restaurant was packed with patrons.
Alexander Sprague savored his meal, ordering a bottle of wine to go with it. 
Almost as if he were celebrating. And why not? He had the nanites. He had eluded 
the authorities. To Sprague's way of thinking, he had every reason to rejoice.
Twilight shrouded the misty bay when the four of them came back out, Charata as 
wary as a jaguar. They rode north, slowly, Sprague leaning out to read the 
street signs, apparently seeking a specific address.
A narrow side street took the Lincoln toward Til­lamook Bay. Bolan didn't dare 
pull onto it until they had stopped at one of several long docks lined with 
boats of all shapes and sizes.
A row of untidy wooden buildings lined the adja­cent shore. Sprague's party 
disappeared into one of them.
Bolan turned onto the side street, and parked. To keep from being spotted, he 
pulled his collar high and walked toward the docks. A sign identified the 
estab­lishment Sprague was visiting as Salmon Brothers, Ltd. Under the name was 
the banner No Charter Too Big Or Too Small.
Rather than walk past the front window, Bolan went around, thinking he could 
approach from the rear. But the back walls were mere yards from the bay, the 
wa­ter much too deep to wade through. He either swam, or he tried another 
tactic.
As Bolan stood there above small lapping waves, his hair fanned by a stiff salt 
breeze, he heard familiar voices. Venturing to the comer, he saw Sprague and the 
others had climbed into the Lincoln. Instantly, he turned his back, hoping they 
wouldn't see him. The Lincoln drove off in the other direction.
Bolan ran to his car and gave chase. They didn't go far, though, less than half 
a mile to a motel.
Once Bolan was sure Sprague had checked in, he drove back to the waterfront.
He was taking a gamble, but it couldn't be helped. His hands thrust into his 
pockets, he strolled into Sal­mon Brothers.
The place smelled of fish. Old anchors and boat wheels decorated the plank 
walls, and fishing gear lined wide shelves. Behind the rough-hewn counter stood 
a ruddy-complexioned man with a bushy red beard and a big belly, reading a local 
paper. He gave the soldier a cursory glance.
"What can I do for you, mate? My name is Garvey."
Bolan adopted a friendly smile. "I was supposed to meet a friend of mine here 
about ten minutes ago. I guess he's running late, too." Bolan leaned on the 
counter. "We're chartering a boat."
"This friend have a name?"
"Sprague. Alexander Sprague," Bolan said. "He should be here any minute."
The man lowered the newspaper. "Been here and gone. I'm afraid you've missed 
him."
"I did?" Bolan rapped on the countertop as if an­noyed at himself. "I knew I 
shouldn't have stopped to gas up my car, but I was running on fumes." He saw no 
evidence of a register or a logbook. "Mind telling me what time we're sailing 
out tomorrow? And which dock?"
"Give me a minute," Garvey said. "Mike Renfrew, the owner, handled the charter, 
not me. I'll go get him." The man pushed through an inner door.
Bolan was more than happy to wait. Once he learned where and when, it was all 
over. He noticed a huge fish mounted on the right wall, a salmon almost as long 
as he was tall.
The door swung open. Out came Garvey, along with a broad-shouldered man in a 
flannel shirt and a smaller guy with dark, beady eyes, punched cheeks, and a 
thin, jutting jaw, much like a ferret's.
"This is Mike Renfrew," Garvey said, pointing at the small guy.
They came around the counter, trying to be casual, but they were terrible 
actors. Bolan pivoted, facing them.
"So you're a friend of Mr. Sprague's?" Renfrew asked, stalling while the other 
two moved to either side.
"Yes. I need to know about the boat he chartered," Bolan said, playing along.
Renfrew placed his hands on his hips. "Well, mis­ter, normally I'd oblige. But 
Mr. Sprague is a real particular fellow. He warned me someone might pry into bis 
personal business, and he paid me extra to deal with him."
Bolan tried to defuse the situation. "Do you have any idea who Sprague is or 
what he's involved in?" "Unlike you, I don't go sticking my nose where it's not 
wanted," Renfrew said. "I never ask questions of my clients. And I never repeat 
what they tell me on their own. Which is why everyone knows they can trust me."
"So if I told you Sprague is wanted by the FBI, it wouldn't make a difference?"
"All that matters to me is the five thousand dollars he paid me in advance, and 
the ten I'll get when I've taken him where he wants to go." Renfrew nodded at 
his cronies, who sidled forward.
"You're making a mistake." It sounded corny, even to Bolan, but he would rather 
avoid a conflict if he could.
Renfrew snorted. "Maybe I am, maybe I'm not. It won't be the first, and it sure 
as hell won't be the last." He balled his fists. "Enough chitchat. Let's do as 
Mr. Sprague requested, fellas."
In a concerted rush they pounced. Bolan sidestepped just as Renfrew leaped at 
his shins to tackle him. In­stead, Renfrew's head cracked loudly on the counter, 
and squealing loudly, he plopped onto his belly.
The other two were bigger and heavier and much more cautious. Like prizefighters 
testing for an open­ing, they waded in. Garvey flicked an uppercut that Bolan 
countered, but in so doing he exposed his ribs and paid for it when the other's 
iron knuckles grazed them.
In the meantime, Renfrew pushed backward and rolled onto his feet. Rubbing his 
head, he snarled, "Get this son of a bitch, boys!"
Again the other two men came at the soldier. The
one in the flannel shirt had some boxing skill and de­livered a series of jabs, 
which Bolan avoided. As he did, though, Garvey threw a cross that clipped his 
cheek. It stung more than anything. Spinning, the sol­dier landed a ringing left 
that rocked Garvey back­ward.
"Get him, damn it!" Renfrew railed.
The bruiser in the flannel shirt tried. He glided in close, his knobby fists 
hammering. Bolan absorbed a punch to the ear, to the neck, to the shoulder. Then 
he launched a hook that knocked the man against a shelf.
Renfrew's anger skyrocketed. "What's the matter with you, Dennis? Getting soft?" 
He glanced at Gar­vey. "And you, Garvey! There used to be a time you could take 
any man on the docks!"
"I still can," Garvey said, and charged Bolan, his arms held wide to grapple 
rather than hit.
These weren't seasoned fighters; they were barroom brawlers. Ruffians who had 
busted a few heads in their time and now had an exaggerated sense of their own 
ability. Bolan set them straight. He sank a right fist into Garvey's gut, making 
him double over, before following through with a devastating left. Then Bolan 
dropped the one called Dennis with another solid combination.
That left Renfrew, whose ferret features twitched in dismay as the soldier moved 
toward him. "Hold on there, mister! You don't want to mess with me!"
"Is that a fact?" Bolan responded, and when Ren­frew tried to run toward the 
inner door, Bolan exe­cuted a roundhouse kick that flattened him.
"Now I want some answers," Bolan said, gripping Renfrew by the neck and hauling 
him upright. "Tell
me about Sprague. Where does he want to go? When are you supposed to leave?"
Renfrew sputtered and kicked, but he was helpless to resist. When Bolan shoved 
him against the wall, it loosened his tongue. Coughing and wheezing, he said, 
"Enough, mister, enough! You're choking me."
"You're stalling," Bolan warned.
"Okay! Okay!" Renfrew was turning red. Leaning back, he rubbed his throat. "The 
guy you're after wants my fastest boat ready to leave port tomorrow at 10:00 
a.m."
"Where to?"
Renfrew glared at the soldier, then gazed at the two prone figures on the floor. 
Dennis was unconscious, but Garvey was stirring. "South. All the way to San 
Diego. From there, he mentioned something about tak­ing a train. That's all I 
know. I swear to God."
Bolan believed him. "Who else is going along?"
"He booked passage for himself, a dark-haired, mean-looking character, whose 
name I didn't catch, and one other guy. A nerdy type who didn't say one word the 
whole time they were here."
"Bernie Craker?"
"I don't know. They never told me. I swear."
"What about the woman who was with them?" Bo­lan probed. "Helen Paisley?"
"Hold it! I'm having trouble breathing!" Renfrew declared. Suddenly he began 
coughing loudly and pounded his chest as if he were choking.
Bolan saw no reason for it. Then, in a twinkling, he grasped the truth and 
started to whirl but the gambit had worked. There was a swishing noise and a 
heavy mesh object fell across his head and shoulder, covering him, constricting 
like a python as he fought it
"Good work, Lem!" Renfrew whooped.
Lem Carson came into view. He was a bald fish­erman with crooked teeth. Grinning 
like a fiend, he declared, "I heard the ruckus and came running."
The more Bolan struggled, the more the mesh tight­ened. While Renfrew had 
distracted him, Carson had entered from the back room and tossed a weighted 
fishing net over him. Bolan tried to take a stride, to throw it off, but the 
lower portion enfolded his legs, hindering his movement, and he pitched onto his 
stomach.
Garvey was rising, rubbing his chin. Dennis's eye­lids were fluttering.
"How quick the tide turns, eh, mister?" Renfrew said, chortling. "Now it's my 
turn to ask the ques­tions. Who the hell are you and what do you want with 
Sprague?"
Bolan lay quiet and still. Struggling further would only entangle him worse.
"Didn't you hear the boss?" Garvey growled. His heavy boot smashed down onto a 
shoulder blade.
"I'd answer, if I were you," Renfrew taunted.
Unwilling to give them the satisfaction, Bolan en­dured half a dozen kicks, the 
worst to his knee and hip.
Garvey was breathing heavily when he stopped. "Tough guy, huh?" he rasped. 
"Well, I'm just getting warmed up."
"Enough for now," Renfrew said. "I don't want him all bruised up in case another 
drowning accident is called for." He glanced toward the entrance. "Drag him into 
the back before someone shows up and we have some explaining to do."
Garvey, Carson and Dennis did the honors.
The room was musty and dank, filled with tackle boating equipment. They roughly 
dumped Bolan in a corner. No one bothered to frisk him. Maybe they thought that 
with his arms pinned to his sides he was totally helpless.
As the husky fishermen moved away, Renfrew came in. "What to do, what to do? 
That's the fifteen-thousand-dollar question." Plucking at his wispy mus­tache, 
he scrutinized Bolan through the netting. ' 'Know what I think? I think you're a 
cop. And I hate cops."
"So we should dispose of him," Garvey proposed.
Renfrew shifted the net to further scrutinize Bolan. "I could phone Sprague and 
ask him who you are. But if you're the law, he might make himself scarce. And I 
can't have that. I need the money he's paying."
Garvey muttered something, then declared, "So kill the scumbag already and be 
done with it."
"Some people have the patience of a hooker on speed," Renfrew joked. Sobering, 
he poked Bolan with a finger. "But he has a point. Whether you're a cop or not, 
I can't very well let you live." Renfrew pried at the net, confirming it was 
wrapped fast. "I'll bet you didn't know, mister, that more people drown in 
Tillamook Bay than anywhere else along the Oregon coast. Can you guess why?"
Renfrew, Garvey and Carson thought the jest was hilarious. Dennis was too busy 
rubbing his sore jaw to do much laughing.
"We have it down to a science," Renfrew gloated. "We'll take you a couple miles 
out and drop the net in. Not deep. Just enough to do the job. Then we'll haul 
you back up, bring you into shore and dump you on a beach where your body is 
bound to be found. The
coroner will rule it an accidental drowning because there won't be any evidence 
of foul play. It never fails."
Carson cackled, the tip of his tongue jutting be­tween his crooked teeth. 
"Eleven times now! The last was some gal we picked up hitchhiking. Had our fun 
and then were done." He cackled some more. "Before that it was a joker who tried 
to stiff us on money he owed for drugs we ferried from Frisco."
Garvey slapped Carson's arm. "Tell him everything there is to know about us, why 
don't you? Idiot."
"What did I do?" Carson responded.
Bolan had inadvertently walked into a nest of vi­pers. These men weren't an 
ordinary charter-boat crew. They were vicious, hardened criminals. He should've 
expected it, should've known a man like Sprague would deal with others of his 
kind. The beasts that preyed on society tended to work together for their mutual 
benefit.
Dennis came over, dabbing at his split lip with a dirty rag. "I think we should 
find out who tiu's bozo is, Mike. Check his wallet."
"Later, after he's taken his little dunk," Renfrew said. "Until then, don't 
touch the net. He's wrapped up nice and tight."
"What time will we take him out?" Dennis inquired.
"Oh, about midnight or so, when no one will no­tice." Rising, Renfrew moved 
toward the door. "Now let's go. Time to close up shop and go meet the Mex about 
the shipment. Garvey, you stay and guard our friend."
The door closed, muffling their voices.
Bolan shifted onto his left side. He attempted to
move his right arm but couldn't. The net encased him like a steel cocoon. It 
didn't reek of fish so he gathered it was new, never before used.
Rolling onto his back, Bolan sought to rise but his legs would barely bend. He 
could, however, bend a little at the waist. Not much, but enough to raise his 
upper body high enough to prop himself against the wall so he could take stock.
