As he closed the office door behind him, Turrin wondered what had happened to the noncombatants, anyway.

Increasingly the lines were blurred, and he could not distinguish friend from enemy, civilians from belligerents. Increasingly, he had begun to share Striker's view, which held that there were battle lines on every front, insidious opponents waiting for an opportunity to strike on every side. Your enemy might be the syndicate, a clutch of terrorist fanatics or the homicidal boy next door, and any man committed to the preservation of society who, once he relaxed his guard, could count upon no mercy from the opposition.

Turrin knew where Bolan could be found — if not precisely, then at least in general terms. His means of making contact were distinctly limited, but there were ways, and he would spare no effort on behalf of Hal Brognola's cause. The soldier would respond, if he could get in touch before it was too late. If Bolan had an opportunity to extricate himself from the campaign in which he was involved. If he had not become a casualty by now.

Too many ifs.

It was the only chance Brognola had, and Leo meant to play it out, whichever way it went. If he could not touch base with Striker, Leo was prepared to stand with Hal and face the enemy alone, no matter what the risk.

It was his duty to a friend, no matter what the rule book said. Some moral obligations never found expression in the printed guidelines, but the lawman knew precisely where they lay.

It was a trait he shared in common with the soldier known as Striker. There were too few like him in the modern world, but one could be enough.

One man with skill, determination and a will to win.

One man like Bolan, sure.

If he could find his way to Wonderland in time.

Mack Bolan had been in place since shortly after dawn, and he was stiff from lying in the same position, scarcely moving for a period of hours. Immobility and patience were a sniper's special skills, as much a part of ultimate success as the selection of a weapon, calculation of the drop and windage on a given shot. But stakeouts bore a certain risk, as well. New York was not the Southeast Asian jungle, where a man could disappear ten paces from his comrades, swallowed by the forest undergrowth and shadows. In Manhattan, eyes and ears were everywhere, although they sometimes opted not to see or hear.

The soldier had already staked his life on urban uninvolvement, praying silently that people who might take notice of his rooftop vigil would ignore him, go about their business without giving him a second thought. A call to the police might ruin everything, assuming the police responded to a noontime prowler call with any alacrity. Positioned so that he could see and hear the squad cars coming, Bolan waited for his target to reveal itself.

The condo he had chosen for his sniper's nest had been a lucky find. Unoccupied for weeks, and likely to remain so as the focus of a bitter palimony suit between two headline actors, its position on the northern fringe of Central Park was perfect for his needs. In fact, the park meant nothing to Mack Bolan; rather, he was interested in the neighbors who lived two doors down — one neighbor, to be strictly accurate. Together with her frequent visitor.

The woman's name was Marilyn DuChamps. She did not interest Bolan personally. Rather, he was drawn to her companion, an eccentric businessman who drove around Manhattan in an armor-plated limousine and had his hair cut daily to achieve the fresh-trimmed look. Two nights a week — and every Saturday — the businessman arrived at Marilyn's expensive condominium to pass some time in solitude, away from workaday concerns. Most times the limo's driver and another man would wait outside, regardless of the visit's length. The men were being paid to sit and wait as Marilyn DuChamps was being paid to satisfy the businessman's peculiar tastes in "relaxation." No one questioned his prerogatives, his right to keep them waiting, use them as he wished. He owned the limousine, the condominium in which he sought his pleasure and a dozen others on the street. He owned them all.

The businessman was known as George Fratierri — he had dropped the Giorgio years ago — and since the New Year he had gained a great deal of prestige around Manhattan. On New Year's Eve his nominal superior, one Paul Castigliano, had been rather forcefully removed from competition while alighting from his armor-plated limousine outside a favored restaurant. Flanked by two "accountants" who were said to be more comfortable with calibers than calculators, Castigliano had been ventilated by a burst of automatic-weapons fire that erupted from a passing car. The two accountants as well, DOA. His driver, bending down to tie his shoe, had been protected by the limo's armor, but he hadn't seen the attackers nor their vehicle. So sorry.

Fratierri had been no more helpful when questioned by police. Castigliano had been like a brother to him, guiding him in business, helping him to prosper. Who would wish to harm a saint? The city was an open sewer, populated with the dregs of humankind. If Fratierri hadn't had his business there...

What business? Real estate, of course. Some wholesale outlets in the garment district. Restaurants. In case they hadn't noticed, Paulie was about to enter one of George's eateries when he was ambushed. All those ugly rumors — the narcotics, gambling, prostitution — were a slander on Fratierri and his family's honor. He would gladly file a lawsuit if the source of his humiliation could be readily identified. As for this talk about Five Families... what man could cope with more than one? The Boss of Bosses? Someone had been spending too much time on penny dreadfuls and the late show. They should give up watching The Untouchables and get in touch with modern-day realities.

It was an act that George Fratierri had perfected over thirty years of dress rehearsals, fending off the questions of police and federal officers, congressional investigators and the media. His injured innocence routine was easily the longest-running joke in town, but so far prosecutors had been unsuccessful in connecting him with any of his extra-legal enterprises. Members of the DA's staff were absolutely certain that Fratierri held controlling interests in cocaine and heroin for south Manhattan, that he dominated out-call prostitution city-wide and that he had been personally responsible for twenty-seven homicides since 1980. The hit on Paulie Castigliano and his two bodyguards was the latest in a series of strategic murders that had placed Fratierri in position to unite the city's powerful Five Families beneath his own umbrella... and the DA couldn't prove a thing.

Mack Bolan, for his part, did not require corroborating evidence prepared in triplicate. He recognized Fratierri for the animal he was, and in the instant of that recognition had decided on the means of coping with his evil. Years might pass before the government prepared a solid case for prosecution, if they ever got that far. In the meantime, Fratierri's sordid empire would be growing, fattening upon the flesh and blood of citizens from coast to coast. The Executioner already knew of the Mob chief's ties with the narcotics syndicate out west, his plans for squeezing out the Cubans and recapturing control of cocaine traffic nationwide. The money earned from coke and skag would strengthen his position in the East, and let his morbid influence expand from sea to shining sea.

Unless he was eliminated.

Castigliano's sudden death had left the New York Families confused, disoriented, just the way Bolan liked to see them. If he could not finally eradicate the enemy, at least he could perpetuate dissension in the ranks and turn the cannibals against themselves, devouring their brothers in a struggle for the throne. Fratierri's sudden rise to power threatened to impose stability upon Manhattan's Mafia, and Bolan did not choose to let that happen. On this Saturday the soldier was prepared to use his veto, coolly and decisively, before the coronation could become accomplished fact.