The men of Phoenix Force and Able Team, secure and satisfied beneath the wing of Phoenix, had elected to remain and fight their battles from within the system. Bolan could respect their stand, remembering that it had been his own not long ago, but there were always choices to be made. And for Mack Bolan, the decision had been simple, inescapable, inevitable. He was meant to wage his war on private terms, according to the rules established by his enemies.

The Secret Service agents met him fifty yards inside the park. There were three of them, all Robert Redford lookalikes in charcoal suits and mirrored aviator glasses, wearing tiny microphones like hearing aids. The flankers both held mini-Uzi submachine guns underneath their coats and took no pains to hide the weapons from Bolan. Their companion and apparent leader stood before him empty-handed, but his jacket was unbuttoned, granting easy access to the Magnum handgun nestled beneath one arm.

The soldier waited while they frisked him, examined the contents of his pockets and exchanged cautious glances when they found the empty shoulder rigging.

"You alone?"

Bolan smiled. "It looks that way."

If they were watching the perimeters they would have spotted Leo, marked him for an easy drop if he attempted to approach the meeting point or otherwise encroach upon the park. If they were unaware of him, it was not Bolan's job to point him out.

The leader stepped back and spoke into a small transmitter clipped to his lapel. A moment passed before he got his answer, and then he nodded to the gunners flanking Bolan.

"It's all right," he told them, turning toward the Executioner. "Let's go."

The gunners stayed behind, securing their backtrack, while the odd man out proceeded eastward, leading Bolan through some hedges, down a grassy slope, to intersect a narrow, curving drive. A limousine was waiting for them there, with three more 'Robert Redfords' standing watch around it. Bolan recognized the model at a glance, but there was something missing, and it took a moment for him to decide precisely what was lacking from the picture.

Presidential seals.

The limo's occupant was incognito, and while any resident of Washington would recognize the Secret Service escort at a glance, there were too many limousines in town for this one to attract undue attention on the highway. With the tinted windows, standard plates and lack of fender-mounted flags, the vehicle might have belonged to any diplomat or wealthy politician in the District.

Bolan let himself relax a fraction. If the Man had meant to have him taken out on sight, there would have been more gunners in the trees, and he would never have survived this far. He felt the agents watching him, their fingers itching for the draw, but he ignored them, willed his knotted stomach to unwind. It was a simple sit-down.

Except that he would be unarmed, conversing with the President of the United States, surrounded by the palace guard.

The nearest agent cut in front of Bolan, reaching out to catch the door and open it, retreating as the soldier slipped inside the limousine. A sidelong glance through soundproof glass revealed another agent in the driver's seat, eyes forward, both hands planted firmly on the wheel. Beside him, also facing forward, was a slender, nondescript accountant-type, a heavy briefcase resting on his lap.

"My bag man, so to speak." The President was smiling, but the smile was strained. "I can't leave home without him."

"Mr. President."

"Good evening, Colonel... no, I guess it isn't Colonel Phoenix, is it? Well, good evening, in any case."

Outside, the shadows had begun to lengthen among the trees, but there was still an hour or more of daylight left. Inside Mack Bolan's head, the doomsday clock was ticking, and he longed to be about his business in the capital.

The President seemed ill at ease, uncomfortable in Bolan's presence, and the soldier sympathized. But he had called the meet, and he would have to carry it from here.

"I understand that you've been busy since... the last time we talked."

"Yes, sir."

"I wanted to inform you, for the record, that we weren't behind that business down in Texas."

"I'm aware of that, sir."

"You're aware that I've already spoken to your friend about his family."

Bolan nodded, waiting.

"This is a disgusting business. Women, children placed at risk. I've offered full assistance in recovering the hostages."

"Too risky," Bolan told him. "It's a one-man job."

The presidential frown showed more concern than irritation. "So I've been informed, and I accept the judgment of professionals. But you must realize my options are severely limited." The frown was growing deeper, cutting furrows in the famous face. "Considering the other circumstances, evidence of impropriety..."

"A frame-up, sir."

"I understand your feelings, and your loyalty does you credit. Blind faith is a luxury that I'm unable to afford."

"I've got my eyes wide open," Bolan told him, "and my vision's fine. It doesn't take an analyst to see the circumstances are related."

"I agree. But in the absence of supporting evidence on Hal... your friend's behalf..."

"You'll have the evidence you need. What I need now is time."

"And there's the rub." The President was looking past him, through the tinted windows, studying the trees. "I would anticipate that your solution to the problem may involve... extraordinary incidents?"

"It's possible."

"Extraordinary incidents produce extraordinary coverage by the media. Demands for action, for results. A public outcry, condemnation of police officials."

Bolan spread his hands. "I couldn't rule it out."

"That kind of bad publicity could be disastrous for your friend. It wouldn't do to clear him of corruption charges and convict him of consorting with a fugitive."

It was the soldier's turn to frown. "I only know one way to play the game and get results," he said. "I haven't got a lot of time to spare right now, and anything I do is going to happen fast. You've set a Monday deadline?"

"I've done nothing of the sort. Officially, I haven't spoken to your friend, and I most certainly have not been here with you today. If everything is status quo when he returns from holiday on Tuesday morning, fine. If not..."

"Whichever way it goes, it shouldn't take that long," the warrior said.

And in his heart he knew it must not take that long. Once he began to rattle cages in the capital, the enemy's reaction would be virtually immediate. Whichever way it went it should all be settled by this time tomorrow. Any effort to prolong the siege would only jeopardize the hostages, increase the odds against their safe return. Those odds were long enough already, Bolan realized, becoming impatient.

"I'm on a schedule," he informed the President, "so if there's nothing else..."

"Just one more thing." The voice was solemn, soft, almost a whisper now. "For some time now, I've wanted to express my personal condolences about... what happened in Virginia."

''That isn't necessary, sir.''

"I think it is. I feel a sense of shared responsibility for... everything. The lapses in security..."

"Were not your ultimate responsibility," the soldier finished for him.

"Dammit, I reject that categorically. The ultimate responsibility will always rest with me, my office. I make no attempt to shirk that burden."

"Fine, if that's the way you want it." Bolan felt his irritation creeping closer to the surface.

"I believe you should reconsider coming back to Phoenix."

He had been expecting it from the beginning, and he didn't have to think about his answer. "That's impossible."

"I understand your feelings, but..."

"No, sir," the soldier cut him off, "I don't believe you do."

"All right, I had that coming. But I also have a reason for suggesting that you reconsider your decision at this time."