The folds of the net overlapped, but with some in­genuity Bolan felt he could 
untangle them enough to suit his purpose. Looking around, he saw a stool and a 
trash can, neither of which would be of any help. None of the fishing and 
boating gear looked to be of any use, either. Then, as he tried to rotate his 
head to scan the other side of the room, he spied the end of a nail jutting from 
the wall, down low, about ten feet away.
Flattening on his stomach, Bolan wriggled toward it. He had to hunch his back 
like a caterpillar and propel himself by thrusting with his hips. His knees gave 
added leverage. It was slow going, but he finally reached the spot and twisted 
around so his right leg was next to the nail.
A noise hi the outer room froze Bolan in place. He waited, listening. The door 
didn't open.
Pressing his leg against the nail, the soldier tried to snag the net. He had to 
do it several times before he succeeded. Tugging, he worked to loosen the folds, 
but the nail slipped loose. Undaunted, Bolan tried again. When the nail caught 
hold, he swung both legs outward, only to be brought up short. The net wouldn't 
give.
A muscle in his calf was cramping, but Bolan didn't care. He swung his legs once 
more and was rewarded
when the bottom edge of the net parted ever-so-slightly.
Bolan persisted, repeatedly tugging at the nail. Bit by gradual bit he loosened 
the mesh. Not enough for him to cast it off, but enough that in half an hour he 
could move his hands a few inches.
That would have to do. Bolan had risked discovery long enough. Jerking the net 
off the nail, he wriggled back to the corner before Garvey thought to check on 
him. It proved to be a wise move. Hardly had he as­sumed his original position 
than the door opened, framing Garvey's bearded visage.
"Behaving yourself, I see," the cutthroat said. "Smart man. Act up and I 
guarantee you'll regret it."
The door closed. Bolan immediately propped the upper half of his body against 
the wall and worked his hands as low as they could go. He attempted to tuck his 
legs to his chest but couldn't. So down he went, onto his left side again, and 
doubled over as much as the constricting net allowed.
Now came the truly hard part. Bolan had to free his right hand. Or at least free 
it enough to reach the sheath strapped to his ankle. He forced his fingers 
lower, sliding them along his leg where resistance wasn't as great. Stray 
strands kept getting in the way, impeding him, and he pried them off.
His hand passed his knee. He was making headway, but the strain was taking a 
toll. His shoulder throbbed, his muscles ached.
Suddenly the door crashed open.
Bolan imitated stone as Garvey walked in, thumbs hooked in his wide brown 
leather belt.
"I had a feeling you were up to something and fig­ured I'd better check," the 
bruiser announced. He
gave the upper part of the net a few tugs, which wrapped it tighter around 
Bolan's head and shoulders. "Still trussed up like a hog for the slaughter. 
Good." Garvey turned to go. "Just don't get any ideas. I'll be checking back 
every now and then."
As soon as the door closed, Bolan forced his right hand lower yet. Agony racked 
his arm, but it was a small price to pay, given the alternative.
It might have been fifteen minutes, it might have been thirty. Bolan couldn't 
see his watch. But finally the tips of his fingers slid out from under the lower 
edge of the net. He hiked his pant leg, raising it high enough to expose the 
sheath and the Solingen throw­ing knife. Made in Germany, it had the distinction 
of being one of the finest money could buy. It was also honed to the sharpness 
of a razor.
Palming the smooth metal hilt, Bolan lowered his pants back over the sheath, 
then applied the Solingen to the netting.
The strands were tough, more like wire than thread. Cutting required 
concentration. A strand parted, and thus encouraged, Bolan sliced at the next. 
And the next. He was making headway, but at the rate he was going it would be 
well past midnight before he gained his freedom. By then the smugglers would 
dump him in the Pacific.
So intent was he on what he was doing that he didn't realize the door had opened 
again until Gar­vey's bull voice boomed.
"What the hell are you doing over there?"
 
Chapter 11
 
The Executioner covered the Solingen with his hand and wrist and wrapped his 
fingers around his foreleg so the throwing knife wouldn't be jostled loose, just 
in case Garvey got rough.
"I saw you doing something but I couldn't tell what." The red-bearded man bent 
and tugged at the net as he had done before.
Bolan said nothing.
"Renfrew calls me a worrywart, says I'm too damn cautious," Garvey remarked. 
"But between you and me, I'd rather be cautious than dead." He reached lower to 
tug at the bottom part.
"Any chance I can have a drink of water?" Bolan asked.
Garvey looked at him instead of the fishing net. "What am I supposed to do? Feed 
a straw through to you? Forget it, mister. I'm not the charitable type. You'll 
get plenty to drink when we drop you in the ocean."
"No last request for the condemned?" Bolan ban­tered. Anything to keep Garvey 
from spying the sev­ered strands.
"Oh, sure. Why don't I bring you a three-course meal while I'm at it? Steak with 
all the trimmings, maybe? Soup and salad too? And a gallon of beer to
wash it all down? How would that be?" Garvey moved to a workbench on the other 
side of the room. "Dream on."
Bolan waited for the man to leave so he could re­sume cutting. But Garvey sat on 
a stool and picked up a large spinning reel with tangled line.
"See this?" Garvey held it up. "I love it. Have ever since I was a kid." Garvey 
then went on to tell about all the big ones he had caught over the years: a 
fifteen-pound bass in a pond, a forty-one-pound salmon in the Rogue River and a 
twenty-two-foot shark he caught once, off the coast of Baja California.
Bolan couldn't care less. He lay perfectly still while his captor rattled on and 
on about how fishing was the greatest pastime since sex, and how Garvey looked 
forward to one day owning his own fishing boat.
Mercifully, Garvey shut up after that. But he didn't leave. He toiled at the 
bench for a long time, untan­gling and repairing reels and rods.
Bolan looked up when the stool scraped back from the bench.
"Well, look at this? How times flies. It's close to eleven and I still have to 
do the inventory out front. That Renfrew is a stickler for making the books look 
legit." Garvey put down a bait-casting reel he had been working on, and left.
Bolan resumed slicing, working harder and faster than before, all too aware of 
the precious seconds tick­ing by. He had an hour, maybe less. Diligently, he cut 
and cut, parting more strands, but it wasn't enough, nowhere near enough, when 
voices alerted him time had run out.
Into the back came Renfrew and his crew. They had
been drinking and reeked of alcohol. "Did he give you any trouble?"
"Not a lick," Garvey said. "Fact is, we had a long talk about fishing."
Renfrew hunkered in front of the net. "Like fish, do you, mister? Good. Because 
you're about to see some up close and personal."
Carson, as was his habit, cackled.
"Do I get the boat fired up?" Dennis asked.
Renfrew rasped. "Of course you do! Go start the Jolly Roger, moron, or I'll dump 
you overboard with mis joker." Renfrew patted the mesh. "Like that name, the 
Jolly Roger? I got it from a book I started to read when I was in grade school. 
It had something to do with pirates."
Garvey walked to a large storage box and removed a folded blue canvas tarp. 
"Let's get the package ready to go, Lem."
Bolan watched them unfold the tarp and spread it flat. Next they took hold of 
his shoulders and legs and deposited him at one end.
"A last word to the wise," Mike Renfrew said. "Don't try to call out. I'll be 
right beside you, and if you do, I'll stick this in you." From under his 
wind­breaker he drew a long, slender blade. "It's for gutting fish, but it guts 
people just as easily."
Garvey and Carson began rolling Bolan toward the other end of the tarp, wrapping 
it around him as they went. Darkness swallowed him. By tilting his neck Bolan 
could see a circle of light and part of Dennis's foot.
"There!" Garvey declared. "That should do it. Say the word, boss, and we'll lug 
him out."
"Just remember, all of you, that the Coast Guard
has been snooping around the bay," Renfrew said. "So we play this by the 
numbers."
"What if they board us?" Carson asked.
"Why should they? They never have before. But if they do, smile and welcome them 
aboard. As far as they're concerned, we're a first-rate charter outfit, and we 
want to keep things that way."
"But if they board us, this guy might act up to get their attention," Carson 
said, kicking the tarp.
"Then be ready to slit his throat if I say so," Ren­frew directed. "Any other 
questions?"
No one had any. Bolan was hoisted off the floor and carried outdoors. A whiff of 
sea air seeped in, along with the hiss of surf and the creak of the dock. He 
heard music, a radio, maybe, playing on one of the docked boat.
The tarp rose, dipped, slanted. Bolan was being transferred onto the Jolly 
Roger. One of the men tripped, jostling him. Then he was unceremoniously 
dropped, his elbow and shin lancing with pain.
"Make a little more noise, why don't you?" Ren­frew needled his crew.
"He's a big guy," Carson complained. "Heavier than most."
"Or you're just scrawnier than most," Renfrew countered, and the rest chuckled.
Footsteps receded, followed by the sounds of the crew preparing to get the Jolly 
Roger underway. Bolan renewed his assault on the net, cutting tirelessly, even 
though he couldn't see what he was doing. He had to rely on touch alone to tell 
when a strand was severed so he could move on to the next. And he had to do it 
quietly or risk being found out.
A metallic roar kicked the craft to life, immensely
powerful twin engines, from the sound of things, just the sort of boat smugglers 
favored.
Renfrew hollered for the anchor to be hoisted. After a lot of clanking the Jolly 
Roger eased from the dock, and once it was in the clear, whoever was at the helm 
opened the throttle.
Bolan registered all this while cutting. He was mak­ing progress.
He could move his hand a little now, from side to side. But it wasn't enough.
The stomping of boots preceded a slap on the canvas.
"You still in there, bozo?" Carson joked.
Careful not to brush against the tarp, Bolan contin­ued to cut His fingers hurt 
but he couldn't stop, not with the stakes so high. They hadn't said how far out 
they were taking him. Maybe he had twenty minutes. Maybe he only had five.
Carson wasn't pleased with having to baby-sit him. "It's just you and me for a 
while," he grumbled.
The Jolly Roger was gaining speed. Choppy waves caused the bow to rise and fall 
in rhythmic cadence.
Bolan cut, and cut some more. He could move his entire forearm, but that was 
all.
Carson sniffed the air. "We have a storm coming in," he said. "I can smell them 
from miles out. It'll hit about dawn tomorrow."
Talkative little man, Bolan mused, as he continued cutting.
"Do you have a family, mister?" Carson asked. "A wife and brats somewhere? It 
won't make a difference if you did, but I think about those things sometimes. 
That gal we offed a while back, the hitchhiker, she bawled her brains out, 
begging us not to kill her, say-
ing as how she had a mother and two younger sisters. As if that was worth a damn 
to us."
"You like to kill, do you?" Bolan said to cover the sound he made shifting his 
arm to cut at a new spot
"What was that?" Carson said, surprised the soldier had said something. "Oh. It 
doesn't much matter. I can live with it or I can live without it. But I don't 
shed tears over it neither. Killing a person is no dif­ferent than shooting a 
mongrel or butchering a hog. It's just dying. And we all got to go someday."
"You just hurry some people along, is that it?" Bolan exerted more strength, 
unconcerned when he scraped the canvas.
"More or less, yeah," Carson answered. "If you ask me, killing folks is a great 
way to solve problems. Someone gives you grief, you kill him. Problem solved."
"Who the hell are you talking to?"
Bolan stopped. Renfrew had joined them.
"Um, this here fella," Carson said, sounding embarrassed.
"Telling him your life story, are you?"
"No. Just about offing people—"
Bolan heard a smack.
"Ow!" Carson squawked. "What did you do that for?"
Renfrew was furious. "Could it be because you're a royal pain in the butt? 
Because you're as dumb as a brick?" He smacked the other smuggler again. "Not 
another word, you hear? Or so help me, I'll chop you into bits and feed you to 
the sharks."
Carson had learned his lesson. He didn't say any­thing else, not until fifteen 
minutes later when the roar of the two diesels was reduced to a throaty purr. 
Kick-
ing on the tarp, he commented, "You awake in there, mister? We're almost there. 
Now's the time to practice your breathing exercises."
Bolan was still cutting. He couldn't say how many strands had been sliced, or 
whether it would do him any good. But he had tried his best, and in his book, 
mat counted most. He cut some more as the craft looped in a circle and slowed. 
Others approached. Hands fumbled at the canvas. He was pushed, prod­ded, kicked, 
the tarp unraveling under him. Rolling clear, he bumped into the bulkhead.
All the lights except those on the control console had been turned off in case 
another boat passed by, no one would witness what was about to occur.
Four inky shapes came toward him.
"Ready for that swim I was telling you about?" Renfrew mocked. "I'd lend you a 
wet suit, but why bother? You won't live long enough to get any use out of it"
Bolan glanced down at himself. In the darkness it was impossible to tell how 
much of the net had been cut. He held himself rigid as two men slid their hands 
under his shoulders and Garvey wrapped his brawny arms around his legs.
Renfrew stepped to the gunwale. "Now remember, boys, that net cost money, so we 
can't let it sink." He took a coiled rope from a sliding compartment. "We'll do 
this the usual way."
Bolan tensed. He hadn't counted on being tied. But mat's exactly what Renfrew 
did, looping the rope around his ankles twice and fashioning a bowline knot.
