The Executioner checked around the long courtyard for the next target of opportunity.

A radio sprouted from the top of the northwestern tower, the corner of the fortress Bolan could not see clearly from his earlier vantage point among the rocks. Too risky. Three men were posted outside the lower entrance, and the guys upstairs were wide awake — at least, slivers of bright light showed through the slit windows near the top. And he could hear the chugging sound of a generator in that direction.

Two things were of paramount importance to him now: transport and ammunition.

At the far end of the yard, the motor-pool sergeant and a couple of his men were still servicing a dark green Land Rover; it had to be Zayoud's own car for them to be working this late. A row of six trucks were parked neatly in line against the courtyard wall.

Two half-tracks and four more Jeeps were aligned at right angles to the other vehicles. The naked bulbs of the work lamps lit the whole area at that end with a harsh yellow glare, which would spotlight Bolan carrying the bulky rucksack.

Two more wooden sheds had been built against the inner wall, about thirty feet farther along from where he was hidden. The first structure was a stable — Bolan could tell by the slightly pungent odor carried on the breeze. He slipped into the narrow alley between the two buildings. The outer shack, with a tar-paper roof, had a small back door hidden from the view of the guards inside the compound. It was padlocked. Bolan removed the multitool from his belt and unscrewed the clasp.

The huge stone walls of Hagadan gave a completely false sense of security to the troops boxed up inside.

Bolan gently pushed the door inward.

The place was stacked from floor to roof with wellmarked crates: there were smoke grenades, frags and incendaries; boxes of 7.62 mm ammunition, 9 mm and even some old British .303's; feed belts and a couple of mortars; half a dozen containers stenciled in Russian held greased AK-47's. Everything Zayoud needed to launch his treacherous coup. And Bolan's actions had forced his hand — he had to strike soon or lose any advantage of surprise. Bolan left three more charges strategically placed deep within the ammo dump. He timed them all for 09.33.

He was locking himself into a tight schedule.

He shut the door and replaced the clasp. A loose plank in the side of the stable gave him access to the hiding place he needed. The big white stallion, the one he had seen in the satellite photographs, snickered softly in the shadows.

Bolan stood at the end of his stall and whispered, "Easy, boy." The horse quieted down.

Bolan tested the ladder for noise, then climbed into the warm scented darkness beneath the sloping roof. Within moments both he and the stallion were resting easily.

Bolan awoke, refreshed, before the native troops began their early-morning prayer ritual.

A couple of trucks went out, followed by Harrison standing in the back of a Jeep. Bolan watched the patrols leaving and scanned the yard through a knothole under the eaves of the hayloft.

Zayoud strode over to the communication center, snapping orders at various men he passed.

There was a shouted commotion from atop the southeastern tower. Someone had spotted the guard's body from the parapet. A squad ran down toward the main gate, detailed to check out what had happened to the man. Hassan Zayoud reappeared, disturbed by the sudden confusion. Impatiently he tapped a leather riding crop against his leg, waiting for the report on the sentry.

Bolan heard footsteps close by. Bull Keegan and Billy Joe Hooker, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, paused by the stable wall. They had no idea that the guard's attacker was only a few feet above them listening to every word.

"Probably fell off the wall," commented Keegan, with a derisive snort. "They're all a bunch of jerks. Still, nothing's going to stop Zayoud now. We're parading at 16.30 and going in tonight. By tomorrow afternoon there'll be a new king."

"Yeah," said Billy Joe Hooker, "then I'm going to find me one of those Arab chicks and look at what they've been hiding tinder those veils. If I like what I see, I'm gonna have a little fun with her on the spot."

"And if you don't?"

"I'll tie the veil back on and have her anyway!" said Billy Joe, laughing.

"Uh-oh, here comes Zayoud. Let's get scarce or he'll be ordering the lot of us out on another patrol..."

"Where's Captain Ruark?" snapped the prince.

Captain now, thought Bolan. Ruark never made it past sergeant last he heard.

Keegan doubled away smartly to find the mercenary commander. Billy Joe Hooker sidled off in the other direction to avoid being picked for patrol duty.

There was movement all over the yard. The mechanics were giving each vehicle a final inspection. A bunch of recently arrived mercs were gathered round a blackboard, being tested on the layout of the city and their target assignments. The court falconer was talking quietly to his hooded charges.

Bolan crept down from the loft.

The main gates were being dragged wide open. A convoy of six more trucks, plus two Saracen armored cars, rolled into the fortress. The squad, carrying the ambushed sentry's remains, staggered in behind the new vehicles.

Bolan took advantage of all this activity.

He waited till the passing trucks effectively blocked any view of the stable, then confidently walked out into the morning sunlight. A couple of Arab recruits to Zayoud's cause sat nearby listening to a third soldier lecture them on stripping a Bren. The corporal seemed to be stuck...

"Try the body-locking pin next," suggested Bolan brightly. Within moments the stranger was showing them the finer points of field-stripping the sturdy British weapon — just one more merc passing on his trade.

A crowd came spilling out down the steps of the main complex — chow time was over. One of Zayoud's shiny-eyed devotees saw the lookout's body and began wailing in grief. The sheikh himself had gone over to inspect the battered corpse and now had some very pointed questions for Ruark. Another Arab trooper came across to join Bolan's informal lecture group. He interrupted them with the news that their comrade certainly had not been shot or stabbed.

The American shrugged and redirected their attention to the light machine gun. "Okay, like I was saying, you've got to watch the gas gauge. That's this knob here..."

Ruark had called a couple of his men over and was grilling them in front of Zayoud. Bolan's hand never strayed more than a few inches from the Uzi, which he had placed on the corner of the groundsheet. He showed no particular interest when Kevin skipped down into the courtyard. The boy waited by Zayoud's elbow until the prince glanced around with an impatient greeting.

Bolan was too far away to hear their brief conversation, but he did see the sheikh wave toward the stable with a distracted gesture of approval. Kevin crossed to the wooden shed almost at a trot, as if he were trying to get there before Zayoud could change his mind. Bolan returned his attention to the trainees.

"Right, now see if you can do it without any help from me. Come on, you can unscrew the barrel faster than that — it won't break off in your hand!" He rose from a half-crouching position and by pretending to watch the men working on the gun from a different angle, he moved around for a better view of the yard.

Kevin led the stallion out from the stable. He was a magnificent horse — not pure white, after all, but more of a silvery gray — with wide nostrils and intelligent eyes. His rippling muscles bespoke the speed and stamina of the finest Arabian stock. The youngster gave just the slightest twitch to encourage the horse to follow him around the perimeter.