McIntyre then phoned his pilot to get him to warm up the company jet and file a flight plan for Argentina. It wasn't exactly his favorite spot in the whole world, but it would be safe. Besides, someone with solid American currency could live like a king, if the water didn't kill him first.

Fortunately the arms dealer had retained enough self-restraint to preserve a little nest egg in a Swiss account, safe from the eagle eyes of his ex-wives' lawyers.

With about five million, he could live reasonably well in the impoverished southern country.

In the meantime, he would gather a few little trinkets to take along with him, starting with the contents of the wall safe downstairs.

McIntyre drained his Scotch and got to work.

Bolan eased through the woods, gliding through the trees as easily as the chill western breeze.

The night stalker had an eerie sense of deja vu; it was only a week ago that he had put the hit on Jones under similar conditions. The foliage was a bit different, and there was a quarter moon peeping above the treetops, but he wore the same black-quit, and the Beretta and Desert Eagle rode in their usual spots.

This time the Executioner carried a second Beretta with him to provide a little rapid firepower. It was the Model 12-S submachine gun, a deadly minigrease gun that featured exceptionally little vibration and no muzzle climb on full-auto. It could spit 9 mm parabellums at 500 rounds per minute. For this hit, Bolan carried a liberal supply of 40-round clips jammed into pouch pockets.

He crawled on elbows and knees into the grass at the edge of the tree line to inspect the main house.

Earlier, he had driven to the front gate under the pretext of asking for directions. The gate guards were unlike any he had ever seen on an upper-crust estate — three toughs who made no attempt to hide their hardware. The smallest came to the car brandishing a Remington shotgun, a Colt Python stuck in his belt. He made no pretence of civility as he roughly told Bolan to get the hell out of there. From the intent way his two companions watched Bolan, the warrior had no doubt he wouldn't have gotten off so lightly had he looked like an easier mark.

McIntyre must be scared witless, Bolan reasoned, to even have that kind of scum on his property. It looked as if the arms dealer had dived into some sewer to find a bunch of goons to replace his regular security staff. That implied that he was planning a break sometime soon, which meant that Bolan didn't have any time to waste.

Bolan had an edge-on view of the two-story Georgian house about two hundred yards away across a vast and carefully manicured lawn. A series of outbuildings lay beyond the main house, and clustered around the front door were four guards, with a case of beer at their feet. Two more chatted idly by the wall around the corner.

So far he had counted nine hardmen, and he would bet that there were at least as many more hanging around other areas of the estate. However, they weren't taking their assignment seriously, and were paying almost no attention to what was going down. They were obviously relying on safety in numbers, trusting to bulk and brawn rather than brains to keep them safe.

That hadn't worked for the dinosaurs, and it wouldn't work for these guys.

There was almost no cover between Bolan and the house, just a few trees and shrubs cut and trained into ornamental patterns. But he took advantage of what was available, making the approach to the front door on an angle, weaving from cover to cover. At each bush he paused to observe the guards, but saw no sign that they were aware of his presence. They were content to chat, rifles and stubby machine guns slung over their shoulders. The glow of cigarettes flared from time to time.

One more silent rush brought him to an evergreen carved like a perfect pyramid. Bolan had heard a superstition once that pyramids brought good luck. So much for old wives' tales.

Time to do it.

Bolan unsheathed the 93-R and sighted on the two hardguys laughing by the side of the house. The Beretta coughed out three rounds, sending one gunman staggering, his belly chewed into ribbons. His buddy gaped openmouthed until the Beretta spit again and the Executioner sent him reeling to the soft grass.

He replaced the magazine with a full clip and switched to the submachine gun, bringing it to bear on the little party by the doorway. The Beretta had been so quiet that they were still unaware of Bolan's arrival.

He squeezed the trigger, hammering a stream of 9 mm death at the unsuspecting gunmen.

Bolan fired low, stitching a fat man in his ample belly as his last beer can went flying from between twitching fingers. One man caught a full load in the groin and collapsed screaming for the few seconds it took for a severed femoral artery to bleed his corpse dry over the marble stairway. A spray of steeljacketed stingers ripped into the faces and throats of the two remaining hired killers.

The man in black inserted a fresh clip on the run, pausing by the blood-drenched stairs, listening for reinforcements. From the sounds of running feet he guessed the gunplay had attracted at least two groups.

The three hardmen by the gate were charging up the driveway, seeking a target for their half-drunken fury. The Beretta SMG stuttered its one-note death chant as Bolan drew figure eights of blood on each of the running gunmen. Three rapid bursts sent the hoods tripping over the doorstep to hell.

Flying mortar chipped from the heavy balustrades as two more gunners made their appearance from around the corner. One was blasting away with a large-caliber handgun, sighting carefully, pistol levered in a two-handed grip. A long-haired and mustached giant of a man was spraying Bolan's cover with an Uzi assault pistol grasped in one oversize ham of a fist.

The Executioner swiveled and dropped onto the bloodstained stairs. Target acquisition took only an instant, and the Uzi flew into the darkness as Bolan riddled the gunner with half a magazine.

The giant flopped hard onto his back, empty eyes staring at the quarter moon, as his chest seemed to dissolve into one large, red spot.

The stuttergun clicked on empty as the second man turned to flee, all thoughts of resistance and his easy pay vanished from his mind.

Bolan drew the big .44 and sighted over the long barrel at the retreating gunner. The cannon roared and sent its prey sliding into the dirt.

The warrior listened a moment for the sounds of more reinforcements. From the gate came the metallic thump of slamming doors, followed by the squeals of tires from what sounded like two cars.

The hired muscle were abandoning their position those that still could.

That reduced the odds a little more in Bolan's favor. But the soldier would have bet that there were at least a few hitters left who had gone to ground to wait him out in ambush.

The Executioner still had a few surprises in store.

Bolan reloaded, then ripped two fragmentation grenades from his belt and depressed the safety spoons. He smashed one through the window on each side of the main door and dived for cover behind a large plant stand at the base of the stairs. A terrified shout erupted from a window as the two grenades exploded within heartbeats of each other, showering the lawn with glass and rubble.

The soldier bounded up the refuse-strewed steps and halted by the oak door. A solid smash from his booted foot above the brass door handle drove it back on well-oiled hinges as Bolan ducked away from the opening.

The storm of angry lead whistled through the opening from somewhere inside, expecting to find a body flying through the entrance.

Bolan wound up and tossed off another grenade, throwing it overhand with an easy motion around the edge of the doorway. He heard it strike a wall before bouncing away like a lead billiard ball.