Every hundred yards he paused to listen. His diligence compd off when he finally heard the faint sound of rubber on concrete in the distance. Jones was approaching the relative safety of the highway. A couple of stops later, ears cocked for the slightest unusual sound, he heard a muffled thump and a curse only a few yards ahead as Jones tripped over his own feet.

Bolan proceeded cautiously, knowing that Jones would be armed.

The warrior poked his head around a low palm and saw Jones on hands and knees, searching for something.

His night goggles showed him the butt of a pistol in the grass ten feet to Jones's left.

"Time's up, Jones." Bolan stepped into the open.

"I give up, man!" The drug lord scrambled to his feet and threw his arms over his head, all bravado gone, a sickly, supplicating smile etched into his face. His clothes were torn and dirty, and he was bleeding from multiple cuts and scratches sustained on his wild flight through the underbrush. Still, Jones tried to brazen it out, using tactics that had always worked before. "You want money? I got it, man. You walk away, you can name your price, any amount. A hundred thousand, a million, you just say the word. You just name your price. I've got gold, I've got diamonds. Whatever I've got, you can have if you just let me go."

"Jones, you've got nothing at all." The Beretta coughed a 3-round burst, stitching a bloody triangle into Jones's heart.

Bolan stood in the shower, enjoying the feeling of the water as it cascaded over his weary body. The warrior spent so much time wallowing in the gutters with the filth that made up the underworld that he sometimes felt he would never be able to get clean.

An insistent ringing pierced the sound of the pounding water. There were only two people who knew he was at this number: his brother, Johnny, and Hal Brognola. A call from either meant trouble.

Bolan climbed dripping from the shower and grabbed the phone. "Hello."

"Striker. How's it going down there?"

"You can read about it in the morning paper, Hal."

"That's good. Because I need you for something very special."

"What's the catch this time?"

"Striker, really." Brognola did his best to sound offended, but they both knew that the man from Justice never got in touch unless Bolan's involvement was strictly necessary. "Let's just say that this has an international flavor. When can you be here?"

"Is tomorrow soon enough?"

"You know I hate political games, Striker. They're usually worse than grubby most often they're just plain stupid." Hal Brognola paced restlessly around his Justice Department office, eyes skipping rapidly over the cluttered surface of his desk. He didn't like being told what to do, especially when it meant calling in a favor from a man who not long ago had had a heavy price on his head, put there by the same people who now were pressuring Brognola to ask the guy for help. "But maybe this time there just might be some sense in those lamebrains."

Mack Bolan waited patiently for Brognola to come to the point, maintaining a still silence that would have spooked anyone but the man from Justice.

"It seems the President got a call from one Alan Garcia, president of Peru. Now this rather pleased the Man, since these two haven't exactly been on speaking terms for the past while. You know why?" Brognola jabbed out the question with an index finger as he sank into the chair behind his file-covered desk.

He fixed Bolan with a flinty stare.

"Money."

"Give the man a cigar. Peru has been holding back payments on billions of dollars' worth of American loans. That has gotten a lot of people very hot under the collar."

Bolan knew it. A lot of people refused to see the evil that stood on nearly every street corner in the United States, a menace that was slowly making honest Americans prisoners in their own homes.

The worst of the ostriches were the few who could afford the life-style that insulated them from the realities of the street. But touch a dollar that belonged to them, and those same people would scream as though someone had shot the family dog.

Brognola was a little uncomfortable. He'd asked Bolan here for something that amounted to a politically motivated request. In spite of their long association, Bolan set his own priorities.

There was nothing to stop the big man from walking away for his own reasons. The Fed pushed ahead. "In a nutshell, Garcia hinted that Peru might rethink its position on the loans in return for one small favor. A favor that's a cry for help."

"So there's a catch, is there?" Bolan's tone was noncommittal. He had worked too closely with Brognola to believe that his friend would ever knowingly throw him a curve. Brognola had earned his respect and friendship long ago and had hung by Bolan when just knowing the Executioner was close to treason.

But even Brognola couldn't see through a brick wall, so Bolan had to decide for himself if someone at a higher level was trying to pin something on him.

There were people in every country on the planet who would pay a small fortune to read his obituary. Some of them lived right here in Washington.

"Don't worry, Striker, this is right down your alley. You know much about the Shining Path?"

Bolan had a file-card memory, with an entry for most of the terrorist organisations in the world. Put on paper, it would practically make an encyclopedia, but the answer sprang immediately to mind.

He knew the Shining Path all right, and his interest quickened as he spoke. "They're a fanatical left-wing terrorist group trying to destabilize the Peruvian government. They're aggressive, primitive and violent, extremely secretive. A real problem on the home front."

"Absolutely right, except for one point. Now they're no longer primitive. They used to be a pretty low-budget revolutionary group. They carried on their war with a few hundred captured weapons, mostly without ammunition, and about 300,000 sticks of dynamite. But now they've changed tactics. The Shining Path has been hitting banks and using the money to buy black market arms. And the death toll looks like it's going through the roof."

"And this is where I come in?"

"Exactly. The latest information shows that they have an American source. The same M-16's and M 60's our Army uses are ending up in the hands of the Shining Path."

Bolan felt his stomach do a flip as a sudden anger coursed through him. Somewhere an arms dealer was turning armament made to keep the peace into weapons of terror. Innocent people were dying because another "businessman" was intent on making a buck.

And every bullet was stamped Made in the U.S.A.

Bolan shifted in his seat, the sudden urge to action becoming almost a physical force. "Why me, Hal, instead of the CIA? And where would I start?"

Brognola leaned back in his chair as the sudden power of the man across from him showed in the contained, catlike movements and blazing eyes. The big Fed experienced a momentary desire to follow Bolan into the field, such was the strength that Bolan radiated. But it was only a brief fantasy. Brognola knew his limitations he'd be about as much use to the warrior as a rubber scalpel would be to a surgeon.

"Garcia is a little paranoid where the Agency is concerned. Having a bunch of spooks wandering around Peru would probably cause more problems than it would solve. As for the second question, you start out on the West Coast. The FBI has a lead that would be worth following. I hope it pans out, since right now it's the only one we've got. Officially the mission is to plug the arms pipeline from this end. If you find something that might send you on to the Peruvian connection, that's up to you. But I know that a lot of people would appreciate it. Unofficially, of course." Brognola fished among a thick pile of files weighing down a corner of his desk before dropping one in front of Bolan. "That's what we know about the Shining Path. It'll make for some interesting reading. There's also a plane ticket and the names of your contacts on the coast."