Chief Smith looked forward and screamed. His head was above water, and over the top of the metal container. Two feet down the chain the boxes passed through an opening barely large enough to let them slip inside. There was only two inches leeway into the freezer box, where the containers would “cook” for eight hours to turn them into five-foot blocks of crystal-clear ice.

Chief Smith’s screams were endless. Both of the Mafia men laughed, making a bet on whether he would or would not pass out again before entering the freezer.

The container behind his was full and began to move slowly forward.

Chief Smith looked at the sheer side of the heavy metal opening ahead. He had to lower his shoulders and head or be decapitated. Slowly he sank into the water, immersing his shoulders, neck, chin, mouth. The water was now within an inch of the top of the container. Expansion would move it up to the top. Now he had two inches between his nose, the water and the oncoming top of the freezer.

His head moved yet lower.

Then he relaxed and smiled. Hell, he was in his own swimming pool and diving for marbles on the bottom with the kids. Damn, they were good! He took a deep breath and headed for the bottom, wondering why his arms would not work. It was going to be a great day of swimming with the kids. Hell, he’d taken the day off from work. That was why they built the pool!

The two Mafia killers stared in amazement.

“See that? He just went under, no scream, no getting his head chopped off.”

“Must have been out of his skull. Hey, think of the big surprise some ice man is going to have tomorrow when he starts taking the big slabs of ice out. Inside one of them there will be the former chief of police. Bet you fifty bucks that asshole Smith will even have a smile frozen on his face.”

“No bet. Give the man the five hundred and let’s get out of here.”

“Five hundred? I thought this was Carlo’s ice house.”

The taller hit man shook his head.

The other one went to talk to the plant operator.

“All automatic, right?” the Mafia goon asked.

“Yeah, right. I pushed the buttons. It will fill the cubes, feed them into the freezing area and even turn out the lights in this section.”

“Good,” the hit man said. “That makes it easier.” He shot the operator twice in the face, made sure he was dead, then left for the car.

“You didn’t think we could leave a witness who wasn’t in the family to a kill like that, did you?” the hit man asked. He split the five hundred with his partner. They went to the car and drove away.

The form huddled on the dark Maryland ground did not move. When the sudden coolness of the thunder-shower erupted over the land, the body twitched, writhed, then returned to consciousness.

Vince Carboni sat up in the rain-drenched wheat field. He lowered his hands to support himself. When they touched the ground he cried out in terrible, agonizing pain.

Carboni looked at his hands and saw the charred flesh. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

Damned near burned to death, he thought as he looked around. It was dark. The hard shower was a quick one, soaking him thoroughly, dumping an inch of water on the land in fifteen minutes, then charging away.

He could not move his fingers. His arms were hairless, black in spots with heavy burns. His pants had burned halfway to his knees, and he wondered if he could walk on his blackened legs.

Carboni remembered that the wind had shifted suddenly and blown the wall of fire toward him, cutting off his escape route. The flames had danced all around him like a fire storm. He had tried to run through the fire, but the flames had been so intense he could not breathe.

Now he took a deep breath and screamed. A new pain seared inside him. His lungs must be scorched, too.

Move. He had to move or die. He had to get to a doctor or a hospital or he might not even live until morning. His head felt strangely cool.

His hair!

It had burned off. He felt damned lucky to be alive. Vaguely he remembered crawling from the blackened stalks into this unburned part. Or was it across a road?

Road.

The word touched his logic center. He should move toward the road. Where was it?

He heard something disturb the stillness of the countryside. It sounded again, closer. He looked and saw lights — headlights! The road was that way, and not far. He tried to stand. He cried out in pain when he pressed down with his hands to rise.

Slowly he moved to his knees and balanced there a moment before he attempted to straighten up.

Three times he tried. Three times he fell. On the fourth try he windmilled his arms and gained his balance.

But could he walk? He tried one short step and did not fall. Took a second step, then a third. He turned toward the road. The car had long since passed. He had no way of knowing how far away the road was, but even a hundred yards would be a marathon for him.

His feet were not burned inside the shoes. That might be all that saved his life... if he could get to the road.

Another car came, and he saw he was now less than a hundred feet from the road, but he would not get there in time to stop the car.

One more step.

Another step.

He felt as if he were walking through knee-deep mud. He had never been so tired, so physically spent.

“Lucky to be alive. Lucky to be alive!” He chanted the words out loud as he worked with half steps slowly toward the hazy shape of the ditch ahead and the road.

Damn, it was a long way.

For the first time in years he had not checked to see if his weapon was in place. Now his clublike hands reached for his hip holster. It was empty, the big .44 AutoMag gone. Should not have a holster on. People would ask questions.

He tried to undo it. His belt went through a loop on his holster; again and again he tried to get the belt unfastened. His hands refused to obey his commands. Three fingers on his right hand were burned together.

Carboni tried with his left hand. On the fourth try he opened the belt and painfully pulled it out of the loops until the holster fell off.

He took a deep breath of relief, only to scream as the cool air hit his burned lungs. He gagged, almost threw up, then shook his head in fury and frustration and continued for the road.

He realized his shirt was nearly burned off. There was little left of the front. He would need a great story to explain this. He would think of something. First, the road.

He struggled ahead.

The ditch itself came as a surprise. He fell into it and rolled into the foot of water from the thunderstorm. The coolness felt marvelous on his burning hands. He immersed them again, then dunked his head.

He almost lapsed into unconsciousness. The sound of a car whizzing by roused him. He struggled to his hands and knees. His hands felt better. He turned his palms upward, raised his fingers and used the backs of his wrists to hold his weight as he crawled forward.

He lay at the edge of the blacktopped lane, hoping the next driver saw him before he ran over him.

Vince Carboni, who vowed to destroy Mack Bolan, lay on the warm blacktop waiting to find out if he would live or die.

Mack Bolan drove back to his hotel and changed from a conservative business suit to a black skin suit with the silenced Beretta 93-R under his arm. He hooked a fragger on his web belt opposite his “flesh-shredding” .44AutoMag.

He called Nino Tattaglia but there was no answer. He probably had already been picked up by the police. This would help cement his position in the mob, and he would be out in a week or so.

Bolan figured Nazarione would find out about the warrants for him before they could be served. Which meant he would be holed up in his mansion or off on a sudden trip in his private jet. Either way there was one proved method to find out.