In a second, a blast of scorching flame erupted through the doorway. Bolan made his move, diving through the floating plaster dust and landing in a roll. The Beretta nosed in the gloom, seeking a target.

All Bolan found was destruction. Shredded ancestors hung in tatters from the hall walls.

Fine antiques looked as though they had been chewed by a marching army of termites. In a dining room to the left, the floor was covered in crystal and china fragments, hurled from glass cabinets lining the room.

The killers had set a trap for Bolan, with cross fire coming from the doorway on the left of the hall and from a second man hidden behind an overturned mahogany dresser at the end of the hall. One of them lay crumpled halfway through the door leading into the dining room. A second killer lay behind the dresser, leaking onto the Persian carpet in the hall, twisted into an unnatural position by the blast. He was partially concealed by the remnants of a crystal chandelier jerked from its mooring by the explosion.

After a moment of study, Bolan eased to his right to peer into the opposite room. Feathers and flecks of padding floated in the air, torn from the insides of assorted kid leather furniture. Two empty frames stared like sightless eyes from each side of a massive fieldstone fireplace. Bolan surmised that McIntyre was making his break, and was taking what he could with him.

Not a chance.

Bolan got to his feet and started up the broad carpeted staircase to the second floor. This was the type of situation he didn't like — pushing ahead into enemy territory where the foe knew the ground and made the rules was nerve-racking work, like clearing a village in house-to-house fighting.

Still, it had to be done, and the soldier would do whatever it took to get to McIntyre.

Or die trying.

Bolan shut that thought away. Death was something that he lived with, a force as close to him as the air he breathed. There was nothing new about facing death; and he had delivered too many enemies into cold, wet graves to fear his own passing.

Conquering fear was the challenge, fighting down the icy panic that clawed at a man's chest when he had to lay everything on the line, especially his life.

He had faced down that fear long ago. Now death and fear were merely other weapons in his arsenal.

Quieter than a Ka-bar, they slowed the enemy's hand and clouded his judgment, giving the Executioner the fighting edge that sometimes made the difference.

Ahead of him, someone was loaded down with a lot of fear. He could feel it streaming out to meet him.

A long hall at the top of the stairs stretched to the right and left, half a dozen closed doors ranged along each length.

Bolan eased the 93-R out of its holster and turned left. Creeping along noiselessly, he paused by the first door and placed his ear against the wood, watching the opposite door intently. Silence.

He repeated the maneuver at each of the remaining doors. At the last on the right, he heard muffled, ragged breathing on the other side. Bolan edged away from the door slightly and flattened himself against the wall, the Beretta extended in his grasp.

The fear got to the man inside. He couldn't bear the waiting any longer. Bolan saw the door handle turn infinitely slowly. Tugging gently on the door, the gunner opened it a crack, peered down the hallway and found himself looking down the cavern of the Beretta's barrel.

Bolan squeezed, and the back of the thug's head flew into the room behind as a red star appeared above his right eye. The corpse slid out of sight with a thump, an astonished expression etched permanently on its face.

The Executioner catfooted back down the hall, aware that the noise, slight as it had been, was more than enough to alert any other tense watchers to his presence.

At the first door in the other section of the hall, Bolan paused again, pressing his ear to the dark wood.

The door flew open with a jerk, as the man inside decided to go for a quick kill, planning to get the drop on Bolan as he eased along the hall. Caught off guard, Bolan fell forward, striking the gunman in the knees. The two collapsed in a tangle, with the other man momentarily on top, and Bolan on his stomach.

Bolan flipped over like a five-star wrestler, bringing the Beretta around quickly to bear on the guy.

His left hand automatically clutched for the killer's throat. But the other guy wasn't about to give up.

He swung his .22 in an arc that connected solidly with Bolan's wrist, knocking the Beretta from the warrior's hand.

Grinning in triumph, the gunner poked the .22 into Bolan's side and jerked the trigger.

The professional gunner's look of satisfaction changed to consternation as he realised he had forgotten to release the safety. Chalk up another victory for the fear factor, Bolan thought, relief washing over him as his knee exploded into the other man's groin.

The killer collapsed on his side, all interest in Bolan lost as he struggled with the agony.

Bolan solved that problem for him as he sprang to his feet, retrieved the Beretta and knocked the guy into unconsciousness.

Bolan paused a minute to flex his hand.

Fortunately nothing seemed to be broken, and the fingers responded to his commands. His wrist was protesting, but Bolan didn't have time for the pain. There would be an ugly bruise up and down his arm in a few hours, but he was still sound enough for combat.

The big man proceeded down the hall, listening at each door, barely conscious of his throbbing wrist. McIntyre was nearby, as proved by the stiffening resistance. The last guy had been dressed as a professional bodyguard might be, not like the collection of local toughs Bolan had previously encountered.

Pausing at the fourth door he checked, he thought he heard the sound of something scuffing on carpet. He listened more intently, but the sound was not repeated.

He listened at the last two doors to make sure that he wouldn't be gunned down from behind.

The problem was getting through that door unscathed. It was one of the hardest challenges that any military man had to face without backup. Sure, he could pop the door and clear the room with a double load of grenades.

But he wanted McIntyre alive to answer a few questions.

Bolan had been in similar situations before, and he had learned from experience that the first man through a doorway often ran into a barrage from waiting gunners, living only long enough to distract the targets for the backup troops. It was a method often used by suicide terrorist squads, or by self-confident thugs who didn't know the odds.

There had to be a better way. Bolan opened the door nearest to the stairwell to test out a theory.

Inside, he found a deserted bedroom, with faint moonlight pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows.

The large windows swung open wide like French doors after he released the catch.

Sticking his head out the window, he observed the next window some eight feet away. There was no ledge that he could use as a support to creep along, nor were there any irregularities in the wall to give him enough hand holds to climb up the side of the house.

The warrior unwound a length of webbing with a hook at the end and fastened the hook to his belt. He tied the other end to the center bar of the window and gave a strong yank. It held. Stepping carefully on the windowsill, he leaned back out the window at a forty-five-degree angle to inspect the roof.

The eaves trough above looked old and fractured, barely strong enough to support the water it carried. A large stone chimney protruded halfway down the roof, just a few feet beyond where the next window ended.

Bolan pulled a length of black nylon cord from around his waist and tied on a grappling hook that he extracted from one of the many pockets of the black-quit. Trying to compensate for the awkward angle he was forced to assume, he whirled the hook around his head in a widening circle before letting fly.