Bolan grinned, dropped the Mauser, and ran to the far end of the wall, where Fontenelli's prized fifty-calibre watercooled machine gun was emplaced. He hurriedly checked the ammo belt, positioned the swing-stops to a 30-degree sweep, and affixed the continuous-fire mechanism he had devised only hours earlier.

The heavy staccato of the big fifty began lacing the air, the muzzle swinging freely between the stops under the impetus of its own eruptions. Satisfied that the device was operating properly, Bolan sprinted for his car, climbed behind the far wheel, and gunned out across the parking lot in a spray of gravel.

He hit the driveway with lights out and in whining traction. Just as he entered the periphery of flare-light, an object loomed up over his front bumper, He felt the impact even as he recognized the object as a human figure and saw it hurling off into the darkness. And then he was in full light, hunched low over the steering wheel and in screaming acceleration. His head was jerked involuntarily as a projectile crashed through his windshield. Something tore into the seat alongside his shoulder. He was aware of excitedly running figures to either side of him and projectiles were now zinging into the body of the car from all sides. He put out a mental forcefield of protection around his tires, gas tank, and engine, and swung wide around the blazing wrecks that blocked the drive. One of his rear wheels dug deeply into the sandy softness at the driveway's edge, throwing the vehicle into a heart-stopping swerve. He spun the wheel into the skid, regained control, and swung back onto the hard surface of the drive at full acceleration. The tires screeched in protest, but held on, and dug in, and then he was rolling free and angling into the road.

Scattered shots were still sounding behind him. He glanced back over his shoulder as he gained the roadway. Several men were running along the drive. He thought he detected the gleam of metal, reflecting the now-dying glow of the flares, on the road behind him. He hoped it was not another vehicle, but decided that it probably was just that. As he topped the rise that would drop him onto the main highway, the headlamps of an automobile flared up in his rear-vision mirror. Yes, they had another vehicle. Bolan forced himself to unwind a bit and to slow for the approach to the highway. He debated furiously for a micro-second as to which direction to take, immediately made up his mind, and swept into the northbound lane.

According to the roadmap which he'd burned into his brain, he would intersect a back road several miles up, to carry him easterly into the interior. He wondered if Braddock's Hardcase police detail was still in operation and, if so, how long it would take them to react to this latest sure-clue to Mack Bolan's whereabouts. Assuming, of course, that someone had heard and reported the disturbance. He pulled a quick traffic check of the highway and decided that easily a dozen cars could have passed within earshot of the gunfire. Bolan shrugged his shoulders and leaned into sweeping curve. Behind him, headlights were turning onto the highway, coming his way. Hell . . . it didn't make much difference, did it? Cops or Mafiosi, what was the difference? Either one spelled out the same effect for Mack Bolan. He carefully removed the sling of the machine pistol and placed the wicked little weapon on the seat beside his leg. He glanced into the back seat, noting the presence of the heavy suitcase. The money bag . . . or what was left of it. And what was left of Mack Bolan? That was it, wasn't it. A bullet-riddled car, perhaps even now spewing a trail of gasoline from a punctured tank. A machine pistol with five clips of ammo. A bag of money. Yes, that was it. No, he decided suddenly . . . there was more than that. There were the ghosts of seven dead good men, and then there were the spirits of two more who might spend the rest of their lives behind bars. There was Bolan's utter disgust and cold hatred for anything Mafia. There were the brains of a very professional soldier, and the determination to win this lousy war.

Bolan squared his shoulders, loosened his grip on the steering wheel, and let his eyes range ahead to search for the appearance of that back road. He knew now where he was headed — knew where he had to go and what he had to do. He had known it back there with the decision to swing north. It was an idea he'd toyed with since the first battle, at Pittsfield. And now he had finally made the decision. The decision to live, and to once again take the battle to the Mafiosi. To live, Bolan must rid himself of his greatest liability. His face. And Bolan knew a man with a gift for faces. He'd watched Jim Brantzen reconstruct many battle-torn faces, and Brantzen now had his own clinic in Palm Village, not a hundred crow-flying miles from Bolan's present location. The problem, Bolan recognized, was that he was not a crow. That hundred miles could seem like a thousand, especially if the cops got into the act. He stiffened suddenly, spotting the dimly marked junction ahead, and swerved onto the narrow backroad without slowing his speed.

Mack Bolan, the Executioner, had been flushed toward a new horizon. He just hoped that he would be able to find it before the world rolled over and crushed him. Headlights turned in, far behind him. He floorboarded the gas pedal and searched his memory for the route ahead. All of life he could claim lay ahead of him. And, perhaps, only death.

Julian (Deej) DiGeorge paced the small study of his Palm Springs retreat, frequently eyeing the telephone and glancing at his watch. He stepped to a shuttered window and peered through a slit. The backs of two of his best boys hove into view, then moved out of sight as they restlessly moved about the grounds. Deej grunted with satisfaction and turned once more to the telephone. Why didn't the damn thing ring? Lou should have made the hit by now and be bursting to pass along the good news. Deej could not, he knew, count Bolan out until that telephone sounded. The nervy punk was just too full of . . . DiGeorge shivered involuntarily and went back to the window. It had been a long time since Deej DiGeorge, boss of the Western Mafia, had been frightened of another human being. He was frightened now, and he admitted it . . . to himself. Sure, sure he was scared. It'd take an idiot to not be scared, with a maniac like that Bolan running around loose.

His eyes swung in near-panic as the knob of the study door turned, then knuckles sounded lightly on the panel. DiGeorge detoured by way of his desk, scooped up a nickel-plated revolver, and went quietly to the door. "Yeh?" he asked.

A faintly amused feminine voice said, "Poppa, what are you doing in there behind locked doors? Making love to the housekeeper?"

DiGeorge turned the lock and opened the door. Andrea DiGeorge, a striking brunette with long shiny hair worn in a fold-singer free-fall, pushed provocatively encased hips into the study, eyed the revolver in her father's fist and laughed softly. "Careful," she said, "the bogeyman'll get you."

"Not as long as I got Charles Henry, here," DiGeorge replied soberly, shaking the pistol.

The girl pouted her lips and said, "Yeah, old Charlie there is a formidable weapon . . . on a pistol range. I'll bet he's never thrown down on a living thing, though. Seriously, Poppa, why don't you . . ."

The telephone sounded, and Andrea immediately lost her audience. DiGeorge's eyes flared in a delighted reaction. He all but leapt onto the telephone, leaving his daughter standing open-mouthed in the doorway. He snatched up the instrument and breathlessly said, "Yeah?"

"That you, Deej?" Lou Pena's mournful tones inquired.

"Well who'n hell you think it would . . ." DiGeorge caught his breath and flicked a glance at the doorway. Andrea had departed. He sank limply onto the corner of the desk. There was no mistaking the failure in Pena's voice. "All right, Lou," DiGeorge said. "How'd it go?"