Simultaneously, he dropped a hand to the radio-remote detonator at his waist and keyed the silent signal before his enemies could organize their forces. It was time for a taste of hellfire, right.

Around the perimeter, his charges exploded in rapid fire, with a built-in three-second delay between blasts, shattering masonry, tearing the night apart.

Hellfire, yeah. No one along that perimeter was going to answer a call for help from the house. They were too busy closing ranks against nonexistent enemies. Bolan could hear them firing at the shadows, venting their panic in an aimless fusillade.

The plastic charges were still detonating when he pivoted on one knee, angling his rifle in the general direction of the bungalows. He squeezed off a 40mm high-explosive round and saw it burst. To keep them hopping, he followed it swiftly with a smoking tear-gas shell.

Some of the gunners from the stoop were peeling off, sprinting toward the scene of the blast. Half of them, right, leaving the others stationed outside Minh's front door. The remaining "elders" closed ranks, pulling back and forming a tight defensive ring around the steps.

Out of options, Bolan brought the automatic rifle to his shoulder, quickly sighting down the barrel. He took a breath and held it, anticipating recoil as he squeezed the trigger and held it down.

A burst of 5.56mm tumblers stitched through the tight formation, toppling bodies like ducks in a shooting gallery. One of the "elders" hopped and screamed on the steps, but another short burst silenced him forever.

Caught between diversions, the remainder of the squad faltered in their charge, some turned back while others charged ahead. Still, without a target, they fired by reflex, bullets sailing high and wide over Bolan's head.

Bolan swung the M-16 around to meet them, stroking out another burst. Downrange, the runners stumbled, reeling in a drunken jig as the steel-jackets riddled them, sweeping them into leaking piles of flesh.

The Executioner was up and out of cover then, dashing for the house, aware of shouting voices and armed men converging on him. It came down to a race with death, and as he ran he was conscious of his narrow lead.

Gaining fast, the hounds snarled and snapped at his heels. The warrior couldn't even see the finish line.

Trooping down the stairs behind his rag-tag entourage, Nguyen Van Minh smelled the smoke of battle. Outside, the heavy-metal racket of automatic weapons grew louder and closer, mounting in ferocity.

As his party reached the ground floor, waiting for directions, the broad front doors burst open. A dazed and bloodied gunner stumbled in, shouting incoherently, his voice a rasping bark. Tommy Booth reached the man before he took a dozen steps, spun him hard and marched him back outside. The heavy doors slammed shut behind them with a sound of grim finality.

Minh was moving when a line of bullets stitched across the doors, puncturing the heavy wood and ricocheting off the walls and floor inside. An explosion rocked the mansion, shattering the front windows, filling the entryway with a storm of fractured glass.

The front was inaccessible. Minh wasted no time replotting his course. Snapping at his "elders" and taking Mitchell Carter by the elbow, urging him along, he began herding them along a corridor that led to the rear of the house. To freedom.

The situation was obviously worse than he dared imagine. This was not a simple raid or infiltration — it was full-scale invasion, a frontal assault on his home. A gnawing ache in his stomach told him it was disaster.

He was reminded of the 1968 Tet offensive when he had organized a raid against the U.S. Embassy in Saigon. That was another time, another war. He had fought beside the victors then, half a world away.

This time, Minh was on the inside, under siege. In spite of himself, he felt the stirrings of claustrophobia, which drove soldiers mad with fear, provoked them into fruitless, suicidal action. He could feel it, yes, but with great effort, he controlled it.

There was still a chance. He had the senator, a potent trump card, and he would not surrender under any circumstances. He would never know the shame of capture, the humiliation of a show trial before a jury of self-satisfied Americans. It was unthinkable.

Escape was a problem, certainly. There was no time to wail for the yacht. The captain and crew were on their own, and he dismissed them from his thoughts. It might be possible to plan another rendezvous, if they escaped intact, but the hope was slim at best. Minh hoped the captain would be wise enough to dump the woman if he was attacked.

In any case, she was no longer his problem.

Smoke and clouds of tear gas filled the house behind them as they hurried through the formal dining room and kitchen, Minh bringing up the rear. Another ringing blast shook the walls and ceiling, rattling dishes in the cupboards overhead. A crystal chandelier smashed to smithereens in the corridor they had vacated only moments earlier.

His party reached a back door and bulled through, the gunners leading the way, testing the night for danger. Emerging into smoky darkness, Minh was stricken by a scene of chaos — flashlights sweeping through the fog; excited, confused voices shouting; automatic weapons crackling in the distance. Around the cluster of bungalows, reserved for members of the Devotees, his disciples milled in various stages of undress, some weeping, others shouting, trying to be heard above the din. Half a dozen "elders," hopelessly outnumbered, were struggling to herd them back inside the cottages.

Minh's limousine was waiting with a driver at the wheel, engine idling and rear doors perched open. He was moving toward the car, prodding Carter and the hostages ahead of him, when a cry went up from someone in the crowd of his assembled followers. A shrill voice called out to him, pleading for help, an explanation.

Minh turned in time to see the ranks of his disciples waver, break. They surged toward the limousine, jostling each other in the crush. One of his "elders" was knocked down and trampled by the herd, the others struck blindly, trying to diffuse or divert the charge.

In another moment they would be upon him, clinging to him, blocking his escape. Minh nodded to the nearest gunner in his entourage and the hardman smiled in recognition of the silent order.

The "elder" swung his submachine gun up, bracing elbows on the roof of the limousine as he quickly sighted down the barrel. Minh heard spent cartridges rattle on the body of his car as the gunner tracked his weapon in a blazing arc.

Across the lawn, hollowpoints ripped into flesh, thinning out the front ranks of his panicked followers. Minh watched them twitching, falling, bodies sprouting holes as if by magic. Despite the darkness, he could see a young woman with her breast shot away, an overweight youth kneeling, both hands clutching his open abdomen. Then the ranks broke, wheeling back around, survivors retreating toward the safety of the bungalows. The gunner slowly released the trigger.

Out of nowhere, Culp's attorney exploded into action, throwing himself on the gunner's back. Shouting, swinging wildly, he bounced the "elder" off a fender, madly pummeling his head and shoulders. The outburst was so unexpected, Minh stood for a moment, shocked into a deep freeze.

His bodyguard swiftly recovered, fending off his smaller, inexperienced assailant. Lashing out with the muzzle of his weapon, he drove the little lawyer back a pace, keeping him at arm's length.

It was enough. A second "elder" swung his riot gun up and into firing range. A single charge of buckshot took the lawyer chest high and lifted him off his feet, slamming him against the side of the house. As he slid to the ground, the wall became streaked with gaudy, abstract patterns of blood.