One does not plan each successive step of a firefight. Actions in warfare proceed from the instincts, not from the intellect, and Bolan's first shot, at such proximity to the enemy, of necessity became a fusillade. Diving and shooting, rolling and shooting, eyes ever on the enemy—these are the dictates of effective warfare at eyeball range, and The Executioner knew them well. One chatter-gun was silenced by his third shot. The other gunman had spun to the rear of the vehicle and was frantically trying to bring the spraying track onto Bolan's furious advance. There was not time. Bolan's fifth shot tore into the gun arm; the sixth impacted squarely on the bridge of the nose even before the heavy weapon could fall to the ground, and man and chatterer went to earth together.

Another man scampered around the front fender of the vehicle, firing wildly with a pistol, the bullets singing past Bolan and ricocheting into automobiles behind him. Bolan's .32 was empty. He went into motion, leaping toward cover, just as Zitka stepped into the open, pistol raised to shoulder level, and popped two shots into the other man's chest. Silence descended. Even the patio was quiet. The burning automobile was lending an eerie quality to the silence. A gradually growing babble of excitement was beginning to issue from the patio area.

Zitka had run over to the Dodge and was dragging the dead bodies out onto the pavement. Bolan moved swiftly to the Corvette, started it, and swung toward the Dodge, slowing down for Zitka to jump in, then gunned down the ramp and onto the street. Zitka relaxed into the backrest. "Got that garbage to hell out of my car," he panted.

"Let the cops figure it," Bolan clipped. He was heading west; moments later they intersected the coast highway and swung southward.

"Wonder if the insurance company will pay off," Zitka worried aloud.

"Huh?" Bolan was driving leisurely now, allowing his nervous system to get its pace.

"My car. Did you see it? Full of holes. Tore all to hell. I bet the bastards won't pay off."

"Welcome back to the war," Bolan said.

"I didn't know I'd miss it so much."

"You serious?"

"Sure I'm serious. Haven't had so much fun since I got back to this vale of tears."

They drove in silence for several minutes. Zitka lit a cigarette, handed it to Bolan, then lit another for himself. Presently, Bolan said, "You're a good friend, Zit."

"I better be."

"Huh?"

"I said, I better be. There's a hundred grand on your head, Mack. Big guy back there offered to cut me in."

"Yeah?"

A momentary silence; then: "Yeah. A hundred grand. They sure must love you."

"You wouldn't finger me for the Mafia, Zit," Bolan observed quietly. "Not for money. For fun, maybe, yeah—but not for money."

"It'd be a hell of a game, wouldn't it?" Zitka mused.

"What would?"

"If I decided to try collecting that hundred grand. I wonder which one of us would wind up dead."

"You would," Bolan replied unemotionally.

"Think so?"

"Yeah. I wouldn't want to kill you, Zit. But I would. If I had to."

"I guess you would. It'd still be a hell of a game."

"I guess so."

Zitka chuckled merrily. "A real grand slammer. Don't take me serious, Mack."

"If you're looking for some fun—the odds are a lot farther out on my side. Don't even count the cops. They're gentlemen. Just count the junkies, the punks, hoods, goons, and gunsels, the amateurs and the pro's and just any guy with a sudden hungering for a large chunk of greens. Back them up with the Mafia, the best-organized crime syndicate in the world, and every contractor in the business. There's odds, Zit. If it's fun you want..."

"I said don't take me serious," Zitka protested. "Hell, I had my chance to throw in with them, and I turned 'em down flat."

"We work good together, Zit."

Zitka sighed. "Let's go somewhere and get a drink."

"Sorry. Bars are off-limits to me now, Zit. One little rhubarb and I'm behind bars. How about some coffee?"

"Naw. Let's just drive and talk. I think we got something to talk out."

"Okay."

"What's your plans?"

"I thought I'd look up Jim Brantzen."

"Doc Brantzen?"

"Yeah. He's out now and in civilian practice. Cosmetic surgery, he calls it. Remember that raid at Dak To? He's always figured he owes me something for that. I figure maybe I'll see if he still feels that way."

"Gonna get your face changed, eh?"

Bolan grinned. "I hate to part with it, but I guess ifs the only thing to do. I can't go on jumping at every shadow that rears up in my path."

"So you're running from the Mafia?"

"I didn't say that. I just need a camouflage job, that's all. I'm not calling off the war."

Zitka sighed again. "In that case, then—are enlistments open?"

Bolan threw him a fast scrutiny. "You want to join up?"

"I guess I already have."

"Yeah. I guess you have. You'll be on their list now for sure. For damn sure."

"I been thinking, too," Zitka announced.

"About what?"

"You figure the Mafia is in a fat-cat position around here?"

"I figure that."

"You figure I could be of any use to you?"

Bolan snickered. "Whispering Death Zitka? Hey, buddy, I've been there, remember? Quang So, Hwa Tring, Chak Dong—yeah, I figure you could be of some use."

"You need some reinforcements, Mack."

"Yeah, I'll buy that."

"Well, I been thinking. Lot of guys come back from Vietnam and find it hard blending back into the tedium of civilian life. Like me. And like Boom-Boom Hoffower."

Bolan raised his eyebrows and flashed a side-wise glance at his companion. "You've been in touch with Boom-Boom?"

"Yeah, he has a pad out in Laurel Canyon, dying of boredom. His wife run off with some actor, and he didn't even get excited about that. Best damn demolition man this side of the China Sea, Mack—just sitting around bored to death."

"Are you saying I could get some troops like Boom-Boom to join my war?" Bolan asked quietly.

"If you made it interesting enough."

"Mercenaries," Bolan said.

"Sure. Why not? You're fighting a bunch of mercenaries, aren't you? Fight fire with fire. I imagine you could figure some way to make this war profitable. How much did you pay for this little bomb?"

It can be profitable," Bolan assured him. The Mafia transacts a lot of cash business. There's always a pile of green wherever they may be. I've had my hands in it."

"Well, there you are," Zitka said, sighing. "Me, I'd do it just for the hell of it. But like any game, it's more interesting with some cash on the table. And think of what a troop of jungle professionals could add to your odds, Mack. I bet we could get..."

"Okay, I'm thinking about it," Bolan snapped. "Be quiet now and let me think."

"So think," Zitka growled.

Bolan smiled and drove on in silence. They passed through Manhattan Beach and continued on at a leisurely pace. Zitka sighed several times and drummed his fingers on the seat. Bolan was coming to a fateful decision. Presently he lit a cigarette, slowly exhaled the smoke, and said, "Okay."

"Okay what?" Zitka sniffed.

"Ten of us. That's all. Tight, effective, mobile— and every man a specialist. At least two more sharpshooters. Two scouts, as good as you. Boom-Boom or an equal. Two heavy-weapons men. A good technician. That's it."

Ten isn't very many," Zitka complained.

"It's enough. I don't want a damn army. A squad. A death squad, that's it. It gets too big, it gets unmanageable. I rule. I say shit, they squat and ask what color. I say when to hit, what to hit, how to hit."

"Has to be that way."

Bolan nodded his head soberly. "First man steps out of line or turns renegade gets shot on the spot. They'll have to understand that. We live under combat rules at all times."