There is yet time for dedicated men to change the way things have become, to snatch the victory away from tainted bloody hands. It will not be a pretty job, or easy, but success at any cost is imperative if we are to survive.

And there is no middle ground this time, no fence to straddle. The surest victims of the terrorists are those who turn their backs and walk away, refusing to recognize the threat.

Today, the war has brought me to the City by the Bay. For two bad yesterdays, the war scene festered in far-off Libya. Tomorrow it will be another battlefield, perhaps a thousand miles from either America or North Africa. But home is where I make it, and before another battlefield, before another enemy can be confronted, it is necessary to achieve the victory here, now, in this place today, where Vietnam is still claiming its victims... From the tortured POWs still behind the lines in Asia, to the dead and dying claimed by terrorist bombs and bullets here at home, my environment is sick with savagery, degradation, abandonment.

The war I fight is my personal commitment, neither thrust upon me nor sold through any promise of reward. I fight here today because there is no decent alternative, not in a land like ours, which is racked by the pressures of decay. Therefore I have no choice, even though this war is essentially mine alone, and is up to me.

The Executioner was EVA and crouching on a wooded hillside overlooking Minh's estate. Below, the manor house and grounds were cloaked in fog.

Because of the distance, Bolan replaced the Nitefinder goggles with a Starlite spotting scope, using it to scan the grounds. Through the mist, he could pick out moving figures, details of the big house, everything tinted green in the Starlite's viewing scope.

The gatehouse guards had been replaced and reinforced. Bolan counted three and figured on at least one more inside the sentry box. One of Minh's carbon-copy Cadillacs was across the entrance, replacing the ruined gate, and his "elders" lounged against the tank, smoking and talking quietly. One of them cradled a stubby riot shotgun.

Sweeping on, Bolan spotted sentries traveling in pairs along the outer wall. None was obviously armed, but he was betting on their having pistols and other hidden hardware underneath the trench coats. Soldiers, right, and Bolan knew they would react professionally at the first sight of an intruder.

More were moving around the barracks-style bungalows ranged behind the manor house. Bolan took the bungalows for quarters of the cultists in residence. He wondered if the guards were there to keep strangers out, or to pin the "faithful" in.

As Bolan expected, Minh was going hard. A rapid head count registered thirty soldiers on the grounds, and he counted on another dozen, minimum, inside the house. Make it twice the force he expected. Amy's guess was wrong... or Minh was calling in the troops, gathering his "elders" for a showdown.

Either way it was an army.

And like any fighting force, it had strengths and weaknesses.

With courage, skill and a dash of luck, the Executioner would find those weaknesses and turn them to his own advantage.

Lights were on throughout the manor house, including one in Minh's second-floor study. Bolan focused on the lighted window, zooming in, but fog and draperies combined to hide the inner sanctum from his view. Once, he thought a shadow moved across the blinds, but it could have been imagination or a gremlin in the opticals.

The limpet bug planted on his first probe was still in place, but silent. Bolan fine-tuned the volume on a miniature receiver at his waist, searching for a signal, but nothing was audible through the tiny earpiece he wore.

If Minh was in his study, he was alone and quiet.

Bolan panned back and picked up headlights approaching from the west. His scope zeroed on the Lincoln, running through the fog at breakneck speed. Carter's high beams, reflecting in the mist, made the Continental look like a ghostly bail of fire.

Bolan hadn't waited for the counselor. With a head start, following Highway 101 in a fast dogleg to the Golden Gate, he had beaten Carter by a full ten minutes. He had time to hide his car and jog overland, picking out his vantage point before the Russian mole arrived.

Carter reached the gate, coasting to a stop at the makeshift barricade. Bolan watched as the sentries checked him out, shining flashlights in his face and giving the car a thorough once-over. Carter was protesting the delay, but the "elders" took their time, circling twice around the Continental. Finally satisfied, the shotgunner retraced his steps to the gatehouse for a consultation with the man inside.

Another moment, and the "elders" received clearance from the manor house. The gunner reappeared, waving Carter through.

Bolan tracked the Lincoln with his scope, along a curving driveway leading to the house. He watched Carter park and leave his car, taking the porch steps two at a time. The front door opened before he had a chance to knock, and the lawyer stepped inside.

Bolan lifted off the Starlite scope and sat back on his haunches, waiting. His hand dropped to the mini-receiver, and he boosted the volume a notch, straining to catch sounds from inside Minh's private office.

A knocking, answered by the strong, familiar voice.

"Come."

The door opened, closed again.

"Mitchell... please, sit down."

Bolan smiled at the darkness and tossed a quick salute to Gadgets Schwarz. The only thing missing was a video display.

The Executioner was rigged for war, in military harness. The AutoMag and Beretta occupied their honored places, the military web was weighed with grenades and extra magazines. Resting on the ground beside him was the double-punch combination — an M-16 assault rifle with a 40mm M-203 grenade launcher mounted underneath the barrel. The warrior's chest was crisscrossed with belts of ammunition for the 40mm, mixed rounds of alternating tear gas, buckshot and high explosives.

He could take them now Carter had arrived. But a blend of curiosity and caution held him back. There was still a chance of learning if Minh had other troops and where they were quartered. If Minh had another army on the street, Bolan meant to know about it going in.

Before the killing started, there was still time to kill.

Minh waved Mitchell to a chair, studying his face with eyes devoid of expression. Carter had a drawn harried look, like a man who had just run the gauntlet and caught a glimpse of hell.

Minh, who saw his share and more of hell on earth, was unimpressed. A soldier chose the path of fire, and deserved no sympathy for shows of weakness.

Carter found a seat and dropped into it. The eyes that met and locked with Minh's across the desk were guarded, curious.

"What's going on," he asked. "Your gate..."

Minh interrupted.

"An unfortunate disturbance," he explained. "Everything's under control. I'm interested in your misfortune now."

"I'd call it a mutual misfortune," Carter said. "They were your soldiers.''

"As you say. Perhaps if you began with your visitor..."

Carter shrugged and shifted restlessly in his chair.

"There isn't much to say. He was KGB."

Minh raised an eyebrow.

"Are you certain?"

"He knew my name, all about the mission. What else could he be?" Carter countered.

"What else indeed," Minh said, his mind already probing other permutations. "Please continue."

Carter hesitated, choosing his words carefully. Minh sensed he was holding back.

"He was curious about our progress," the lawyer said. "There was some mention of his taking over."

Minh concealed the ripple of surprise behind a mask of stone.