"The longest anyone has ever held their breath is two and a half minutes," 
Garvey told the Executioner. "Think you can top that?"
Gripping the knife, Bolan glanced over the side but couldn't see a thing.
"Here we go," Renfrew said. "On my mark."
Garvey, Dennis and Carson stepped closer to the gunwale and commenced swinging 
Bolan back and forth, each swing a little farther over the edge. But they didn't 
let go, not yet.
"Now!" the chief smuggler declared.
The cutthroats heaved.
Bolan sailed out and over the briny deep, taking a deep breath as he did. They 
had thrown him headfirst, but as he arced through the air he flipped around so 
his feet were underneath him. His legs cleaved the surface and he went down. A 
cold, clammy wetness spread up his body but he had more important prob­lems 
besides hypothermia.
As Bolan sank he thrust both arms against the net His life hung in the balance 
as it mushroomed out­ward. Had he cut enough? If not, he would be helpless, his 
arms pinned as he slowly sank to the end of the rope. He felt rather than saw 
the fishing net partially unravel, and his legs were abruptly free.
But not his ankles.
Groping at the mesh, Bolan pushed off the folds, regaining the use of both arms. 
He was sinking faster than the net was, and had it not been for his bound 
ankles, he could have slipped out from under it
Giving another push, Bolan tucked down, extending his right hand to clutch at 
the bowline knot. He jabbed the tip of the blade into it and slashed upward. The 
rope gave but not enough. Again he slashed, feeling water hi his ears, in his 
nose.
Light played over the sea directly above him. The smugglers wanted to be sure 
the net was finishing bun
off. By now it resembled a giant jellyfish and they immediately knew something 
was wrong.
Someone yanked on the rope to pull Bolan up. He hadn't severed the knot yet and 
couldn't resist the pull. Violently upended, he felt water gush farther up his 
nostrils. He was bitterly cold, the salt water stinging his eyes unmercifully.
Like a fish snared at the end of fishing line, Bolan was hauled straight 
up—toward the net. If he became entangled again, death would be the result.
Marshaling his energy, Bolan bent and attacked the knot a second time. His legs 
were a blur in the gloom, and when he slashed he couldn't say with certainty 
whether he would cut the rope or his own flesh. Then, suddenly, his ankles were 
free. The rope kept rising but he didn't
Treading water, Bolan turned toward the boat, dived under it and swam toward the 
far side hi clean, broad strokes. His lungs were in torment. He needed to take a 
breath, needed to desperately, but he willed himself to swim, to hold out until 
he rose through the murk and broke the surface niches from the hull.
Bolan's first impulse was to suck in air but doing so would alert the 
cutthroats. Covering his mouth, he breathed through his fingers to lessen the 
noise.
Overhead, confusion reigned.
"What the hell?" Mike Renfrew blurted. "He's not tied to the rope!"
"Maybe it slipped off," Carson suggested.
"No! Take a closer look," Garvey said. "That thing has been cut! He skunked us! 
He had a knife the whole time!"
That wasn't all Bolan had. From under his jacket
he drew the Desert Eagle as he held on to the side of the boat.
"Where can he be?" Dennis declared. "I can't see a thing down there!"
"Get another spotlight!" Renfrew ordered. "He has to be around here somewhere. 
Dennis, go to the bow. Lem, check starboard. Give a holler if either of you see 
so much as a ripple."
"What about me?" Garvey said.
"Climb up on the platform. Use the big gun if you have to."
"Someone might hear."
"I don't give a damn!" Renfrew responded. "If he gets away we're done for. 
They'll throw us in prison and throw away the key. Life sentences, with no 
chance of parole. Is that what you want? To spend the rest of your days in the 
slammer?"
Bolan was covered with goose bumps, and it was all he could do not to let his 
teeth chatter. His soaked clothes clung to him, weighing him down. The running 
lights came back on and spotlights played across the ocean. He pressed flush 
against the boat as a shadow moved along the gunwale.
"Maybe he drowned anyway," Carson called out
"And maybe the tooth fairy is real," Renfrew barked. "Keep looking!"
Carson appeared right above Bolan, gazing farther out. "I don't see him back 
here!" he hollered. The buck-toothed smuggler looked to the right to the left, 
and stepped back out of sight. Never once had he thought to look straight down.
Bolan paddled to the middle of the stern, reached up and grasped the gunwale. 
Exercising great care, he raised himself high enough to peer over the top.
Carson was to starboard, scouring the ocean. Dennis, armed with a pistol, was 
doing the same over to port. Up at the control console sat Renfrew. Even higher, 
on the tuna tower platform, was Garvey, with an M-60 machine gun braced on a 
rail.
Bolan ducked again as Carson turned. He had to take the four of them down 
quickly. Bunching his shoulder muscles, he pumped upward, hooked an el­bow over 
the gunwale and leveled the Desert Eagle.
Carson had his foot on the fighting chair and was tying a shoelace. Astonishment 
rendered him momen­tarily speechless. Then he bawled, "Here he is! Back here!"
Dennis spun, elevating his pistol. It wasn't quite high enough when Bolan fired 
twice, the twin booms punching the cutthroat backward.
The Executioner started to pull himself up onto the boat. He took aim at Garvey, 
but the red-bearded gun­ner had whipped around. Another moment, and the M-60 
thundered. Bolan dropped below the gunwale as rounds chewed into the stern and 
churned the sea around him into a froth.
"Damn you, Garvey!" Renfrew bellowed. "Watch what you're doing or you'll put 
holes hi the bottom!"
Bolan swam to the left. Past the corner was a pair of rod holders. Lunging, he 
gripped hold of one and hitched upward to try to shoot the big gunner.
Again the M-60 cut loose. At a cyclic rate of 600 .rounds per minute, it sprayed 
a swarm of lead.
The only thing that saved Bolan was Garvey's re­luctance to put more holes in 
the Jolly Roger. Hugging the hull, the soldier weathered the hailstorm. When it 
ended, he reversed direction, swimming back around the stern to the starboard 
side.
"Where is he?" Garvey shouted. "Where did he go?"
"Lem, take a look!" Renfrew commanded.
From somewhere near the cabin, Carson responded, "Not on your life! He killed 
Dennis! I don't reckon to be next!"
"You coward!"
Carson wasn't phased. "I'd rather be yellow man dead any day of the week. You've 
got a gun. If you're so all-fired eager to peek over the side, be my guest"
Renfrew swore luridly. "When this is over, you'll pay! You hear me!"
"Forget him!" Garvey yelled down. "Train all the spotlights aft and keep your 
eyes peeled!"
"I've got a better idea," Renfrew said
Bolan was swimming along the hull when the twin engines roared to life. Kicking 
upward, he grabbed for the gunwale just as the boat surged forward. Swaying 
wildly, he nearly lost his hold.
Renfrew was laughing. "That should do it! When I bring her around, blast the 
bastard to kingdom come."
"Will do!" Garvey said.
The Jolly Roger looped hi a circle, men slowed to a crawl. Her four spotlights 
played over the spot where she had just been.
"I don't see him!" Garvey fumed.
"He has to be there," Renfrew replied. "Maybe he dived to hide from us. If so, 
he'll be coming up any second, so be ready!"
Bolan came up, all right, but not hi the way they expected. Throwing himself up 
over the gunwale, he flipped into the cockpit and rolled toward the fighting 
chair, the only cover other than a bait freezer.
Rising into a crouch behind the fighting chair, Bolan banged a shot at the upper 
deck.
Renfrew ducked behind the helm seat.
Up on the tuna tower Garvey had trained the M-60 at the chair but he didn't 
fire. Angered, he set the machine gun down, slipped a hand under his baggy shirt 
and drew a Taurus .380.
The pistol cracked three times, the slugs whizzing by Bolan's head. The killers 
bad him pinned down, and unless he got out of there, they'd nail him.
"Give it up, mister!" Renfrew demanded. "You can't beat both of us! Toss down 
your gun and we won't fire! I promise!"
Bolan didn't trust the man. Peeking past the seat, he saw Renfrew gesture at 
Garvey and whisper some­thing. Garvey nodded, abruptly turned and started down 
the metal ladder. They were up to something, a flanking maneuver, maybe.
This whole time, Carson had cowered near the bulk­head within a few steps of a 
sliding door, making no move to help his friends.
That door interested Bolan. Galvanizing into mo­tion, he darted toward it.
Carson squealed, thinking he was doomed, and flung his hands into the air. 
"Don't shoot me! Please!"
For a man who took perverse delight in the deaths of others, Carson couldn't 
stand the thought of his own. But Bolan didn't fire. The weasel might prove 
useful later.
Shoving the sliding door open, nearly ripping it off its casing, Bolan dashed 
down a narrow hallway and entered the first room he came to. He hunkered next to 
the jamb.
Renfrew and Carson became embroiled in a heated dispute. There was the sound of 
a blow, and of some­one falling to the deck.
"You hear me in there, mister?" Renfrew shouted.
Bolan glanced around the room. It contained fur­niture and a coffeemaker. 
Nothing that could be of any use.
"We've got you trapped! There's no way out! Why not make this easy on yourself 
and give up?"
Bolan didn't answer, not when it would tell them exactly where he was.
Renfrew was the persistent sort. "You've got more luck than ten men, but your 
string has played out. Come on out, damn it, while you still can!"
All Bolan wanted was one shot, one clear shot. He stared at the sliding door, 
his finger on the Desert Eagle's trigger.
"Suit yourself, then," Renfrew said. "But if you think you can get the better of 
us, you have another think coming. You're in for a nasty surprise."
 
Chapter 12
 
The Executioner didn't know what was in store, but he'd go down fighting. On 
deck he had noticed several large storage lockers, so the smugglers could have 
any type of weapon at their disposal.
Shadows flitted across the end of the hallway. Ren­frew and Garvey were putting 
their plan into effect. A hand flashed, and from it arced a metal canister mat 
thudded to a sliding halt and activated with a serpen­tine hiss. Smoke spewed, 
spreading swiftly, roiling forward and aft.
Bolan backed away as thick gray smoke filled the doorway.
The smugglers were trying to drive him out into the open so they could pick him 
off, but Bolan wasn't about to accommodate mem. He moved to a closet barely wide 
enough for him to fit in. Removing a bucket and broom and two rain slickers, he 
slid inside and closed the thin door. Wisps of acrid smoke pur­sued him, but not 
enough to fill his lungs and inca­pacitate him.
Bolan had a strong hunch what the smugglers would try next. Soon there was 
stealthy movement, the pad of shoes on polished wood, and whispers.
"—is he? I swore he came in here."
"We'll try the next room."
The last voice was Renfrew's. Bolan inhaled deeply and cracked the door. Vague 
figures moved in the midst of the writhing smoke, their faces distorted by the 
gas masks they wore.
"There he is!" The larger of the figures twirled toward him.
Bolan banged off two shots. Garvey jolted back­ward, and tottering, the bruiser 
was enveloped by the cloud. In the same instant Bolan hurled himself at the 
floor. The room was filled with semiauto fire from the vicinity of the hallway 
as the closet he had vacated was riddled. So were the adjoining walls.
"Did I get him?" Renfrew asked, but Garvey didn't respond.
Bolan snaked forward. He bumped into a prone form, the red beard identifying who 
it was. Fingers flying, Bolan stripped off Garvey's gas mask and put it on, 
adjusting the straps to fit snug. It was an old Army-surplus model, bulky and 
grotesque by modern standards, but it served its purpose. He could breath again, 
and his eyes stopped stinging.
"Garvey?" Renfrew called.
Bolan fired at the sound, three swift shots that elic­ited a yelp and then an 
answering firestorm from Ren­frew's SMG. An Ingram MAC-10, Bolan thought, his 
cheek to the floor as 9 mm wasps buzzed above him.
The magazine emptied, and in the ensuring silence Bolan heard Renfrew moving 
aft.
Rising, the soldier crept to the hallway. He couldn't see his hand in front of 
his face, let alone the sliding door. His back to the wall, Bolan moved closer. 
A gust of night breeze dispersed some of the clinging smoke, but not enough to 
show him where Renfrew had gone.
Anxious moments passed, then Bolan stiffened. The
engines were revving. He broke into a run as the Jolly Roger lurched and then 
steadied, gaining speed.
Carson lay sprawled in the cockpit, unconscious.
Stepping over him, Bolan turned. Renfrew was at the console, and as Bolan looked 
on, he shoved both throttles to the max. As if launched into space, the bow of 
the Jolly Roger rose out of the water. Bolan would have fallen had he not 
grabbed hold of the freezer.
They were headed inland.
Bolan stepped to the ladder and climbed toward the flying bridge. Renfrew was 
hunched over the console, the MAC-10 slung over a shoulder, and didn't notice 
him until he was almost to the top. Pointing the Desert Eagle, Bolan said, "Put 
down the Ingram and you'll get to live."
"I wish." Renfrew laughed, men coughed, scarlet drops spilling over his chin. 
"You got me good. I won't last another hour."
"Step away from the console," Bolan directed him.
