"What the hell are we looking for, anyhow?"

"Cohen says there's a manhole here someplace. Some cables we have to cut or something. Don't look like it to me, though. Hell, how are we supposed to find anything in this snow, anyhow? That bastard."

Mack Bolan nodded with satisfaction. Cohen had done a superb job. It couldn't have been better. Not only did he get them out into the woods, he had them stationary. And preoccupied.

This had to be done as quietly as possible. And done quickly. It was obvious the men were in no mood for an extended search. Bolan withdrew his combat knife and inched forward. He made sure the Beretta was accessible, but it was his backup.

Concealing himself behind the last line of trees at the edge of the clearing, Bolan coiled for the spring. Like a predatory cat, he leaped, covering the last few yards in midair. Before either man was aware of his presence, he had locked his left forearm around the standing man's neck.

"What the hell..." The words were cut off as Bolan drew the razor-sharp blade across his captive's throat. Surprise turned to a gurgle, as blood and air bubbled out through the severed windpipe. Momentarily frozen, the kneeling man struggled to his feet, but the Executioner was too fast for him. He shoved the dead man forward.

The collision knocked the second man over, the deadweight of his companion pinning him to the snow.

Rolling to one side, he struggled to throw off his burden. He saw Bolan out of the corner of his eye and reached for the automatic on his hip.

Bolan dropped his full weight, knees first, on the struggling man's right arm, landing just above the elbow.

The pinioned man screamed as his shoulder was torn from its socket. He scrambled sideways, using his feet and uninjured arm. Like a crab pinned by one claw, he moved in a circle, kicking out from under the deadweight. His efforts tore at the injured shoulder, but he was fighting for his life.

Groping blindly in the snow, the fingers of his good hand closed over the Kalashnikov. He tried to consolidate his grip, but the gun kept slipping free. Bolan plunged his knife deep into the man's chest. The blade scraped across bone as it slid between ribs. Until it found the heart. With a sigh, the man lay still. The pinioned arm went limp under Bolan's knees. Blood seeped from the slack jaw, almost as an afterthought. Bolan rose, withdrawing the blade as he did so. He wiped the blood on the fur lining of the dead man's parka then slid the blade back into its sheath. Killing seldom came easy to the Executioner. He felt drained for a moment. In Vietnam he had earned the name of Sergeant Mercy. It was a name he was proud of, and it was rooted in his character. A warrior's strength need not deprive him of compassion. In fact, Bolan believed a warrior without compassion was no warrior at all. He was not even a man.

Looking at the sky overhead, which seemed to have pressed down for a closer look, he wondered. How many men had to die before mankind realized that killing solved nothing?

Bolan walked to the edge of the clearing, turning once to look at the two dead men lying in the snow.

They were brave men. Maybe even good men. They were on the wrong side, sure. But people make mistakes. There had to be another way, a better way to solve human arguments.

"What's going on, Eli?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are we staying here, or moving out? This place gives me the creeps."

"You ought to thank your lucky stars, Louis. You think this place is weird, you ought to walk around that plant a little bit. It's damn spooky. There's enough power in that place to blow New York off the map."

"Hell, man, that's what we're here for, ain't it? I just want to make sure I'm well out of the way when it happens, that's all."

"Don't worry about it. Andrey knows what he's doing. You guys got any coffee in here? It's cold as a witch's tit out there."

"Yeah, there's some on the hot plate. I'll get you a cup. Could use one myself, now that you mention it."

Cohen stood near the doorway, leaning against the wall. The two remaining guards seemed a little on edge. They had been taken aback at his request for the two others to go out into the cold. Having settled into the warmth of the guardhouse, they were angry that something could so easily disturb them. The whole point of guardhouse duty was that it was easy. Now this asshole had changed everything.

Louis rattled silverware in the kitchenette.

Rick Edmunds was sitting at the table, playing solitaire. He hadn't said a word to Eli since the Jewish commando had entered.

"Cream and sugar?" Louis called from the cubbyhole.

"No, black's fine, thanks." Eli didn't like Edmunds, and he knew Edmunds didn't like him. He watched the cards as Edmunds flipped them in threes. The man's jaw was set, the muscles in his cheeks bunched in tight little knots. He was unhappy about something.

He glanced up at Eli in silence for a moment, then said, "Don't watch me like that. It makes me nervous."

"What's the matter, afraid I'll catch you cheating?" Cohen laughed.

"I don't have to cheat, Cohen. I know how to play this fucking game."

"Don't be so touchy, Rick. I was only joking."

Louis returned from the kitchenette, carrying two cups of coffee. He placed the black coffee in front of an empty chair. At the other end of the table, next to Edmunds, he placed his own cup.

The coffee was so pale, it looked as if it was two-thirds milk.

He sat next to Edmunds, peering closely at the cards. "Wait a minute, Rick. Put the red six on that black seven."

"Mind your own damn business. You're as pushy as Cohen here."

"Christ, I was just trying to help."

"Don't bother." Edmunds pushed the cards into a small disorderly mound, then turned it on edge, tapping stray cards into place with a few sharp raps on the tabletop. "There, now you don't have anything to mess with."

Cohen watched the two men carefully.

His Ingram was still slung over his shoulder, but the close quarters and the table made it difficult to move quickly. While he debated how and why to get to his feet, the phone rang. He took a long pull on the coffee. On the fourth ring, Louis got up to answer it.

"Yeah. Mr. Glinkov, yes, hello. This is Louis. Right. No, no. He just came in. You want to talk to him? Just a minute. It's for you."

Louis extended the receiver to Cohen, who stood up to accept it. He moved against the wall and turned his back to the two men. "Hello. Yes, Andrey. No, everything's all right. I just stopped in after checking the perimeter. Everything's secure. Tight as a drum. All right, yes. I'll be up in five minutes. Fine." Cohen hung up the phone and walked back to the table. He picked up his coffee and finished it off without sitting down. Then he unslung the Ingram and waved it casually toward the seated men.

"Don't do anything stupid. Just sit there."

"What the fuck are you doing?" Edmunds demanded.

"Shut up!" Cohen said. He walked carefully around the table, pushing the chairs in to get them out of his way. "Both of you put your hands on the table. Palms down. Don't move. Don't even breathe."

"If this is a joke, it's not funny," Louis said.

"And if it isn't, I'll eat your fucking heart," Edmunds snapped.

"It's no joke, gentlemen, I assure you." He was standing directly across from the seated men. With a sudden sweep, he slammed the side of the SMG into the base of Edmunds's skull. The man fell forward, scattering the stack of playing cards onto the floor. The half-empty cup of coffee spilled among the cards and began to drip onto the floor.

"All right, Louis. Stand up!" Cohen barked.

"What are you going to do?" Louis sounded nervous.

"Don't worry. I'm not going to shoot you. Unless I have to. Now get up!"