A simple matter, right.

No sweat.

Except that he could lose it anywhere along the way, with one false step.

And if he lost it... then he would die along with others, and the savages would breeze through unobstructed to their target area. There would be hours or days of mayhem.

Mac Bolan pushed the thought out of his mind and concentrated on his actions of the next few moments.

Defeat was not an acceptable alternative.

He would have victory, or death in the attempt. And if he died, a lot of savage souls were going with him.

Phillip Sacco did not have his usual nightmare on the night after Omega's visit. You have to sleep in order to have nightmares, and for the aging capo, sleep was suddenly in very short supply. For the first time in his adult life he doubted his ability to control his own environment.

And it was a frightening sensation.

After twenty-four hours he still hadn't been able to get a line on Tommy Drake's assassins. Omega was out there, but Sacco's calls to New York City, Chicago and the West Coast had been unable to confirm or deny the black ace's standing with La Commissione. And worst of all, Sacco's town was blowing up around him, dreadful rumors circulating.

Rumors about marksman's medals, damn right, and stories that Mack The Bastard Bolan might be back in town, goddamnit.

Now there was a recurring nightmare — one that Sacco could not seem to wake himself up from no matter how he tried.

Phil Sacco had been convinced, like all of his amid in the honored society of Mafia, that Bolan had finally died in his New York flame-out some time back. It had not been smooth sailing with him gone, of course; he left the brotherhood in an unholy shambles when he faded from the scene, and there had been a recent wave of state and federal offensives — but anything was better than going to bed with the fear that you might not wake up in the morning.

Anything was better, sure, than jumping every time a shadow moved around you, any time a man in black might cross your path.

Anything, yeah, except maybe not sleeping at all.

If Mack Bolan was back, Sacco told himself, the frigging guy had made a critical mistake by coming back to southern Florida right now.

Phil Sacco meant to see that Bolan paid for this mistake with his life.

The telephone in his study started ringing, but Sacco did not answer it. He waited while Solly Cusamano, the houseman, took care of it, picking it up on the third ring.

Sacco figured that any call at this hour of the night just had to be bad news — unless, perhaps, it might be one of his hunter crews reporting with information on the bums who took down Tommy Drake.

There was a long moment's delay, then Solly knocked on the door of his study, poking his head in at Sacco's summons. Cusamano looked worried and apologetic.

"It's that Omega, boss. You wanna talk to him?"

Sacco stared at the silent telephone for a moment, allowing himself the luxury of pretending that he had a choice.

"I'll take it, yeah. Thanks, Solly."

Cusamano ducked back out and closed the door behind him. Sacco lifted the telephone receiver, listening silently until the houseman hung up on the other extension.

"Okay."

The black ace's voice came back at him across the line, deep and graveyard cold.

"I'm glad to hear your voice, Phil."

"Yeah?"

Omega chuckled, making a reptilian hissing sound.

"I had an idea I might be too late."

"Too late for what?"

Sacco did not try to hide the irritation that was slowly creeping into his voice.

"To say goodbye," the ace responded.

Irritation blossomed into full-blown anger now.

"It's too damned late for playing games," the capo snapped.

"You're wising up."

"Goddammit..."

Omega did not raise his voice, but still his words managed to override Sacco's outburst.

"Tommy Drake was pissing on you, Phil. He was setting you up."

"That's bullshit."

But the doubt was planted in his mind now. Sacco had lived too long in the Mafia's paranoid jungle to automatically rule out any treason, any treachery.

"You know he was connected with the Cubans," Omega responded, sounding almost disinterested. "Do you know what they were working on?"

"Of course, I knew," he blustered, bluffing. "What kind of question..."

"Then you know about the move on Key Biscayne."

There was momentary silence on both ends of the line, Sacco racking his brain, loathe to admit ignorance, but coming up with nothing that made sense.

Omega went ahead without his answer, reading everything he had to know into the capo's strained silence.

"It's a psycho proposition, Phil. The feeling is your boy came up with it to pacify the Cubans. On the side, he's had them laying trails that lead right back to you."

Sacco's hand was white-knuckled now on the receiver, so tight his hand was shaking.

"I... guess I don't know what you mean."

And Omega told him a horror story, speaking in dry, clipped tones, the weight of his words bearing down into the leather-upholstered cushions of his easy chair. When he heard it all, Omega offered him an out, explained how he could save it — part of it, at any rate — if he moved quickly and decisively enough.

"You think that you can handle all that, Phil?''

Sacco scowled at the receiver in his hand, hating the man at the other end, hating Tommy Drake for putting him in this untenable position.

"I'll handle it, all right."

"I hope so. Everybody's counting on you."

Sacco stiffened, knowing the reverse side of the coin. Everybody's waiting to see you screw up; waiting to divide your operations when you 're dead and buried.

"Tell them that it's in the bag."

Omega hung up on him without another word, and Sacco cradled the receiver briefly, glaring at it, not moving his hand. Then he lifted it again and started dialing rapidly.

Sacco was calling in the troops, damn right.

And the capo mafioso of Miami did not have a lot of time to lose.

Captain Robert Wilson drained the last few dregs of coffee from his mug and pushed it away from him across the cluttered desk. He rocked back in his swivel chair, stretching, deliberately closing his eyes as he turned toward the clock on the wall, refusing to acknowledge the hour and how little he had achieved this night in concrete terms.

Beyond the glass partition that contained his private office, a skeleton crew was manning the Homicide squad room on the graveyard shift. The hackneyed gag was often used to get a laugh from officers in Homicide, but Wilson did not feel a bit like laughing at the moment.

The first reports of Hannon's death were open on the desk in front of him. He could recite them almost word for word by now and still they told him nothing.

Everything was there, of course, in terms of the procedures. Ballistics and trajectories, points of entry and exit. Wilson knew precisely how John Hannon died, and he had a fair idea of who was responsible... but none of it had put him any closer to solution of the crime.

He had pursued LaMancha's lead on the dead girl and struck surprising pay dirt at the federal building. Her name had been Evangelina, and her file at Justice had included information on familial relations — on a sister, in particular.

Deceased.

And that had been a shocker, goddamned right. It raised some ghosts for Wilson, dating back to other days when Hannon was the captain, and a soldier newly home from Vietnam was settling a family score against the Mafia. The Bolan hunt had been an education in itself; it showed Robert Wilson a side of Hannon — and a side of himself — that he had never quite suspected.