War was always good for business. Young men were dying in a rich man's war 10,000 miles away from home. Most of them had no idea why they were there, fighting a people who had done nothing to them. They weren't heroes, they were pawns in the wrong place at the wrong time. The first real rumbles of protest were beginning to be heard.

The truth would fuel those protests, and that knowledge made her job simple.

Find the truth.

Get it to the people.

Cam Lo was two clicks behind her.

Men like Mack Bolan had free rein to kill and maim and torture, and their superior officers hung medals on their chests for it.

Somebody had to put a stop to it before this backward little country was overrun with self-styled Executioners.

The glow of the headlights washed over Three Click Fork.

Jill Desmond stopped the jeep.

A frown marred the smoothness of her forehead.

She had pored over maps of the area before coming out here and had expected this fork, but she wasn't sure which way she should turn.

There were villages in both directions.

She tromped on the gas and spun the wheel to the right. The vehicle headed north down the narrow road.

As she drove, she tried to recall the smattering of Vietnamese she knew. Many of the villagers, especially the elders, knew English, she'd been told. She was sure she would be able to communicate with them.

The truth has a way of breaking down most barriers, including languages.

The harsh growl of the jeep's engine sounded loud in the night, drowning out the many little jungle noises that whizzed by along both sides of the open vehicle.

But the jeep sounds did not drown out the sudden burst of rattling gunfire from up ahead.

Instinctively, Jill hit the brakes.

The jeep skidded to a stop.

She sat very still, not realizing she was holding her breath.

The weapons fire continued.

She could distinguish the crackle of small-arms punctuating the heavier blasts.

She cut the jeep's headlights but left the engine running.

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She saw a flickering brightness up ahead, around what was evidently a bend in the road. The glow was red, licking the night sky as she watched.

Fire.

The village was being put to the torch!

She was too late!

Already American and Army of the Republic of Vietnam forces were moving into the village, razing it. Probably because the villagers had the audacity to resent the way their country, their lives, were being invaded by corrupt foreign governments. Maybe the civilians had provided food and shelter for the Vietcong.

This was it.

Her response was automatic.

She reached down on the seat beside her for the tape recorder and camera.

This atrocity would not go unrecorded, unpunished.

This one would see the light of day.

She unfastened the flap of a pack and took out her equipment. Then she took a deep breath and got ready to start down the road again. She would proceed on foot, even though that would be tricky.

Continuing in the jeep would present an easy target. She would be more likely to get shot.

The jungle pressed in close on both sides of the road.

Jill Desmond was about to step down from the jeep when a hand reached out, grabbing her arm.

She screamed into the night.

Jerking around, she saw a face looming at her out of the darkness: flat features, lank black hair, cloth tied around the forehead.

Vietcong.

Reflex took over.

Jill's foot left the brake, slammed the gas pedal. She popped the clutch.

The jeep shot forward.

She was thrown back against the seat.

The VC let go.

The left front wheel of the jeep dipped off the roadway. The lurch threw Jill heavily to the side.

She grabbed for the wheel, straightening herself and the jeep. Her foot was still on the gas. She left it there. Keeping her head down, she drove, her heart pounding wildly.

Somehow the jeep stayed on the road.

She heard firing from behind her.

From the sound of it, there were at least two or three others back there with the man who grabbed her, triggering shots after the fleeing vehicle.

A slug ricocheted off the body of the jeep with a whining spang.

Jill cringed, feeling the first tinge of fear.

She barely made out the bend in the road in time to whip the jeep around it, rather than crash into the culvert dead ahead. Once she negotiated the turn she brought the jeep to a halt.

Her jaw dropped at the scene of carnage spread out before her.

Unimaginable carnage, everywhere she looked.

The hooches of the village were grouped in a rough circle. Beyond them was the thick blackness of jungle night.

This had been a peaceful place once.

But no more.

All the huts were ablaze. Villagers ran around in frenzied shocked, scared confusion. Smoke and gunfire filled the air.

Jill saw an old man stumble out of one of the flaming huts. He was on fire.

Watching in numb horror, Jill saw a young woman race through the night with her baby clutched to her chest. The fire cast a red glow over her terrified face. The mother's face disappeared in a spray of blood. She had run into a bullet. The baby dropped shrieking from her arms, into a puddle of mud.

The villagers were being driven from their homes like stampeding cattle by the torches of soldiers. The civilians were being systematically slaughtered.

Then she saw the black pajamalike "uniforms." Not ARVN. Not soldiers, as Jill had thought.

Vietcong.

She saw at least two dozen VC firing into the village. Sometimes they shot to kill, sometimes only to disable. Then they would finish the job with the long knives they carried. The firelight glinted on the hacking, bloody blades.

A VC toting a machine gun raked fire across a fleeing knot of civilians, stitching them, shredding flesh, pulping bone. Bodies erupted gore.

Jill Desmond was sick.

Deep-down sick. Far past the vomiting stage.

A tiny moan escaped her throat.

It was stilled by the cold touch of metal that suddenly pressed against her temple.

"Do not move," a heavily accented voice growled close to her ear.

Jill did what the voice told her. She remained still except for the trembling that she could not control, spasming up from her gut.

The man holding the pistol moved around to her side. In the reflected glow of the village's destruction, she could see him.

The face was lean, skin pulled taut over high cheekbones. Dark eyes glittered with the light of madness. No. Not madness.

Savagery.

He wore a crude uniform and was evidently the leader of this group of VC who had surrounded the jeep. His eyes took in every detail of the news woman.

A razorlike smile slit his face.

"American," he said softly, the comment almost lost in the clamor of gunfire and screams from the village. "Very good."

The Cong leader stepped back and motioned curtly with a pistol. Two of his men stepped toward the jeep.

Jill shrank from them. Her mouth moved.

"No," she whispered. "Oh, God, no…"

They grabbed her arms, yanking her from the jeep.

She screamed in pain. Her cries were ignored.

Thirty seconds later, the jeep stood deserted in the road.

The VC vanished into the jungle with their captive.

Bolan ignored his weariness.

This was his first tour of duty in Vietnam, his first experience with war, but he had already learned to push himself beyond the natural limits of endurance. His life depended on it.

He was still in camou fatigues, but he had traded his sniper rifle for an M-16 equipped with noise-and-flash suppressor. A .45 automatic nestled in leather on his hip. Grenades were clipped onto the belt around his waist. A long double-edged knife was sheathed behind the .45.