"Don't mind if I do," Renfrew said, smirking. At that he snatched up the MAC-10 
and spun.
The Desert Eagle bucked, the slug dissolving Ren­frew's right eye and exiting 
the top of his cranium. Sagging against the seat, Renfrew jerked convulsively 
for a few seconds, the SMG clattering at his feet.
Bolan climbed the rest of the way and sat down. He placed the Desert Eagle on 
the console, then throttled back to a safe cruising speed. Even though he was in 
open ocean, submerged boulders or other obstacles might lie ahead. With no 
charts to guide him, he had to feel his way into shore.
A groan reminded Bolan he wasn't the only one still alive. "Mike? Garvey? Where 
are you guys? Did you get him?"
Bolan let Carson learn the truth for himself. He looked over his shoulder as the 
smuggler came up the ladder.
The sight of Renfrew stopped Carson in mortal fright.
"Keep coming," Bolan instructed.
"Whatever you say, mister." Obeying, Carson sank onto the bench seat. He was the 
picture of depression. "I know better than to buck you." He wrung his hands. 
"You've ruined everything, you know that? We had a good thing going in Tillamook 
until you came along."
"Can you take this boat in?"
"What kind of dumb question is that? I know these waters like I the back of my 
hand."
"Change seats," Bolan said, stepping aside.
Reluctantly, the smuggler took the wheel. "What happens when we get there? You 
fixing to kill me like you have everyone else? Or will you throw me in jail?" He 
paused. "Who are you, anyway? A Fed?"
"No."
"Then what the hell was this all about?" Carson quizzed him. "If you're not the 
law, why were you butting your nose into our business?"
"Blame the man who chartered your boat for tomorrow."
"That Sprague character? What does he have to do with it?"
"Quiet." The soldier had thinking to do. Fate had given him a means of turning 
the tables on the wily Frenchman, of taking Sprague and Charata by surprise and 
recovering the Piranha Molecule with a minimum of bloodshed and little risk to 
bystanders.
It was an opportunity he couldn't pass up.
"YOU'RE despicable," Helen Paisley said to Alex­ander Sprague. "We had an 
agreement and you broke it. So much for your word!"
"You'll still receive your money, my dear," the merchant assured her. "Think of 
this as a temporary delay."
Bernie Craker was tired of Paisley's complaints, tired of Sprague's glib 
attitude, and just plain tired. It was past one in the morning, but he couldn't 
sleep. He was too worried.
In nine hours they were going on board a chartered boat to take the first leg of 
a long journey mat would end in Europe. And when it ended, so would his 
free­dom, maybe his very life.
"You don't need me anymore," Paisley was griping. "Call Switzerland and have the 
funds transferred so I can be on my way."
"I would like nothing better," Sprague said. "But if you were to leave, Mr. 
Craker might take it into his head to do something rash. I can't allow that."
"So I'm just as much your prisoner as he is," Pais­ley said.
"Hardly. You are a means to an end. Once we ar­rive in France, you can do 
whatever you wish. No strings attached."
"Wonderful," Paisley said dryly.
Craker shifted away from them, draping his arm over the back of the sofa. In 
doing so he inadvertently faced the bodyguard, Charata, who earlier had dragged 
a chair over by the bolted door and was cleaning a shiny pistol with oil and a 
cloth. The South American glanced at him with eyes as flat and cold as a 
reptile's. Uncomfortable, Craker shifted back around.
"And you, Bernie," Alexander Sprague said. "It's
not healthy to go so long without food. I must insist you eat something in the 
morning."
"Can I help it if I have no appetite?" the scientist countered. The transport 
case was on the floor by Sprague's chair. It never left his side, even when he 
went to the bathroom.
"That will change once you realize things aren't as bad as you make them out to 
be, my young friend."
"No, they're worse," Craker said, and didn't share in Sprague's amusement at his 
remark. He felt empty, drained of emotion. Paisley's betrayal was eating at him 
like acid, destroying every shred of happiness, of hope, in his being, 
destroying his very zest for life. He would just as soon put Charata's gun to 
his head and pull the trigger. Life was no longer worth living.
"Think of the service you have done humankind," Sprague mentioned. "Think of the 
legacy you will leave."
"Service?"
"You have elevated warfare to a whole new level. Your tiny molecule is more 
efficient than any weapon short of the nuclear bomb."
Some legacy, Craker thought, and grew more de­spondent than ever. Why hadn't he 
realized the truth sooner? he wondered. Why hadn't he seen Paisley for what she 
really was and refused to go along with her crazy scheme? The answer was obvious 
enough. It was a little thing called love.
Craker had never loved anyone like he did Paisley. Since the moment he set eyes 
on her in college, he'd been hopelessly smitten. She was beauty personified. And 
not only that, she was smart, too, her keen intel­lect a perfect match for his. 
Or so he had imagined. So he had deluded himself.
Craker looked at the transport case again. Maybe he was being too harsh. The 
real cause of his woes, the real culprit, was the Piranha Molecule. If he hadn't 
created the damn nanites, Paisley wouldn't have wanted to get rich by selling 
them. She would still be working at his side back at Nanotech.
Hatred pulsed through Craker, hatred of the break­through he had made. It would 
be better for everyone if the Piranha Molecule were destroyed. Paisley would 
come to her senses, Sprague would be left empty-handed, and the world would be a 
much safer place in which to live.
Craker knew just how to do it, too. All he had to do was take the vials out of 
the special case. The ro­botic molecule was extremely fragile. Once unfrozen, it 
could only exist in the human body. Without a host, the nanites would break 
apart into their component elements.
Somehow, Craker had to get the case away from Sprague. But how, exactly, when 
Sprague hovered over it like a mother hen? He heard his name men­tioned and 
derailed his train of thought for the time being.
"I trust you will be on your best behavior tomor­row," Sprague said. "Don't try 
anything on the way to the docks. Or once we are on board. In two days we will 
be in San Diego, well outside the Federal drag­net. From there, it should be 
smooth sailing. Pardon the pun."
"I'll behave," Craker said, but he had made up his mind to wait his chance and 
destroy the vials. Come what may.
Craker only hoped Paisley would forgive him.
the executioner was crouched behind the counter at Salmon Brothers, Ltd. He held 
the Beretta in a two-handed grip, the muzzle trained on Lem Carson, who stood a 
yard away trying to act casual and composed, but failing miserably.
"I can't do this, I tell you," the smuggler objected. ' "They'll see right 
through me. Next thing I know, that tall devil will gun me down before you can 
get off a shot."
"Calm down," Bolan cautioned. "Just stand there and smile. Once they're all 
inside, leave the rest to me."
"Gladly." Carson flipped through a boating maga­zine he had taken off a rack. 
"My whole life has been like this, one mess after another.
Suddenly, Carson tensed. "Someone's at the door!" Poised to run, he changed his 
mind when Bolan rapped the suppressor against his knee. "All right, all right. I 
get the message."
"I thought you claimed someone was out there," Bolan said when no one came in.
"A damn gull flew past and I mistook its shadow for a person," Carson explained.
The clock on the wall indicated it was five minutes to ten. "You won't have to 
wait much longer," Bolan noted.
"The least you could do is give me a gun to protect myself," Carson said. "Even 
a knife would do."
"No."
If there was one thing Bolan had learned about Alexander Sprague, it was that 
the man was punctual. He edged to the end of the counter to scan the street The 
sky was overcast, but the rain that had been falling all morning had ended. A 
pickup was driving past.
"If they kill me, my death will be on your head," Carson said.
"I can live with it," Bolan responded. He also had to live with the knowledge 
that if things went wrong, he had only himself to blame for not having anyone to 
back him up. He hadn't called in the Feds, hadn't phoned Brognola.
The debacle at Bayside Park was the main reason. Three special agents had gone 
down, and the soldier didn't want others to share their fate.
Another factor also entered the picture—Bolan wanted to be the one who brought 
Bartolome Charata to bay. He was taking it much too personally, he knew, but the 
Argentinian had eluded him twice and he would be damned if Charata would do so a 
third time.
An engine growled toward the shop.
"Hey!" Carson exclaimed. "I remember that car from yesterday! Isn't that them?"
It was. The Lincoln was two blocks away, creeping along slowly. Bolan crouched 
before they could spot him.
The smuggler had gone as white as a sheet and broke out in a sweat.
"Act natural!" Bolan ordered.
"I'll try," Carson squeaked.
"Tell me what they're doing," Bolan prodded, thinking it would take the man's 
mind off his fear.
"You just saw, didn't you? They're playing it safe, is what. Coming on real 
slow. The spooky guy is driv­ing. You ask me, they'll never fall for this little 
trick of yours."
"Have they pulled up yet?"
"No. If anything, they're driving slower. The tall
guy is checking the street. Looking for cops, I guess." Carson glanced at the 
door to the back room.
"Stay right where you are," Bolan warned.
"You're violating my rights, you know that? You can't make me stand here if I 
don't want to. I have half a mind to—" Stopping, Carson gripped the edge of the 
counter. "Oh, Lordy. He's looking at me now."
''Don't let him see your mouth move. It might make him suspicious."
Carson's lips compressed into a thin line, but he wasn't capable of shutting up 
for long. "They're park­ing right out front The spooky guy is getting out He's 
going around to open the door for fancy pants. Now it's the geek and the woman. 
Man, does she look ticked. The geek just said something to her, but she ignored 
him."
Bolan could see it all in his mind's eye.
"Here they come. Sprague is in the lead, carrying a metal briefcase. The female 
and the geek are next Spooky is bringing up the rear. There's a bit of a bulge 
under his right arm. A pistol, maybe." Carson uttered a tiny whine. "As soon as 
you pop up, mister, I'm hitting the floor."
"Be friendly," Bolan said. "Get them to come all the way over to the counter."
"Want me to give them manicures and shine their shoes while I'm at it?" Carson 
retorted, then adopted a sickly smile as the front door opened. "Howdy, there, 
folks!"
"Who are you?" Alexander Sprague asked.
"Lem Carson. Don't you remember? I was in the shop yesterday when you were 
talking to my boss."
"Where is Mr. Renfrew? It was my understanding he would be here to meet me 
personally."
"He told me to tell you he'd be right back," Carson lied glibly. "A group of 
fishermen chartering one of our boats had a problem of some kind, and he ran 
down the dock to talk to them."
Bolan saw that the smuggler had calmed enough to pull off the deception. He 
waited for the signal they had agreed to earlier, for Carson to close the 
magazine. It would be his cue that Sprague and Charata were right in front of 
the counter.
"How many boats do you have?" the Frenchman inquired.
' Tour. The best of the bunch, the fastest, is the Jolly Roger. That's the one 
Mr. Renfrew is taking you down to California in. It can outrun just about 
anything on the high seas. Even a Coast Guard cutter, if need be."
"Hopefully, though, the need won't arise," Sprague said. "It's best if we avoid 
entanglements with the authorities."
"Hell, mister, avoiding the law is what we do best."
"So I was informed. Your employer has a sterling reputation. It's why I 
contacted him in the first place."
It was obvious to Bolan that Sprague was close to the counter. Since Carson 
hadn't given the signal, Charata wasn't.
"How did you hear about us, anyhow?" Carson asked. "If you don't mind me being a 
little nosy, that is."
"I have a few friends in America, men who, like myself, operate beyond the 
confines of the law. One of them did some checking for me, and learned that 
Salmon Brothers specializes in clandestine activities."
Bolan couldn't wait forever for the signal. Sprague might look behind the 
counter, or one of the others
might stray into view. He wished he had some idea of where Charata was.
As if the smuggler could read minds, Carson said, "How about some coffee, Mr. 
Sprague? Or would your tall friend over there by the front window like some? It 
wouldn't be a bother. I've got a pot in the back."
"No, thank you," Sprague said.
"Maybe the lady or the other fella would like some?" Carson pressed.
"No, I said."
It struck Bolan that maybe Carson was conniving to make a break for it. The back 
room had no door to the outside, but there was a window. All the smuggler had to 
do was climb out and make himself scarce.
"I was only trying to be helpful."
"What would help me most right now is for your employer to show up. This delay 
is most inconvenient. I wanted to get underway as quickly as possible."
"He should be here soon."
Bolan slowly shifted to face the end of the counter. Time to spring his 
surprise. He tensed his legs, then saw Helen Paisley step to the wall a dozen 
feet away. She was studying the huge mounted salmon. All she had to do was 
glance to her left and she would spot him, and maybe shout a warning.
"Perhaps you could phone Mr. Renfrew?" Sprague asked.
"Sorry, but he doesn't have a cellular phone," Carson said. "Give him another 
couple of minutes. That's all it should take."
Helen Paisley was still admiring the salmon. Bolan watched her, waiting for her 
to turn her back so he
could make his presence known. Suddenly, though, the front door opened. Someone 
else had entered.
"Carson, you crusty sea dog!" a man declared mer­rily. "Since when does Mike let 
you work the front counter?"
Lem Carson looked fit to faint. "George Ward, as I live and breathe! Haven't 
seen you in a month of Sundays."
The newcomer tromped over. "Been busy. It's the height of the season, ain't it? 
