It missed, and Bolan remained motionless as it scraped along the roof and bounced off the eaves trough with a sound he imagined could be heard in the next county. This was not the best position to be caught in.

One more try, but this time the hook disappeared near the chimney. A couple of heaves on the line, as though he were trying to land a marlin, failed to dislodge the hook.

Bolan untied himself from the webbing and checked his weapons once again, then put on a pair of goggles to shield his eyes. He eased out the window, grasping the nylon rope as tightly as possible, and began to work his way toward the next window. He edged along in crablike fashion, fighting against the torque of the angle, which would flip him over and over if he lost his footing. Several times he had to raise himself on the rope as the angle decreased.

In about three minutes he was by the window, his feet planted on the concrete two feet from the glass.

He risked a peek to the side. Even though there were no lights on in the room, from the illumination from the moon and the lamps around the grounds, he spotted two gunmen near the doorway. One was crouched behind a large desk, the other behind a solid wingback chair.

Both appeared to be sighting submachine guns on the doorway, ready to shred the first person through. He could see someone else sitting in a corner by the base of the bookcases, who he supposed was McIntyre staying out of the line of fire.

Bolan eased the SMG into his hand and pushed off slightly to the side, with as much force as if he were going for the winning basket in the NBA championship.

He came down with just as much force, shattering the window into a thousand shards that drove into the room like sleet in a gale. Bolan dropped to his feet, the SMG up and ready.

The three occupants were caught by surprise, their attention fixed on the door to the hall, which they had assumed was the only way in.

It was a fatal mistake for the two henchmen. As they turned to meet the threat, Bolan held down the trigger in a sustained burst, crunching flesh and bone, flinging one man to the floor in an untidy heap. The second man half rose to his feet, squeezing off a burst, tracking bullets through the rows of books lining the room. The stream of lead climbed to the ceiling and ended abruptly as Bolan cored the guy's chest with a group of parabellum manglers, staining the gunner's crisp blue suit with dark red blood.

Bolan swiveled the smoking gun toward McIntyre, who seemed to crouch farther into the corner.

The Executioner walked over to the one remaining lamp and snapped it on, the sudden illumination making the curls of gun smoke visible in its rays. The room reeked of blood, gunfire and fear.

"Get up, McIntyre. I'm not going to kill you. Not if you cooperate." Bolan shoved his goggles onto his forehead. He was suddenly weary as the adrenaline rush of battle faded, tired of the killing that had happened this evening, yet knowing that there was more to come, much more, before he had put an end to this particular mission.

McIntyre slowly rose to his feet as the fact that he wasn't dead yet registered. With any luck, he thought, he might still live to die in bed.

If he played his cards very, very carefully.

The arms dealer glanced briefly at his dead bodyguards. It was an unpleasant sight, but they were fools who deserved what they had gotten. He hadn't paid them nearly enough for them to die for him.

"What's the matter, McIntyre, don't you like the sight of what guns can do? It's exactly the same as what they're doing in Peru now. Your guns." Bolan had watched McIntyre carefully, had seen how he had glanced at the guards and away, as if they were only so much offal. Apparently a harder man than he had at first given him credit for.

"I'll cooperate, all right. What is it that you want?" McIntyre studied the big man carefully, noting the bloodstains on his clothing.

Obviously a very capable man, able to fight and think, who would be of great value against Carrillo or anyone else. McIntyre was a pragmatist, and wouldn't let a few dead thugs prevent a possibly advantageous arrangement. Right now the only question was price, and so the businessman prepared to make a deal.

"I want information. Tell me what you know about Carrillo and his operation."

"Very little, really. He approached me several months ago with a business proposition that seemed advantageous. I admit that I needed the money badly. But it was a very simple arrangement. I sent the cargo as he directed, making the necessary contacts in other countries to ensure a valid end-use certificate. There were a number of different ways to divert the cargo into Carrillo's hands. In return, I was paid very handsomely. Who his customers were I have no idea. Before we began to conduct business, I had him investigated thoroughly. There was nothing suspicious in the way of police or military connections, although he was reported as someone not to trifle with. It was also rumored that he was an agent for another person or persons, but that was never substantiated."

"You have never met any of his associates or dealt with anyone other than Carrillo?" Bolan, adept at detecting lies and misrepresentations, believed that McIntyre was telling the truth.

"Not unless you count yourself, whoever you are." McIntyre smiled a bitter grin. "I recognize your voice as the man I spoke with this morning. I suppose you have the shipment?" Bolan nodded. "Well, I'm certain that we can come to some arrangement. I could certainly use a man like you in my organisation." To McIntyre's chagrin, Bolan merely smiled, as though the arms dealer had said something exceedingly funny. ""Come now, I'm very reasonable, even generous. I'll make you an offer you can't refuse."

Bolan said nothing. He didn't bother to refuse.

McIntyre found it difficult to restrain his annoyance. Everything was for sale. Companies, women, friends.

Even himself.

He had gotten what he had thought was a very fair price at the time, although right now the deal didn't look so attractive. He refused to believe that this man didn't have a price. If he was holding out for more than he was worth, McIntyre would agree to it to get him off his back he really wasn't in a position to argue. There would be plenty of time to settle the score later.

"Look," he said, trying to sound conciliatory. "There's a briefcase by that desk. Open it."

Bolan did so, keeping his weapon fixed on McIntyre's heart. He found piles of bills wrapped into packages of ten thousand dollars each.

"There are fifty bundles there, man. That's five hundred thousand dollars! And that will just be your signing bonus. When you've finished working for me you will never want for anything again in this life. There'll be plenty more, I assure you. So what do you say, do we have a deal?"

"Not enough, McIntyre, not nearly enough. You're going to make me a partner."

McIntyre steamed, trying to keep the lava from boiling over. He was Cameron McIntyre, a descendant of one of the most successful business families in America. As if he would actually take this man in as a partner, this upstart madman whose only asset was a fast gun. McIntyre would see him dead and damned first. Repressing the anger, he said, "I suppose that would be possible. We can see my lawyers tomorrow to work out some arrangement."

With an effort, Bolan prevented the contempt from registering on his face. "We'll start right now, then. Get Carrillo on the phone. I'll be handling the Peruvian connection in future."

The arms merchant retrieved his address book from his coat pocket, placed there in preparation for escape. He moved to the phone, stepping over the body of the gunman sprawled by the armchair.

McIntyre dialed a couple of numbers, then waited for the call to go through. "Senor Carrillo. Sorry to disturb you at this hour. However, there have been some new developments at this end that may concern some mutual friends. There is a man here I'd like you to speak with, a clause, personal friend of mine for more than ten years. I'll put him on now." He held out the phone for Bolan, a mocking smile flickering over his lips.