Bolan stared at the undulating haze that smudged the horizon. What could he say? The chance that he would be able to return any of Chandler's equipment was extremely remote.

Red Chandler had laid down the rules.

Despite the urgency of the situation, Bolan played the game Chandler's way. First they tried out Red's latest toy — the Tiger Cub. Then they discussed tactics, military history, the latest developments in the weapons market... finally, Red Chandler conducted a monologue on the merits of doing business with Bolan. "That Sand Hog you want is one of a kind. And as for the ultralight..." Chandler knew that Bolan's credit was good — for virtually any amount. And he was also certain that this taciturn warrior would not ask him for these items unless Bolan was playing for the highest stakes imaginable. "And on top of everything else you want all this stuff crated up to look like anything but what it is!" Chandler rubbed his hand over his close-cropped coppery hair. It was already turning grayish white over the ears — helping Mack Bolan was going to complete the process.

"I really need it, Red," said the soldier. "By tomorrow morning."

"And they call me crazy!" retorted Chandler. Then he stuck out his hand, saying, "Okay, but I want a full report on how each piece performs under battle conditions."

"It's a deal. I'll have Grimaldi fly in tomorrow."

Forty-eight hectic hour's after leaving for Florida, Bolan was back at his base.

Danny Jones flew in from Westfield to join him.

"Any problems getting away?" he asked her.

"No. This is my semester off. I'm supposed to be doing writing and research. What could be more natural than my going back to the Haufari dig for a short visit?"

"Did you call the Minister of Culture?"

"Salim Zakir was in a meeting with the sheikh. But I left a message with his office."

Danny poured them both strong coffee. The table was littered with notepads, equipment checklists, maps — the Executioner's order of battle. Despite the speed with which this operation was being mounted, Danny appreciated just how thoroughly Bolan prepared for action.

She could not deny a surge of excitement at briefing him on Khurabi and discussing the best approaches to Hagadan, but at the same time it was mixed with trepidation for Danny knew their safety, perhaps even their lives, depended on getting it right. They had only one shot at pulling it off. No consolation prizes.

"Look, you might think this is a dumb question, but why not hand over the whole matter to Sheikh Zayoud? I'm sure he'd take action when he knows the score."

"That was the first option I considered. There are a couple of problems, though. First, how much would it take to persuade Zayoud that his own brother is plotting against him? And, once convinced, he might unleash everything against Hassan — with Kevin still being held hostage in the cross fire. Secondly, if Hassan Zayoud got word of what was happening, it might precipitate him into staging a coup right now. Either way, things could turn into a bloodbath."

"This way at least you preserve some element of surprise."

"Yes. When Kevin is safe, we can then explain things to Harun Zayoud." A buzzer called Bolan's attention to the computer. It was the Bear. "What's new?"

"They're still keeping a lid on the Florida kills. From what I can monitor they still haven't figured out the connection."

"If and when they do, the whole affair will have to plod its way through the regular diplomatic channels." Bolan watched the images on the video screen.

There was no mistaking the high-altitude view of the desert fortress; the layout of Hagadan was already imprinted on Bolan's memory. The match was perfect. Succeeding photos brought the brooding structure into close-up, the foreshortened shadows indicating that the surveillance had taken place in the early afternoon. The definition was good enough to count a number of vehicles parked in the courtyards.

"Three Jeeps plus a couple of army trucks," commented Kurtzman. "And that looked like a Land Rover on the approach road. Quite a lot of activity."

"Yeah. And that could be a generator truck parked against the wall." Bolan could make out the tiny figures of sentries posted on the ramparts, but the photos were too grainy to permit positive identification of nationality or uniform.

Danny had moved across to stand behind Bolan, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. He felt the sudden tension in her fingers as the final picture in the series flashed on the screen.

A white stallion was being paraded around the outer yard. A small group was watching the magnificent horse. The four guys standing back in a semicircle might have been the bodyguards for the man seated at the center; sitting cross-legged beside him was a slighter figure. "Kevin?" Bolan wondered aloud.

"That's the way I read it," said Kurtzman.

"Zayoud has several sons..." Danny added cautiously.

"What would they be wearing?"

"A thaub." She was referring to the long white robe favored by the true Arabs.

"And a head cloth? What do they call them — a ghutra?" asked Bolan. "Looks like that young man is wearing jeans and a sport shirt or something just as casual."

It was the end of Kurtzman's transmission. The Bear waited on the line, knowing that Bolan was silently making a final assessment.

After a few moments the man in black said simply, "We're going in."

"Right," Danny backed him up.

"Two last things I need from you," Bolan told the Bear. "All the material you've compiled, especially the satellite shots... I want them on one tape. And I want you to call Steve Hohenadel and tell him that everything's on as we arranged." Bolan had already held a long-distance conference with Hohenadel and his partner, Chris Sorbara, in East Africa. They were the ace bush pilots who had flown Bolan and Phoenix Force on their mission to Blood River. The Executioner knew he could trust them.

"What about Grimaldi?" asked Kurtzman.

"I'll call him myself."

It was the next thing Bolan did — and Jack Grimaldi was waiting.

"It's a go!" instructed Bolan.

"I'm taking her off auto," warned Grimaldi, glancing back over his shoulder to where Bolan stood hunched over near the cockpit entrance. "There could be some turbulence up ahead. Better warn Danny."

Bolan returned to the cabin. Danica Jones sat glued to the window, just as she had for the past two hours. She appeared excited, which brought out a schoolgirl excitement in her. Bolan liked her fresh-faced enthusiasm.

She seemed even more vital, more alive inside, than she had in the suffocating confines of her retreat at Westfield. There was an edge of anticipated danger, the keen thrill of being tested against long odds, as they headed into action. All three of them shared and savored the same stimulation.

"Nearly there?" asked Danny.

"Soon," Bolan told her. "But Jack says we could be in for a few bumps."

Danny did not have to be told to fasten her safety belt, then she resumed her watch through the porthole.

The vast and block of Arabia, hostile and uninviting, stretched from the foam-flecked shoreline to the horizon. Here the earth's crust lay bare, without the slightest shade of trees or the cool refreshment of streams and takes, but parched, crumpled and forbidding.

It was also starkly beautiful in its own primeval way. The checkerboard politics of the Middle East had forced Grimaldi to plot a zigzag course, skipping this way and that like a drunken frog.

The cover story over the airwaves was that they were a special team on their way to put out an oil blaze in Oman.

Jack Grimaldi nursed the big cargo clipper through the turbulence. He had fought alongside the Executioner in this part of the world before — in the big blitzer's recent war against the Muslim Madman. The veteran pilot wore a mirthless grin as he adjusted the trim; after all, Ayatollah Khomeini was only one of the cannibal contenders for that dubious title.