Once winter sets in and things quiet down, I'll get together with Mike and you 
and toss down some brews."
"Pardon me," Alexander Sprague interjected, "but what was that you said about 
Mr. Carson and the front counter?"
"Oh, nothing much. It's just that Lem, here, can't make change. He can't count 
past ten without taking off his socks." Ward laughed boisterously. "Lem al­ways 
screws up. So his boss never lets him work out front here. Although I guess 
that's not true anymore."
"It's not," Carson quickly said.
"Where is Mike, anyhow?" George Ward asked. "I didn't see him down on the dock 
just now, and I wanted to ask him about all that shooting."
"Shooting?" both Carson and Alexander Sprague said simultaneously.
"Yeah. I was coming back late last night from a trip to Seattle when I heard a 
lot of guns going off," Ward revealed. "Sounded like a damn war, so I got out my 
binoculars. South of me I saw a boat and I started toward it, but she took off 
out of there like a bat out of hell."
"What does that have to do with Mike?" Carson asked a tad nervously.
"I didn't get a good look at the other boat, mind you," Ward said, "but I 
thought it might have been the Jolly Roger. It had her lines, her speed."
"You don't say." The remark came from Alexan­der Sprague.
"It couldn't have been," Carson said. "I know for a fact the Jolly Roger never 
weighed anchor last night. It had to have been someone else."
Bolan wished Ward would leave so he could spring his trap. He glanced at Carson, 
who had the look of a scared rabbit about to bolt, then at Helen Paisley. If she 
was done admiring the fish and had walked off, he would chance making his move.
But Paisley was still there.
And she was staring straight at him.
 
Chapter 13
 
The Executioner saw Helen Paisley put a hand to her chest in alarm. She tilted 
her head as if to shout, but seemed to catch herself at the last instant. 
Composing herself, she turned back to the salmon on the wall, acting as if she 
hadn't seen him. Why she kept quiet was a mystery.
Bolan tried to recall if she had set eyes on him be­fore. She might have, at 
Bayside Park during all the confusion. So it was possible she assumed he was a 
Fed, there to take Sprague into custody. But why would she want Sprague caught 
when he was paying her ten million dollars for the Piranha Molecule?
Ward was leaving. "Tell Mike I stopped by, will you, Lem? Ask him if he knows 
who was doing all that shooting."
"Okay," Carson said.
The moment the door closed, Sprague's hand shot across the counter and seized 
the scrawny smuggler by the shirt. "You'll tell me the truth, and you'll do it 
quickly."
Carson started to reach for the Frenchman's wrist but thought better of the 
idea. "I don't know what you're talking about, mister!" Then Carson did the most 
foolish thing he could have done. Twisting, he
looked down at Bolan and silently mouthed the words, "Help me!"
"Charata!"
The cry exploded from Sprague as Bolan heaved to his feet. He thought the 
bodyguard was by the front window and pointed the Beretta toward it. 
Unfortu­nately, Charata had moved toward the north wall, closer to Helen 
Paisley.
The Argentinian's right hand streaked out from un­der his jacket holding another 
Glock. He fired from the hip, cowboy style.
Bolan dropped behind the counter again as the room rocked to the din of 
artificial thunder. Slivers flew like needles in a gale, stinging his cheek, his 
neck. Looking up, he saw Sprague shove Carson against the wall.
Yipping like a kicked dog, Carson turned toward the door to the back room. He 
took one long stride, and was knocked sideways. A hole had appeared in his 
temple. Carson clutched at the wall, doing an un­gainly pirouette, as he sank to 
the floor, his wide, blank eyes fixed on the soldier.
Paisley was shouting, "No! No! Let me go!"
Bolan shifted to the right and popped back up.
Charata had an arm around the woman's throat and was hauling her toward the 
entrance, his pistol pressed to her head. Sprague was backing away from the 
counter as calmly as if he were the only person there, while over in the far 
corner Bernie Craker stood trans­fixed by surprise.
"Shoot us and the woman dies!" Sprague shouted at the soldier.
Until a minute ago, Bolan couldn't care less what happened to her. Paisley had 
been the one who set up the whole deal. She was more to blame than Craker,
and if she died, well, she had it coming. But she'd kept her mouth shut when she 
spotted him, and hadn't warned Sprague or Charata. Thai gave Bolan pause.
"Outside, Bartolome! Now!" Sprague was su­premely confident, as always. "You, 
too, Bernie! Come along!"
George Ward picked that fateful juncture to venture back inside. A burly man in 
a T-shirt, dungarees and a blue sailor's cap, he pushed the door open and 
blurted, "Did I just hear gunfire?"
Charata shot him. A snap of the wrist and the deed was done. As Ward tottered 
out and fell across the sidewalk, the Argentinian bounded toward the door­way, 
bent low, using Helen Paisley as a living shield.
Bolan aimed the Beretta, but he didn't squeeze the trigger. No matter how much 
he felt she might deserve it, he couldn't gun her down in cold blood.
Paisley was paralyzed by the Glock. She offered no resistance as the bodyguard 
brutally yanked her through the doorway.
Sprague stopped on the threshold. "Bernie! Didn't you hear me?"
"Mr. Sprague!" Charata called. "Look!"
People were running from all directions. Heads were poking out windows and doors 
were opening up and down the block. Soon a crowd would converge, filling the 
street, hemming in the Lincoln. If Sprague was to get out of there, he had to 
leave right that second. Scowling, he snapped at Craker, "Be at Peg Leg Pete's 
in one hour!" Then he dashed for the car.
Bolan ran around the counter and bounded to the front, seeking a clear shot
Charata had already shoved Paisley inside and was at the wheel, gunning the 
engine. He flung the pas-
senger door open and the Frenchman slid in. With a squeal of burning rubber the 
Lincoln peeled out.
"What's going on?" hollered a man jogging down the street.
"Stay back!" Bolan shouted. "Call the police! Two men have been shot!" Darting 
inside, he almost col­lided with Bernie Craker, who was on his way out "Hold it! 
Where do you think you're going?"
"They took Helen!"
"And the Piranha Molecule," Bolan said. "Sprague's won. He'll find some other 
way out of the country and be long gone before we can track him down."
"No, he won't," Craker said. "He won't go any­where without me."
"You?"
A commotion outside showed the good citizens of Tillamook hadn't heeded Bolan's 
advice. More than a dozen men and women were clustered around George Ward, with 
more arriving every second. Soon it would be the police.
"We need to talk, but not here," Bolan said, sliding the Beretta into its 
holster. He led the scientist into the back room, to the window. Warped by age 
and rain, it resisted when he pushed on the rail, but only for a few moments. 
Sliding it up, he leaned out. The coast was clear.
Bolan and Craker slipped from the building and hur­ried east, Bolan watching the 
scientist closely in case he tried to make a run for it.
"Where are you taking me?" the scientist asked.
"I have a car nearby."
By now the crowd had grown. Bolan stayed on the
far side of the street, his chin tucked to his chest, avert­ing his face so no 
one would recognize nun.
The sedan was where he had parked it, past the next intersection and down a side 
street They got in and Bolan headed south. In the rearview mirror he saw a 
police car race toward Salmon Brothers, its lights flashing.
"You're a Federal officer, aren't you?" Bernie Craker said. "I saw you at Coos 
Bay when those oth­ers were shot. You were running across the park."
"I'm trying to stop Sprague," Bolan said, and let it go at that.
"That makes two of us."
Bolan gave him a sharp glance. "Don't play me for a fool. I know you agreed to 
sell the Piranha Molecule. I know you killed a coworker. And a park ranger down 
near Brookings." Bolan turned left, merging onto a busier thoroughfare. "Now 
you're trying to tell me you've changed your mind?"
"It's not all of a sudden," Craker said. "I'm the one who was played for a fool, 
by Sprague and the woman I trusted with my life."
"I'm listening."
For the next half an hour, while the soldier drove at random around Tillamook, 
the scientist detailed all he had been through. Craker left nothing out. He 
ad­mitted his guilt in the killing of Ted Proctor. When he related the deaths of 
the ranger, the state patrolman and the store owner, genuine horror tinged his 
voice. The anguish on his face when he explained how Helen Paisley had betrayed 
him, how she had included him as part of her deal with Alexander Sprague, was 
equally real.
Bolan was convinced Craker was telling the truth.
"So that's what you meant when you said Sprague won't leave the country without 
you."
"Exactly. He wants me as much as he does the nanites. Maybe even more. He'll do 
whatever it takes to get me back in his clutches."
"I won't let that happen," Bolan promised.
"You're forgetting. Sprague has Helen. And he knows I won't let her come to any 
harm."
"You still love her, don't you? Even after all she's done?"
Craker sighed. "Stupid of me, isn't it? But I do. I love her with all my heart 
and soul." He bowed his head in sorrow. "I've tried not to. I've tried telling 
myself she isn't worth it, that I would be better off rid of her. But I can't 
lie to myself." Craker paused. "Have you ever been in love?"
"Yes."
"Then you must know how I feel."
Bolan did, indeed. Some time back he had lost a woman he'd loved dearly, a woman 
as precious to him as Helen Paisley was to Craker. Checking his wrist-watch, he 
said, "Let's head for the motel. Sprague told us to be there in one hour."
"I should go alone," Craker said. "I'm all he wants."
"From here on out you're not leaving my side," Bolan said. "With a little luck 
we can recover the nanites and save Paisley."
It was Craker's turn to glance around sharply. "Why are you doing this? Why are 
you helping me?"
"Are you complaining?"
"No, no, not at all. It's just that I thought you'd arrest me and throw me into 
jail. I can't thank you enough."
"Save your gratitude. Even if we come out on top, Paisley and you will stand 
trial. There's no way around it"
"I gave my word to Helen she wouldn't spend any time behind bars."
"After all that she's done?" Bolan shook his head. "She's looking at serious 
time. It will depend on the judge, and whether the federal prosecutor recommends 
leniency. I'll let them know what she did back mere, but it won't count for 
much, I'm afraid."
"What did she do?"
Bolan shared how Paisley had spotted him but hadn't alerted Sprague. "Have you 
any idea why?"
"No. Unless she's had a change of heart." Craker beamed at the idea. "I bet 
that's it! She's come to her senses."
"Or she's worried she'll end up like Blatterfeld," Bolan mentioned. "Once she's 
outlived her useful­ness, Sprague just might have her killed."
Peg Leg Pete's was quiet under the midday sun. Few vehicles were in the parking 
lot. No one was us­ing the pool. Most of the previous night's lodgers had 
checked out and it would be hours before a new batch of travelers stopped over.
Bolan didn't see the Lincoln. Loosening the Beretta and the Desert Eagle in 
their respective holsters, he climbed out. "Take it nice and slow," he said when 
Craker started to rush in. "It could be a trap."
"I'm sorry," Craker apologized. "I'm worried about Helen."
The plush lobby was empty. A bored desk clerk working at a computer welcomed the 
break in his rou­tine. "Hello, gentlemen. What can I do for you?"
Craker spoke before Bolan could. "I stayed here
last night with the Sprague party in room 12. We checked out this morning, but I 
think Mr. Sprague might have checked back in and I need to see him."
"Sprague, you say?" The clerk snapped his fingers. "Oh, wait. I had a phone call 
from him about half an hour ago. Are you Bernard Craker?"
"Yes."
"He left a message for you, sir." The clerk re­moved a folded slip of paper from 
a row of mail slots. "Here you go."
Bolan peered over Craker's shoulder. It was a phone number, to a pay phone 
somewhere in Tillamook would be Bolan's guess. "Allow me," he said, taking the 
paper and crossing the lobby to a booth. Sliding the door open, he fished in his 
pocket for change, fed it into the slot and punched the appropriate buttons.
On the very first ring Alexander Sprague answered. "Bernie! Right on time, too. 
I knew I could count on you. Especially since you care so much for a mutual 
acquaintance of ours."
"This isn't Craker."
A pause at the other end of the line ended with a sinister chortle. "So, the 
mystery man, I presume? The one who has been badgering me for days."
"And who won't rest until you've been put out of business, permanently."
"Threats are the brainchild of the immature," Sprague stated. "Three times now 
you have tried to catch me. Three times you have failed. Spare yourself further 
shame and let me wrap up my affairs in peace."
"This won't be over until you're in handcuffs or dead," Bolan said 
matter-of-factly.
More silence at the other end. Then Sprague asked,
"Who are you, American? Why do you plague me so?"
Bolan answered the questions with one of his own. "Do you know the death toll 
from that explosion at the Seashore Resort now stands at sixteen?"
"What's your point? That I am a hideous monster who must be disposed of at all 
costs?" Sprague couldn't hide his irritation. "Enough of this nonsense. Put 
Bernie on."
"You'll deal with me from here on out."
"Unacceptable. You'll try to delay me, to ensnare me. I must insist that I speak 
to Craker."
"Insist all you want."
A venomous hiss was an accurate gauge of how angry Sprague had become. "Then Ms. 
Paisley's life will be on your conscience. Unless you give the phone to Bernie 
right this instant, I'll allow my associate to strangle her."
