It was the same war, and Bolan fought it with the same tactics he had used in Asia. No quarter asked or given as he purged cannibals with cleansing fire. Incredibly, against all the odds, he saw the "invincible" Mafia tremble, crack and begin to crumble under the stunning blows.

War Everlasting, right.

Bolan was committed to the hellfire trail, and there was no turning back.

Every time the cannibals were beaten back, Man the Civilizer gained another foot of ground. Perhaps, if the enemy was trampled enough...

Bolan rose, scooping up his rifle and the Starlite scope, swiftly retracing his steps to the rented sedan. Misty darkness hid the warrior as he put the place behind him.

Minh, unknowingly, bought himself a stay of execution. A reprieve, perhaps, but not a pardon.

There were debts to pay, and his bill was coming due.

And, if Bolan was too late for Amy, there would be no place on earth where Minh could find a sanctuary from the Executioner.

Bolan parked his car on Downey Street, two blocks from the drop, and prepared to go EVA. From his mobile arsenal, he chose an Ingram MAC-10 submachine gun with shoulder rigging. It would be invisible under his overcoat, but easily accessible through a special slit pocket, providing him with a devastating backup for the silent Brigadier. Extra clips for the Ingram filled an inner pocket of his overcoat.

The streets of Haight-Ashbury were deserted, silent. Bolan moved along the sidewalk, keeping one hand on the Ingram's pistol grip, rubber-soled shoes muffling his footsteps. The hunter didn't plan to be taken by surprise.

Blocks away, he heard sirens fading into distance and voices made eerie by the fog. He paused on a street corner, listening until the sounds died, then crossed the street to enter his apartment building from the rear.

An alley cat arched its back and hissed at his approach, reluctantly giving ground. Bolan wished it well then turned his full attention to the door. It was locked. The ancient mechanism yielded to his key, stashed in a pouch on his belt. He slipped inside.

Bolan stood in a darkened corridor sending out combat feelers, probing the building's stillness. He listened to the structure settling, testing each new sound to see if it betrayed a hostile presence. One by one the warning signals were decoded, found innocent, then dismissed.

Satisfied he was alone, Bolan moved along a short hallway to the stairs. Taking them two at a time, he reached the first landing when footsteps sounded overhead, drawing closer. In another moment they would be upon him.

Bolan froze, easing off the Ingram's safety. One person by the sound, but he wasn't taking any chances.

Above him, a disheveled figure reached the stairs and started down. Graying, shoulder-length hair with a drooping mustache, O.D. jacket, faded denims — the guy was an aging relic of the Flower Generation. The eyes that met Bolan's were burned-out, having seen too much and understanding too little.

The guy smiled at Bolan, revealing missing teeth, and raised a hand in greeting.

"Hi, man."

The Executioner nodded and stood aside to let him pass. When the front door closed behind him, Bolan counted ten and resumed his climb.

The third floor was dimly lit. The paint was drab, discolored by years, the cheap carpet dirty and threadbare.

Bolan paused on the stairs to take another reading of his gray surroundings. Down the hall, a stereo was playing, bass guitars throbbing through the walls like an erratic pulse. He scanned the corridor for other signs of life, detected none and finally moved toward the door of his apartment.

The door was open.

Either Amy had left, or someone had entered.

Bolan let his coat fall open, the stubby MAC-10 nosing out. He stepped back, avoiding a direct line of fire, and gave the door a cautious nudge. It swung inward with a rusty creak. Bolan's view of the apartment was expanded, broadened inch by inch.

The empty room mocked his caution.

Bolan entered, lowering the Ingram as he closed the door behind him. Glancing through the open bathroom door, he knew he was alone.

Amy Culp was missing, right, and from the evidence, she did not leave willingly.

Bolan found the telephone lying where it had been dropped, or thrown. A knife was on the kitchen floor, and near it, something else...

He stepped closer, bending down to make the confirmation. There was no mistake, and Bolan's face was a mask of grim determination as he straightened up. There were blood spots below the sink, already drying rusty brown against the backdrop of pale linoleum.

Bolan checked the knife and found it was clean, Amy hadn't found a chance to use it. The blood, in all probability, was hers.

Bolan cursed softly, his imagination filling in the gaps. He damned Amy for ignoring his instructions, turning the safehouse into a death trap. Clearly, she made a call, brushed against the strands of Minh's web, and brought the danger upon herself.

He let the anger slide away, concentrating on the here and now. Amy was beyond his reach; unless the "elders" took her back to Minh's estate, there was no way for him to trace her.

But if he couldn't find the lady, if he couldn't help her, there was still something he could do to avenge her.

Something massive.

Armageddon, sure, for the Universal Devotees.

Cold fury rose, supplanting the warrior's early flash of anger. He knew the feeling, he lived with it and he let it guide his hand against the enemy in other confrontations, other wars.

It was the righteous anger of a soldier who shared the pain of others, and who was simply too much a man to turn away.

His enemy had called the game, and Bolan was prepared to take the game to the limit. It would be scorched earth for Minh and the soldiers of his private army.

Bolan made a final sweep of the apartment, seeking clues and coming up empty. He considered calling Able Team's referral number, but dismissed the thought. If Amy Culp was alive, if she was being taken to the hardsite, every second counted. If she wasn't, he had given Minh and Carter too much time already.

Bolan put the apartment behind him, checking each direction as he left. The corridor was empty, and the stereo's pulsing had receded. Half a dozen paces brought him to the stairs and he started down, keeping one hand on the MAC-10 beneath his coat.

He was on the landing, with a single flight to go, when he met the raiding party — three men, their eyes and faces mirroring the Executioner's surprise.

The two in front wore police uniforms while the trail man wore a trench coat. Despite their surprise, the trio was braced for trouble: the nearest had a pistol in his hand; the sergeant to his left held a riot gun at port arms; and the backup man was fumbling with the buttons of his coat, edging a hand toward some hardware.

Bolan stopped short as the shotgunner hailed him, letting the stubby scattergun slide down to waist level.

"Hold up, slick. We need to have a word with you."

Bolan raised an eyebrow and allowed confusion to enter his tone.

"What's the trouble, Officer?" he asked.

The uniform with the pistol chimed in.

"We have reports of a disturbance.''

Bolan's eyes dropped from the patrolman's face to the weapon in his fist, locking in instant recognition.

It was a Walther P-38, the classic 9mm autoloader favored by German Wehrmacht officers in World War II. Collectors would pay a hefty price for such a piece in mint condition — but no San Francisco cop would ever carry one on duty.

Bolan smiled at the "officers."

"I must've slept through it," he said. "Never heard a thing."

The shotgunner scowled.

"We're gonna have to take you downtown for questioning," he growled.