Bolan did not duel with cops. But that was a one-sided affair. The cops sure as hell would not hesitate to open fire on this most-wanted man in the country. For those brothers in blue, Mack Bolan was the object of a nationwide "mad dog alert." Every cop in the country was under orders to shoot on sight — and to kill. Bolan was well aware of that.

So okay, that was their job. More than that, it was an obligation to their badge. Bolan understood that. He'd never asked for or expected a license to kill. But he also understood his own obligation.

Mack Bolan the man had died back there in Pittsfield at the gravesite of Sam and Elsa and Cindy. What was left was the Executioner, the human war machine, the hellfire guy who remained alive only to kill — and who killed only to remain alive so that he could go on killing.

That was the obligation. Remain alive. Carry the war to the enemy, at every opportunity, until the enemy remained no more. It was a war of attrition, with all the odds riding on the other side.

But there was another obligation, and this one was to the soul. That soul must remain human, and it must remain worthy if the battle were to have any meaning other than a silly stride through hell.

Call it square or old-fashioned or just plain ridiculous — Bolan couldn't care less what anyone called it — he called it basic reality, and he saw this war of his as a reenactment of the eternal struggle between good and evil.

Sometimes ""good" had to carry a big stick and even masquerade as "evil" — to be the equal to evil, without becoming an equivalent of it.

So, no — Mack Bolan did not make war on cops. They were soldiers of the same side — the "good" side, even if a few of them may personally be undeserving of the badge they wore.

And, right now, those soldiers of the same side were screaming along a disturbing pattern of containment that seemed to be bracketing the entire waterfront area.

Very possibly a death trap, sure — for a guy who refused to become the equivalent of evil.

The warwagon was a twenty-seven foot GMC motor home away from home for the super-sportsman, a sleek front wheel drive vehicle with a special Toronado power plant and air-suspension tandem rear wheels. Bolan had picked it up in New Orleans and turned a couple of space age electronics genuises loose on her with an unlimited budget — then Bolan had added a few touches of his own. The result was what the moonlighting NASA scientist described as a "terran module" — a self-contained, fully instrumented "earth scout" ship.

Bolan called it a warwagon, and that it was. Not only could she scout, she could also fight — as had been ably demonstrated in New Orleans. But she was also war room, munitions lab, armory, and home for the warrior — a rolling base camp. Or a firebase. He carried the girl to the rear and slid her onto a bunk, then covered her with a light blanket and returned amidships to the war room where he activated the police monitors and remoted them to the front panel. Next he skinned out of the combat suit and concealed it, replacing that attire with Levi's and sweatshirt and bright orange hunter's jacket. Heavy-framed yellow night glasses and a soiled hunting cap completed the transformation. Then he checked the girl and went forward to fire up, wondering idly about the longterm unconsciousness but more concerned about the grim exigencies of the moment.

The police frequencies were strangely quiet, as was the night itself; there were no more sounds of sirens. Which, from Bolan's understanding, meant not a damn thing.

He sent the impressive vehicle in forward motion, moving slowly in concession to the atmospherics out there as well as in the interests of properiety for the sake of any watchful eyes.

Sure enough, he made contact at the first crossing.

A police car with beacon flashing had the intersection partially blocked. Two young cops with hands resting on gun butts were deployed to either side.

Bolan edged on to the bumper of the cruiser, then opened his window and beat the cops to the draw.

"Thank God!" he called out with a pretty good try at emotional relief. "Help me, I need help!"

One of the cops took a wary step closer and asked, "What's the problem, sir?"

These guys were in riot tog — helmets and all.

"This damn fog! I'm lost, and I have an emergency. I hit a curb back there and knocked my wife off her feet. She bashed her head. Lead me to a hospital, will you!"

The cop stepped back, mouth settling into grim lines, but the voice was regretful as he replied, "Sorry sir, we have an emergency, too. Take a right at the next corner and keep going till you hit the freeway. You'll find hospital markers there."

Bolan yelled, "Thanks!" and wheeled on through the blockade. He smiled moments later as the speaker above his head crackled with an exchange on a secondary police channel.

"Four Alpha Three, what's your situation?"

"On station, skipper. Nothing showing. Except a lost motorist in a camper, looking for a hospital — wife injured. Clean."

"It's plenty bloody down here. Stay alert."

"Aye, sir."

Bolan mentally tipped a hat to the men in blue. To respond so quickly with such organization in the doggy hours of morning — Bolan knew what it required. Contingency plays, crack discipline, an alert force — and it was certainly no reflection on their abilities that Bolan had managed to slip through. This was a simple response to a gunfight report, evidently. These people didn't know, yet, who they were looking for.

Or, at least, they hadn't.

Now they did.

"All units, this is Reaction Control. The subject is Mack Bolan, repeat, Mack Bolan. Refer to bulletin ten for full particulars and stand by for further instructions."

Bolan deactivated the monitors. They'd found his death medals. And they were, at this moment, reconstructing the details of a hard hit. Apparently this was some sort of quick reaction team, these cops, and they seemed to know precisely what they were doing.

They would know, now, that the war had moved to Seattle.

And — if this first light contact with the Seattle cops was any sort of indication — Bolan was going to have his hands full with these "soldiers of the same side."

It was food for thoughtful chewing. He chewed as he drove, not stopping until he'd cleared the top side of the city and reached the road to Richmond Beach. The night was turning gray and he was beginning to feel the effects of its activities when he pulled over and went back to again check on the girl.

The breathing was easy and regular and she stirred to his touch, but the eyes remained closed.

Perhaps, he hoped, the fainting spell had simply turned into natural sleep.

Twenty minutes later he rolled the warwagon into her berth in the little camping park at the edge of Puget Sound — and this time when he went back, the girl was awake.

She had not moved, but her eyes were open, alert, and frightened.

She did not exactly smell like a rose, either.

"What is this?" she asked in a whispery voice. "Where am I? Who are you?"

"I'm the man with the gun," he replied gently. "This is my home. It has wheels. We're near Richmond Beach. There are neighbors all around. You can leave whenever you wish. But you shouldn't leave. Do you understand what has happened?"

It hit her like a lash flood, then — Bolan could see the memory of it washing across those terrified eyes. She shuddered and turned toward the wall.

He went to the shower and wet a towel with warm water, soaped it, and returned to the bunk.

"Put your legs out here," he commanded, in a gentle but no-nonsense tone.

"Wh-what?"

"They're caked with blood. Can't you smell it? Don't worry, it's not yours. But the drier it gets, the harder it comes off. Come on, the legs, let's have them."