The associate had to be Charata, and Bolan had no doubt at all the killer would 
enjoy carrying the order out. He looked at Craker, waiting anxiously for word of 
his beloved, and gave him the phone. "He wants to talk to you."
The scientist placed the receiver to his ear. "This is Bernie... What's that?... 
Hey, you can't blame me. I didn't know he was waiting for you at Salmon 
Broth­ers... No... No... Of course I will. Where?"
Bolan deduced that Sprague was instructing Craker where to meet him.
"I'll be there. But I want to speak to her, now... Like hell. For all I know 
you've killed her. I need to be sure."
The change that came over Craker a moment later was remarkable. He positively 
glowed with love for
the woman who had come on the line. "Helen?" he said softly, nearly breaking 
into tears. "Have they hurt you?"
The soldier moved several yards off to allow them a small degree of privacy. The 
scientist's devotion was touching, if misplaced. Bolan almost felt sorry for 
him. Almost. Devotion was no excuse for murder. It was no excuse for deceit and 
betrayal.
Still, Bolan would do what he could to save Helen Paisley.
Craker hung up. He was smiling, beaming at the world, the happiest man alive. 
"She said she was sorry!"
"Did she?"
"Yes! Helen told me that I was right all along. She never should've tried to 
sell the Piranha Molecule."
"You think she was sincere?"
Craker arched his eyebrows. "Of course! What a ridiculous question. She's had a 
change of heart, just like I said. Now it's up to me to save her from those 
vermin."
"Up to us, you mean," Bolan said. "When and where are you supposed to meet 
them?"
"He told me not to tell you. I'm to go alone or she'll die. If Sprague sees 
anyone following me, he'll give her to that animal, Charata." Craker walked 
to­ward the glass doors. "I'm sorry. Honestly I am. But I can't let you come."
Bolan moved hi front of him, blocking his way. "I'm the only hope you have, 
Bernie. Unless you work with me, Sprague will have you and the vials, and at 
some point down the road he'll have Helen Paisley killed anyway."
"If I take you with me she'll die that much
sooner!" Craker said it so loudly the desk clerk looked up from the computer 
screen.
"I'll do my best to keep her safe," Bolan pledged.
Craker was in the grip of great inner turmoil. "If things don't work out—" 
choked by emotion, he had trouble talking "—if it all goes wrong and something 
happens...do me a favor, will you? Kill Alexander Sprague. Hunt him down to the 
ends of the earth, if need be. Just don't let us die in vain."
"Sprague's days are numbered, no matter what."
"Good." Craker smiled thinly. "It's nice to know that something good will come 
out of this awful mess."
"Tell me. What were his instructions?"
"I'm supposed to give you the slip. Either take your car, steal one, or rent 
one. An hour from now I'm to drive north on Highway 101. Before I get to 
Garibaldi, there's a turnoff I'm to take."
"Why does he want you to wait another hour?" Bolan wondered aloud. As eager as 
Sprague was to get his hands on the scientist, it was peculiar. Unless Sprague 
needed the extra time to lay a trap in the eventuality Craker didn't go alone. 
As usual, the Frenchman was thinking ahead, anticipating what his enemies would 
do and taking appropriate countermea-sures. "We shouldn't wait. We have to leave 
now."
"What? Why?"
"If we can reach the place where you're to meet him before he does, I can pick 
them off when they arrive."
"No."
"It's the one thing Sprague won't expect," Bolan pointed out. "For once, we'll 
have the element of sur­prise on our side."
"I don't care," Craker said. "It increases the dan­ger to Helen, and I won't 
allow it."
The desk clerk was staring at them, Bolan noticed. "Let's go outside," he said, 
and once they had, he tried again. "You say that saving her is all that 
mat­ters. Yet you're throwing away a golden opportunity to do just that."
"Sprague's exact words were, and I quote, 'If you don't do exactly as I've told 
you, if you try to deceive me in any respect, your woman dies in the most 
hor­rible agony you can imagine. My associate is a master at torture. He will do 
things to her that would make you sick to your stomach."' Craker locked eyes 
with the soldier. "If she were the woman you loved, would you risk it?"
Bolan gazed toward the bay, at seagulls gliding car-efreely on the wind. "One 
hour it is, then."
the coast highway hugged the shoreline after it left Tillamook, affording scenic 
vistas of the ocean, but neither the Executioner nor the scientist were in any 
mood to appreciate them. A sign let them know Gari­baldi was a few miles ahead, 
but before they reached it, they came to a secondary road angling to the 
north­east, off into lush wilderness.
"The Miami River Road," Craker read. "This is it Turn here."
The change in scenery was drastic, from open high­way to a narrow ribbon 
paralleling the winding Miami River. Thick woodland flanked it They saw 
fishermen here and there, and a few hardy hikers. The deeper into the wilderness 
they went, though, the fewer peo­ple they encountered, until hi due course they 
had the road all to themselves.
"How far do we go?" Bolan asked.
"Sprague didn't say. I'm to look for a white towel tied to a tree."
Swiped from a motel, Bolan figured. They drove steadily on without spotting the 
marker.
The tension took a toll on Craker. He chewed on his lower lip, while nervously 
tapping on the dash­board and constantly twisting in his seat. "Maybe we missed 
it," he finally declared.
"We didn't."
"Maybe they didn't tie it tight enough and it fell off. We should turn around 
and double-check."
"We'll keep going."
Craker regarded him a moment. "I wish I was more like you. Confident, decisive, 
forceful. My whole life, I've been too timid for my own good. I admit it. I've 
tried to change, to become more sure of myself, but I just don't seem to have 
what it takes."
"We do what we can," Bolan said, concentrating on the endless phalanx of trees 
on either side.
"That's just it. I could live to be a thousand and never be like you. I could 
never do what you do for a living."
"I could never create nanites. So we're even."
Craker laughed. ' 'Hardly. I'm not talking about spe­cialized skills, about 
knowledge we gain from educa­tion. I'm talking about what makes us who we are. 
Our personality, if you will. Our very nature."
"We're all different." Rounding a sharp curve, Bo­lan had to brake to avoid 
hitting a large doe. The an­imal casually sauntered to the other side, and with 
a flick of its tail, bounded into the vegetation.
"One of life's many inequities," Craker com-
mented. "Some men are born lions, some are born mice."
That wasn't entirely true, Bolan reflected. Natural ability helped, but the main 
factors were temperament and training. Someone could be anything he wanted if he 
was willing to work hard enough at it, to train and educate himself to acquire 
the skills he needed.
Before Bolan could say as much to the scientist, they rounded another bend and a 
spot of white appeared.
"There! There! Do you see it?"
Bolan slowed from twenty miles an hour to five. The stretch of roadway was 
deserted. Towering trees cast it in gloomy shade. A perfect site for an ambush, 
he noted, as he angled onto the shoulder and came to a stop.
Craker jumped out. "This is the place!" he declared happily, scooting to the 
white towel and grasping it as if it were a trophy he had won.
No other vehicles were in sight. Bolan guessed that Sprague had parked the 
Lincoln up past the next turn, concealing it just off the road. That's what he 
would have done if the situation was reversed. Reaching into the back seat, he 
unzipped the rifle case and took out the Remington, the scope and a box of 
shells.
"Is that the same gun you had at Bayside Park?" Craker asked as the soldier got 
out.
Nodding, Bolan attached the scope. Then he loaded the rifle, worked the bolt to 
feed a cartridge into the chamber and straightened. "Let's go."
 
Chapter 14
 
The Executioner was a shadow among shadows. Low to the ground, he glided 
westward as silently as a spec­ter. The forest around him was eerily still. No 
birds chirped, no squirrels chattered, not even an insect buzzed. It was as if 
all the wildlife were holding its collective breath, waiting for violence to 
erupt.
Craker was forty feet ahead. The scientist plowed through the brush with all the 
stealth of a cow, stopping every dozen yards to call out, "Sprague? Sprague? 
Where are you?"
The secrets dealer didn't answer. Sprague was being his usual wary self, lying 
low until sure Craker had come alone. Or was there more to it? Bolan 
specu­lated. Did Sprague have something up his sleeve, as it were?
Craker stopped again and cupped his hands to his mouth. "Damn it, Sprague! I'm 
here, just like you wanted! Where the hell are you? Where's Helen?"
"Keep walking, Bernie!"
The shout came from a great distance off. Bolan saw Craker break into a run, and 
frowned. They had agreed he should hold to a slow walk. Otherwise, they might 
become separated. Increasing his own speed, Bolan tried to keep the lovestruck 
fool in sight. At the same time he continually scanned the undergrowth for
sign of Charata, The Argentinian was out there some­where, a human predator 
waiting to pounce.
"Where are you, Sprague?" Craker yelled.
The woods were thinning, which Bolan didn't like. The heavy brush gave way to 
high grass. More boul­ders appeared than trees. Bolan darted from one to the 
next, zigzagging to make himself a more difficult target
Craker was running flat-out now, widening the gap between them. "Helen? Helen? 
Can you hear me?"
A high, serrated ridge sliced across the terrain like a giant saw. Its slope was 
steep, and there was little cover. Bolan halted behind a boulder, unwilling to 
ex­pose himself. Craker, though, was sprinting toward the top as if he were 
taking part in the Boston marathon.
The soldier's every instinct told him this was where Sprague would spring his 
trap. It was ideal for a sniper. Charata would have a clear view of the ridge 
from any of half a dozen points.
Hefting the Remington, Bolan moved on. The short hairs at his nape prickled as 
he crossed open space to a small bush.
"Helen? Helen?" Craker was puffing and panting but forging higher hi search of 
his sweetheart.
Bolan spotted her first. Paisley had been tied to a stunted tree near the top, 
her wrists and ankles bound, a gag over her mouth. She was gazing wide-eyed at 
Craker, who had yet to realize she was there. Tugging at the ropes, she shook 
her head, as if to warn him off, and it was her frenzied movement that caught 
Craker's eye and stopped him hi his tracks.
"Helen! There you are!"
Paisley struggled harder, arcing her body, uttering muffled cries.
"Hold on!" Craker cried, renewing his ascent, his legs flying. "I'll have you 
free in a jiffy!" But a clod of dirt rolled out from under him and he tripped. 
His gaze glued to Paisley, he scrambled higher on his hands and knees.
Bolan started to go around the bush. Suddenly, there was a whizzing noise and a 
tiny limb beside his cheek flew against his face. Flattening, he swiveled, with 
no idea where the suppressed shot came from. The tall grass obstructed his 
vision. All he could see were the tops of the trees.
"Hang on, Helen!"
The soldier crawled to the right, toward an isolated boulder. He barely moved 
the stems, yet it was enough for Charata. Three slugs tore into the soil just 
inches from his body. Bolan fought an urge to rise and bang off an answering 
shot.
A new element was added to the mix when Alex­ander Sprague called out from up on 
the ridge. "We meet again, mystery man! I knew you wouldn't let Bernie come 
alone. But it would be better for you if he had, eh?"
Bolan didn't respond. Instead he carefully parted the grass and crabbed forward. 
Again gunfire thudded into the earth next to him, and this time when they 
stopped, Bolan pushed up into a crouch and covered the final twenty feet to the 
boulder in a rush.
As the soldier dropped behind it stony chips zinged the air. Charata missed by a 
hair.
Bolan was temporarily safe, but he was pinned down. He couldn't lift his head a 
fraction above the boulder without having it blown off. Twisting, he glanced up 
the slope to see how Craker was faring.
The scientist had reached Paisley and wrapped his
arms around her, hugging her as if afraid to let her go. He was beside himself 
with joy. She, on the other hand, was frantically bobbing her head and mouthing 
muted sounds in a desperate effort to get him to untie her.
A throaty chuckle came from a thicket to the left of the tree. "How touching, 
Bernie! What a sentimental­ist you are!"
Craker spun, his bony fists clenched. "Sprague! Show yourself! I dare you!"
"Oh, please, Bernie," Sprague chided. "Credit me with more maturity, will you? 
While my associate at­tends to your ally, you may free your lady. But don't 
attempt to flee. I have given Charata orders to shoot her if you do."
Bolan faced the tree line. The two scientists would be all right as long as they 
did what Sprague wanted. He could concentrate on the Argentinian. Sliding the 
Remington outward, he aligned his eye to the scope.
Pines, firs and deciduous trees came into clear fo­cus. Bolan slowly roved the 
scope from right to left and from the bottoms of the trees to their tops. The 
grass swayed but didn't draw more fire. Charata had guessed what he was up to 
and was playing it cagey.
Bolan remembered the camouflage clothing the killer wore at Bayside Park. He 
searched for any un­usual pattern, any patch of greenery that seemed out of 
place. As good as camouflage suits were, they didn't render the wearer 
invisible. Only hard to see unless a person knew what to look for.
Sprague had turned his attention from the two sci­entists. "Mystery man! Can you 
see me?"
Bolan didn't bother to look up. He was scanning the lower limbs of a large oak. 
Something about them
wasn't quite right, but he couldn't pinpoint what it was.
"I can see you!" Sprague called down. "I see you trying to find my bodyguard! 
Would you like to know where he is?"
It wasn't the limbs, Bolan realized, it was the leaves. A clump of them seemed 
thicker than they should be.
"Bartolome!" Sprague bawled. "The American is to the right of the boulder!"
Damn! Bolan mentally swore, and rolled to the left Even as he did, the earth was 
pockmarked by five or six rounds, one after the other. Bolan extended the rifle 
again, toward the same tree, but before he could look through the scope, Sprague 
hollered to the Argen­tinian.
"Now he is to the left of it!"
Bolan flipped directly behind the boulder a split-second ahead of the scorching 
lead mat thudded into the ground where he had just been. Rolling onto his back, 
he scoured the thicket above for the Frenchman.
Sprague laughed long and loud. "What is the mat­ter, American? You seem a trifle 
upset But I warned you, did I not? I told you to stay out of this. Too bad you 
are as stubborn as most Americans."
Slanting the Remington upward, Bolan squeezed the trigger. He fired at where he 
thought Sprague's voice was coming from, and he had to have pegged it right 
because a string of lusty French oaths resulted. When next Sprague called down 
to nun, he had changed position.
"Clever, mystery man. Very clever. But you only delay the inevitable."
As much as Bolan hated to admit it Sprague was
right. He had to find better cover or eventually Charata would nail him. Fifteen 
yards to the right were two more boulders, both about waist high and twice as 
wide as the one he was behind. They'd offer excellent protection.
Lying prone, Bolan peered through the scope at the large oak. The batch of 
leaves was different. They were no longer as thick as they had been. So it had 
been Charata, after all, and he was changing position.
In an instant Bolan was upright and racing toward those boulders. He was halfway 
there when a slug zipped by him and zinged off one of the rocks. Bend­ing, Bolan 
weaved like a tight end going for a goal. He heard Sprague bellow for the 
Argentinian to shoot
Charata tried to drop him, squeezing off three more shots in swift succession, 
but Bolan flung himself be­hind the twin boulders unscathed.
Sprague was beside himself. He railed at his body­guard, saying, "What is wrong 
with you, Bartolome? Are you losing your edge? There was a time when you never 
missed. If you can't do what I pay you for, I'll find someone who can."
The criticism, Bolan reflected, could work to his advantage. The Argentinian 
might want to prove to his boss that he still had what it took to get the job 
done. And an overeager shooter was one who made mis­takes.
Bolan leaned against the left-hand boulder and slid the Remington through the 
space between them. He panned the rifle back and forth but no movement 
reg­istered anywhere in the vegetation.
Sprague, oddly enough, had fallen silent. Bolan glanced toward the top, 
wondering if the clever
Frenchman was up to something, but all he saw was Craker feverishly untying 
Helen Paisley.
Applying his eye to the scope once again, Bolan shifted his attention to the 
boulder field. He divided it into grids and swept one after the other. Just when 
he had about convinced himself that Charata had to still be in the trees, he 
glimpsed a leg sliding behind a horseshoe-shaped outcropping.
With the superb patience of a seasoned sniper, Bo-lan waited for the Argentinian 
to show himself. Any part of Charata would do, an arm, a leg, but preferably the 
head. He studied the outer edges of the outcrop­ping, one side and then the 
other. As a result, he al­most missed a hint of motion down low, at the base.
Charata had extended the Parker-Hale Model 85 through a cleft at the bottom. The 
suppressor and part of the barrel were visible, as was a vague semicircle of 
shadow that might be Charata's forehead.
Bolan centered the scope's crosshairs on that half circle, held his breath to 
steady his ami and fired. He saw the Argentinian's rifle jerk, saw it slide back 
from sight. Had he done it? Had he inflicted a mortal wound?
The answer wasn't long in coming.
High-caliber rounds spanged above Bolan's head. Chips and shards rained, some 
getting into his eyes, causing them to water. Blinking to clear them, he pulled 
back from the opening.
Charata was still alive, still as deadly as ever.
it was the single greatest moment of Bernie Craker's entire life. The moment 
when Helen Paisley held him to her breast, kissed him on the cheek, and said, 
"I'm sorry. So sorry. Can you ever forgive me?"
"A silly question," Craker said, grinning. "I'd for­give anything you did." And 
he would. He adored her that much.
Paisley blinked, then examined his features as if she had never seen them 
before. "I've brought so much grief down on our heads. All because I wanted to 
get rich quick. And now look at us."
"There's hope yet," Craker said. "That man down there is on our side. He 
promised to help."
"Can he keep us out of prison?" Paisley asked sadly. "After what I've done, 
they'll toss me into a cell and throw away the key."
"I told you before," Craker reminded her. "I'll do whatever it takes to keep 
that from happening."
Paisley hugged him again, and Craker luxuriated in the warmth of her body and 
the scent of her hair. He would give anything, including his very soul, if only 
that special moment would last forever and ever.
Reality intruded in the form of Alexander Sprague, holding the transport case in 
one hand and a silver-plated pistol in the other. "How romantic! But I must ask 
the two of you to stand and put your hands in the air. Please."
Craker had been so overwhelmed by Paisley's ten­derness that he had completely 
forgotten about the Frenchman. "What do you want now?"
"Your indulgence. Kindly rise and move a little lower so your friend down below 
can see you better."
Paisley obeyed, her arms overhead. Craker fol­lowed. "What good will this do 
you?" he asked.
"All the good in the world, my young friend. I'll give the mystery man, as I 
call him, a choice. He either surrenders his weapon or I'll shoot both of you."
"He'll never do it. The Piranha Molecule is all he's interested in."
"Let us pray, for your sake, that you're wrong."
bolan was ranging the scope over the jagged out­cropping for the tenth time when 
he was hailed from on high. Turning, he took in the situation at a glance.
"Drop your rifle and step out," Alexander Sprague shouted. "I trust I need not 
stress the consequences if you refuse."
Craker and Paisley were shoulder to shoulder, the woman so frightened she was 
quaking, Craker's chin jutting in defiance. "Don't do it!" he hollered. "Kill 
the son of a bitch!"
Bolan would like nothing better, but Sprague was behind them, only part of the 
left side of his chest and his leg visible.
"I'll give you ten seconds," the Frenchman yelled. "Ten seconds to decide the 
fate of two people. Choose wisely."
Bolan didn't need ten. He didn't need five. Whip­ping up the Remington, he 
snapped the McMillan stock to his shoulder. It was a difficult shot, what with 
the elevation and the angle and the fact he had to shoot between Craker and 
Paisley, who were inches apart But Bolan never hesitated. He stroked the trigger 
cleanly, smoothly, and fifty-two yards up the ridge Sprague hurtled backward, 
crashing onto his back, motionless.
An enraged howl rose from the outcropping. Bolan raised up to look, then dropped 
down as Bartolome Charata unleashed a steady stream of heavy-caliber vengeance, 
firing shot after shot, emptying the Parker-Hale's 20-round magazine in a burst 
of raw fury.
Chips of stone pelted the soldier's head and shoul­ders. When it stopped, Bolan 
hiked up the Remington again, but Charata was nowhere to be seen. Thinking the 
killer had gone behind the outcropping, Bolan bided his time, his finger on the 
trigger.
A minute elapsed. Something moved at the periph­ery of the lens, and Bolan 
pivoted to find that the Argentinian had shifted positions once more and was 
rising from behind a boulder fifteen feet to the right of the outcropping.
For an instant they trained their scopes on each other.
Bolan wrenched aside as Charata fired. The slug tugged at his jacket, ripping 
the material. He took hasty aim, but the Argentinian was gone. Kneeling, Bolan 
stuck a finger into the wide slit, noting how close the bullet had come. Another 
inch and it would have shattered his bone and rendered his arm useless.
The soldier glanced back up the slope. Sprague was still on his back, his limbs 
flung out. Craker and Pais­ley had sought cover behind the stunted tree and were 
holding each other. She appeared to be weeping.
Bolan began to replace the spent cartridges. He con­sidered changing positions, 
but he'd need to cross a lot of open space to reach the next available cover. It 
was smarter for him to stay.
"Gringo!"
Bolan was stunned. To have the bodyguard call out to him was unprofessional, and 
if there was one thing that could be said about the Argentinian, he was a pro at 
his lethal craft.
The Executioner didn't answer.
"For killing Senor Sprague, yours will be a slow death!"
Bolan focused the scope on the boulder screening the killer but didn't spot him. 
He did glimpse the sup­pressor attached to the end of the Parker-Hale's barrel 
when it jutted into view. But only for a moment. The rifle was promptly pulled 
back, as if Charata were go­ing to fire but had changed his mind.
For the longest time nothing happened. The Argen­tinian didn't show himself, 
didn't call out. Bolan paid particular attention to the high grass surrounding 
Char­ata's hiding place but saw no evidence the bodyguard tried to crawl to a 
new vantage point.
A quarter of an hour passed. Up on the ridge, the two scientists had leaned 
against the tree, Craker's arm around Paisley. Both had their eyes closed, and 
Pais­ley's cheek rested on his chest. Craker was smiling in contentment.
Bolan came to the conclusion that either Charata was playing a waiting game, 
seeking to lure him into making a mistake, or else the Argentinian was no longer 
behind the boulder.
Craker would be able to tell, but Bolan couldn't get his attention. Although he 
waved his arm again and again, the lovesick scientist never looked down.
Another tense fifteen minutes dragged by. Bolan never spied his adversary. 
Lifting his head, he saw that Craker was gazing at him. Quickly he pointed 
toward the boulder where Charata was concealed and then crooked his forearms, 
his hands outstretched.
Craker understood. Nodding, he looked and looked, and after a while signaled 
that he saw no sign of the killer.
Just as Bolan had suspected. Gripping the Reming­ton, he crawled to the left, 
off toward a mound of rocks and gravel. Exercising extreme caution, he trav-
eled five yards, then ten. He was almost there when a warning cry from Craker 
pierced the air.
"Look out! He's in the trees, ready to shoot! The trees! The trees!"
Instantly Bolan thrust himself up and sprinted for­ward. As he rose, a slug 
spewed a miniature dirt gey­ser where his head had just been. He veered to one 
side, then to the other, as more slugs plowed into the earth.
Taking a long stride, Bolan leaped. He cleared the top of the mound and landed 
hard on his shoulder. Tumbling to the bottom, he surged onto his knees and swung 
toward the forest. But he didn't get off a shot. A slug ripped into the mound, 
kicking dust in his face, forcing him to duck.
Bolan lay there a minute, wiping at his eyes. Then he inched to the right, slid 
the Remington along the side of the mound and hunted for Charata. The 
Ar­gentinian was uncanny. How he had reached the tree line unseen, Bolan would 
never know.
"He's moved!" Craker shouted. "I don't know where he is now!"
Bolan broke his silence to yell a warning. "Stay down! He might try to pick off 
the two of you!" With Sprague gone, the killer had no reason to keep them alive.
Craker immediately pulled Paisley to the base of the tree trunk.
The breeze had died. Not a twig, not a pine needle, stirred anywhere in the 
woods. Bolan swept the entire tree line once, and when he couldn't spot Charata, 
he examined one tree at a time, one shadow at a time.
Bolan resisted a rising sense of frustration. The killer proved elusive. Finally 
he saw movement. He
tensed expectantly, but it was only a solitary jay flit­ting from tree to tree.
There was no trace of Charata. He lowered the lens to the bottom but saw only 
brush. He was about to look elsewhere when a rippling motion caught his eye. 
Riveted, he saw a patch of weeds bend to the passage of an unseen form.
Bolan settled the crosshairs on the center of those weeds and stroked the 
trigger. The weeds thrashed vi­olently, and out of them heaved Bartolome 
Charata, a brawny hand clasped to his ribs.
Bolan had scored! He aimed at Charata's head, but the killer dodged behind the 
tree. The Executioner hoped the Argentinian would show himself again, but no 
such luck. When it became apparent more waiting was in order, Bolan replaced the 
cartridge he had ejected.
Minute after tense minute. Few men could take the strain of the sustained wait, 
but Bolan was used to it. He had trained as a sniper, had honed his 
marksman­ship—and bis patience—to the ultimate degree. He could wait forever.
Bernie Craker, however, couldn't. "How much longer?" he hollered. "I want to get 
this over with!"
The scientist wasn't the only one. It made no sense to Bolan for Craker to be in 
any great hurry, since the scientists were going straight to the Feds—whether 
they wanted to go or not. Their change of heart was commendable, but they had 
murdered four people. They still had to answer for their crimes.
Suddenly Craker cried out, and Helen Paisley screamed. Both threw themselves 
onto their bellies, Craker covering her with his own body. Slugs were striking 
the stunted tree, pockmarking the trunk, send-
ing shards flying. Charata had gotten around to dis­posing of them, but the 
angle was such that his shots were too high.
Bolan scoured the vegetation. He was roving the scope at ground level when a 
foot appeared at the top of the lens. It was dangling from a low limb on which 
Charata was roosting. Bolan could see the Parker-Hale's barrel and Charata's 
fingers on the fore-end, but not Charata's head or body. Not a vital organ.
So Bolan focused on the dangling foot, aligning the crosshairs with the 
Argentinian's ankle. He fired, the recoil kicking against his shoulder. He saw 
the ankle explode in a bloody spray of shattered bone.
The killer involuntarily reached down to clutch at himself. For a moment 
Charata's swarthy features and raven hair were in plain sight. Recognizing the 
mistake he had made, Charata glanced up, directly toward Bolan.
The Executioner held the crosshairs squarely on Charata's forehead. Again he 
stroked the trigger.
Traveling at a rate of close to three thousand feet per second, the .308 slug 
ripped through the Argenti­nian's skull from front to back, tearing through 
flesh and bone as if they were papier-mache. Charata jerked as the rear of his 
cranium splattered the tree and un­dergrowth, then gravity took over and he 
toppled, sprawling in a lifeless pile.
Bolan slowly stood. It was over.
The Executioner cradled the Remington and turned to­ward the slope. All that 
remained was the mopping up. He'd contact Brognola, turn over the two scientists 
and the Piranha Molecule to the Feds, and head for Stony Man for some 
well-deserved rest.
Bernie Craker and Helen Paisley had risen and stepped out from behind the tree. 
Craker had his arm around Paisley, who had stopped crying but looked miserable.
Bolan headed toward them. He needed to take pos­session of the transport case. 
While he was at it, he would confirm Alexander Sprague was dead.
Some brush blocked the soldier's view of the body. Climbing on past, he shielded 
his eyes from the sun's bright glare and looked for the body. Only it wasn't 
there. Bolan hurried higher, raking the slope, telling himself it couldn't be. 
He was sure he had shot the Frenchman through the chest, and if it hadn't been a 
fatal wound, it should have been severe enough to pre­vent Sprague from going 
very far.
Craker and Paisley were descending, the woman leaning on her companion's 
shoulder.
"Where's Sprague?" Bolan called up. More to the point he asked, "Where's the 
case with the vials?"
The two scientists stopped, stunned. Craker let go
of Paisley and ran over to the spot where Sprague had fallen. "How can this be? 
I saw him go down!" Stooping, he touched several moist, scarlet drops. "Here's 
some blood! You definitely hit him!"
Bolan already knew that. Sprinting the rest of the way, he examined the soil 
himself. Scuff marks and handprints told the story. While he had been occupied 
with Charata and while the scientists had cowered by the tree, Alexander Sprague 
revived and crawled to the thicket, dragging the metal case with him. Once 
there, Sprague had risen and shuffled to the south, around the thicket and into 
a gully that slashed the ridge from top to bottom.
"Damn," the soldier swore.
There was no telling how much of a lead Sprague had. Maybe half an hour, maybe 
more. And he was heading for Miami River Road.
"Do your best to keep up with me," Bolan in­structed the scientists, and to keep 
them in line, he added, "Don't try anything. I'll find you." He didn't think 
Craker would attempt to run off, but he wouldn't put it past Paisley.
Breaking into a ran, Bolan went after the French­man, guided by random tracks 
and drops of blood. The footprints showed that Sprague had gained strength the 
farther he went After a while Sprague had stopped staggering and strode along at 
a brisk walk, stopping occasionally, perhaps to catch his breath. Apparently, 
though, the wound wasn't anywhere near as serious as Bolan had imagined.
The soldier ran as fast as he could. He was worried he would be too late, that 
Sprague would be long gone, that all his effort would have been for nothing. The 
metallic rasp of a car door being opened fueled him
with hope and made him run faster. Hurtling through the undergrowth, Bolan saw 
asphalt ahead. A second later he spied the Lincoln.
Sprague was leaning against it, breathing heavily, one hand on the door handle. 
In his other hand was the transport case. A wide red stain marked the left side 
of his chest.
Bolan didn't shout a warning. He didn't ask the Frenchman to drop the case and 
raise his arms. Stop­ping cold, he snapped the Remington to his shoulder and 
fixed a quick bead on Sprague's sternum.
Just as Bolan fired, the Frenchman moved. The slug meant for Sprague's heart 
nicked his side instead. Jarred against the Lincoln, he lost his hold on the 
case.
As Bolan worked the bolt, he saw Sprague glance down at the transport case, then 
into the woods, at him.
Self-preservation and greed were pitted against each other and self-preservation 
won. Sprague threw him­self inside, slammed the door and bent low, below the 
window.
Bolan burst forward as the engine growled to life. He was only ten yards from 
the road when the Lincoln sped off to the north, swerving erratically for thirty 
or forty feet before steadying. Bolan brought up the Rem­ington, ready to shoot 
at the back of Sprague's head, at a tuft of hair, at anything, but the wily 
Frenchman didn't rise high enough.
Another few seconds and the car took a curve, its tires screeching, and was 
gone.
Bolan shifted to run to the sedan, but caught him­self. He couldn't give chase. 
The vials and the scien­tists were more important. Picking up the transport 
case, he waited for Craker and Paisley to catch up. They were panting hard, 
nearly out of breath.
"He got away?" Craker said in dismay.
"He thinks he has," Bolan said. There would be a reckoning, though. Bolan 
wouldn't rest until Alexan­der Sprague was found.
"What now?" Paisley asked.
"My car is isn't far. Start walking."
Wrapping her arms around herself, Paisley hiked southward in despair. "I can't 
stand the thought of prison," she mournfully remarked.
Craker tenderly touched her shoulder. "Remember my promise? I'll find a way out 
for us. Wait and see."
"Quit deluding yourself," Paisley said testily. "Once we're taken into custody, 
that will be that It'll be goodbye, Bernie. Maybe hi twenty or thirty years, 
after we've served our time, you can look me up and we'll have a drink 
together."
"I couldn't live with the thought of being sepa­rated," Craker said.
Paisley began to cry. Only a few tears and sniffles at first, but harder as they 
neared the sedan. When they halted, she squatted, buried her face in her 
forearms and wept uncontrollably.
Craker stood beside her, wringing his hands.
Bolan walked past mem, set the transport case on the hood and opened the door. 
Leaning inside, he slid the Remington into the rifle case, shoved in the box of 
ammo and zipped the case shut Then, leaning against the passenger door, he 
turned.
The transport case was no longer on the hood. It was on the ground, open. Bernie 
Craker had a syringe in his hand, and as the soldier looked on, the scientist 
jabbed the needle into Helen Paisley's nape.
"No!" Bolan cried, springing toward them.
Craker yanked the half-empty syringe out as Paisley
began to rise. Whirling, he flicked it toward the sol­dier, not really trying to 
stab him, only to keep him at bay.
Bolan halted in midstride. One nick was all it might take to put him in an early 
grave. "Put it down!" he commanded, drawing the Beretta.
Craker smiled. "I'm sorry, but I can't." Reversing his grip, Craker buried the 
needle hi his own neck. Then, grunting, he wrenched it out again, cast the 
sy­ringe aside and took a single step to bring his foot crashing down on the 
vials in the transport case, crunching them into shards.
"Oh God!" Helen Paisley wailed, overcome by sheer terror. "You didn't, Bernie! 
Please tell me you didn't!"
Love radiated from Craker's eyes. "You'll never spend a day behind bars, just 
like I promised."
"No! No! No!" Paisley screamed, and went on screaming as her face oozed inward, 
folding in on it­self like a deflating basketball. She tried to speak but her 
lips were no more than floppy flaps of flesh. All that came out were pathetic 
whines and whimpers. Her left eye sank into her cheek, then both cheeks melted 
away.
Craker continued to smile. "Thank you," he said to Bolan a second before the 
transformation com­menced. His features lost all semblance of humanity.
Side by side, they fell. Side by side they quivered and rippled as the Piranha 
Molecules devoured their bones. Soon they were identical blobs, distinguished 
only by the clothes they had worn and the color of their hair.
Bolan walked over. All the vials were broken, the
nanites destroyed. Craker had taken the secret of their creation with him. The 
Piranha Molecule was no more.
Two months later.
A storm had rolled in off the Atlantic Ocean and the day was cold and overcast. 
A steady drizzle pelted the windshield of the rented Volvo Mack Bolan was 
driving southward along the major highway to Bor­deaux. He turned off at La 
Rochelle and followed a narrow, winding road toward the coast.
In spite of the rain the scenery was beautiful. Any other occasion, and Bolan 
might have been in a better frame of mind to appreciate it. The Aquitanian 
Low­lands, as they were called, consisted of rolling plains, pines forests, and, 
along the shore, fine beaches. Vine­yards were a staple. France's famous wine 
industry depended on them for a goodly share of the country's annual production.
Bolan picked up the map from the seat beside him and consulted the route that 
had been highlighted by a yellow marker. Another couples of miles would do it
A lovely Frenchwoman on a bicycle appeared, her head bent low against the rain. 
She smiled and waved as if he were her neighbor, and he returned the favor.
Bolan almost missed the cutoff. Bordered by cy­press trees, it was well hidden, 
and had he not been looking for it, he would have driven by. The road nar­rowed 
even more, and was barely wide enough for his vehicle, let alone two. When a car 
came the other way, as happened twice, he had to pull over to let them pass.
There were few houses, fewer people. Bolan soon came to a stretch of dunes, 
steered in among them a short distance and parked. Climbing out, he walked to 
the trunk. Inside was a long brown case, which he slung over a shoulder.
It was only a quarter of a mile to the ocean. Stand­ing at the water's edge, 
Bolan gazed out over the choppy waves, then looked south. He had the beach all 
to himself until he spotted a dwelling ahead.
Venturing into the dunes again, Bolan climbed to the top of one of the highest A 
panoramic view of the sea, the shoreline, and the quaint cottage spread before 
him. Fog hung off the coast, awaiting nightfall when it would crawl inland.
Kneeling, the soldier opened the brown case. Inside was a Weatherby Mark V 
Safari Grade big game rifle. One of Bolan's personal favorites, the Weatherby 
was as reliable and accurate as any gun ever made.
Sliding out the rifle, Bolan loaded it. The rain couldn't be helped. Later he 
would dry and clean the rifle from muzzle to stock.
Removing the caps on both ends of the telescope sight, Bolan studied the 
cottage. It had three, maybe four rooms, modest by any standard, hardly the sort 
of place a person would expect to find one of the wealthiest men in Europe.
A light glowed in a window. Bolan adjusted the scope and saw a sofa and a 
cabinet. A shadow drifted across the pane, but he couldn't see who caused it
Bolan had deliberately arrived early. He didn't want to leave anything to 
chance. To keep the rifle from getting wetter than it already was, he draped the 
brown leather case over it. Then, pulling his jacket up over
his head, Bolan crossed his arms and rested his chin on his wrist.
As the drops pattered the sand hi a ceaseless bar­rage, Bolan was reminded of 
another rainy day nearly eight weeks ago, in Oregon. He had stood hi a cem­etery 
watching as Bernard Craker's coffin was lowered into the ground. No one else was 
there. Because no one else knew.
The Feds had shipped a different, sealed, coffin back east to Craker's 
relatives. The powers that be didn't want the truth getting out, didn't want it 
to be­come public knowledge that science was capable of creating vile monsters 
like the Piranha Molecule. So Craker's family was never told the truth. The Feds 
told them a fabricated story about how he'd died in a tragic lab accident. The 
same with Paisley, who was buried beside Craker.
Bolan couldn't rightly say what spurred him to at­tend the burial. Maybe because 
he'd felt sorry for Craker.
No one was pleased with how the affair ended. Hal Brognola regretted the loss of 
valuable new Nanotech­nology years ahead of its time. The president of Nano­tech 
had been upset by the loss of potential revenue to his firm. No one, it seemed, 
was particularly sad­dened by Craker's and Paisley's deaths. They got what they 
deserved.
Now, as the rain along the coast of France slack­ened, Bolan gave a toss of his 
head to dispel the mem­ory, unzipped his jacket and stuck his hands under­neath 
to wipe them dry on his shut.
The crash of the surf droned on and on.
At length the door opened. A shadowy figure, pull-
ing the collar of his raincoat up to his ears, stepped into the open.
Bolan slid the leather case off the Weatherby. Wip­ing a few raindrops from the 
scope, he molded it to his eye. The magnified image showed every wrinkle, every 
hair. The man's face bore the same arrogant, cruel lines Bolan had memorized.
Alexander Sprague stared out to sea, then inhaled deeply and smiled in total 
contentment. He thought he was safe. He was wrong.
Bolan had the mastermind dead to rights, but he didn't fire. Not yet. He waited 
to see which direction Sprague would walk. When the Frenchman turned to the 
north, toward the dunes, toward him, Bolan smiled.
The Executioner was primed to shoot, his trigger finger was curled. But he let 
Alexander Sprague come closer, steadily closer. So close that when Bolan 
sud­denly stood with the Weatherby tucked to his shoul­der, the Frenchman 
glanced up in alarm. Sprague rec­ognized him immediately.
Then, and only then, did the crack of the big game rifle rumble off across the 
beach like thunder.