But for how long?

Bolan added up the possible ramifications of the deal, lopped off half for possible exaggeration, and still found himself looking straight at an impending coup d'etat. The thought chilled him.

His hands clenched the warwagon's steering wheel, his jaw set in grim determination. A shattering offense was clearly indicated, but first he had to find the opposing team.

And where the hell were they?

"Is there any room for mistake?" Jim Hinshaw's voice was not hopeful, indicating that he knew what the answer must be.

"No chance, Jim," Angel Morales told him earnestly, to the accompaniment of Floyd Worthy's head-shake. "I'm sure it was Bolan."

The black man softly added, "What did I tell ya?"

"Okay, okay." Hinshaw waved away the I-told-you-so's with an irritated gesture. "No sweat. This is nothing we can't handle."

Worthy frowned. "We'd better get started then. We ain't done all that well handlin' it so far."

Hinshaw parried that verbal thrust with a question. "Why didn't you nail him when you had the chance?"

"You never saw a cat move that fast, man. Least I never did. He damn near outran those slugs from my M-16."

"Don't build him up to be more than he is," Hinshaw cautioned.

"I'm not buyin' any ghost stories," the black man assured him. But that mother is some kind of man!"

"Bastard, you mean," Hinshaw countered. "I'm not the only one here with a score to settle with Sergeant Mack Bolan." He stressed the rank designation, turning it almost into an obscenity.

"We dig where you're coming from, man," Morales broke in. "But we can't play games with this dude. He's been tearing up the families from ..."

"Save the history lesson, Angel. I did six months hard time thanks to that-" He left the sentence unfinished, the oath unspoken, but the grim set of his features told the story eloquently to his companions. Silence reigned in the office for a long moment before Hinshaw spoke again. When he did, all traces of tension and fury had been suppressed in his voice, and the facade of unshakable calm was restored.

"The mission comes first, as always. Bolan has Involved himself now, and we have to deal with him as a definite threat. Angel, what did he want from Kaufman?"

The smaller man squared his shoulders before speaking. "Him and Kaufman were talking a deal, Jim. I swear to God."

Hinshaw was clearly skeptical. "It doesn't ring true. What's the scam?"

"Cease fire, so he says. If Kaufman cools it and takes out the Senator on his own, Bolan will take care of us for him."

Hinshaw shook his head as Worthy swore softly and said, "He just might do it."

"Not a chance," Hinshaw snapped. "We know the enemy now, and we can use that knowledge to advantage." He turned back to Morales. "Was Kaufman buying the truce?"

"He was thinking it over, Jim. He didn't say yes or no but ... well ... I think it's a go."

"So we play it that way. We can pull the rug while he's sitting on his hands."

"What about Bolan?" Worthy asked. "He won't be sitting on his hands."

"If we work it right, we can play them off against each other. While they chase each other around the block, we bag ourselves a territory,. With luck they'll kill each other off. If not, we'll be waiting for the winner before he can catch his breath."

"How do you plan to run it down?" Worthy asked.

"We need a wedge, Floyd. Bolan offered the deal, so we have to play him up as the back-stabber." Hinshaw thought for a long moment in silence. When he spoke again, his voice was firm with self-assurance. "Stay close to the wires on Kaufman and Weiss. I want to know every move they make before it's made. Everybody's on edge, and mistakes are inevitable. When they make one, we'll have our handle."

The other men grinned and rose to leave. Floyd Worthy paused in the doorway, turning for one final comment. "You know, man, if Kaufman doesn't put Bolan away, it's us against the sarge."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Hinshaw told him solemnly.

Alone again, the soldier let his mind dwell on the possibility of a confrontation with Mack the Bastard Bolan. A second confrontation, and the last one, too, one way or another.

Hinshaw's first meeting with Bolan had been long ago and thousands of miles away in another world and time. That meeting had brought the curtain down on the single sweetest experience of Hinshaw's life, cutting it off short. Not to mention the six months' stockade time and a less than honorable discharge, the only blots on an otherwise impeccable military record. Somebody had to pay for that disgrace. Somebody named Bolan. And Hinshaw had been waiting a long time to collect that tab. Waiting and hoping for another chance at Mack the Bastard. But lately, as he almost compulsively followed Bolan's campaigns in the newspapers and on television, his lust for the confrontation had begun to fade.

Wiping moist palms against his trousers, Jim Hinshaw wondered if Moe Kaufman would be able to take Bolan out. It would make everything so much ... simpler, yeah ... simpler and safer. He bitterly rejected the thought and its unsettling Implications. He was not afraid of Bolan, dammit, he was just ... cautious. Yeah, cautious. Everything that Hinshaw was or ever hoped to be was riding on this operation, not to mention Mr. Bonelli's money, time, and trust. Hinshaw had a duty, to repay that trust with success.

Duty, yeah, you could never get away from it. Hinshaw fervently hoped that Kaufman would be up to handling the Bolan challenge, but a nagging apprehension grew in the back of his mind, setting his teeth on edge. Us against the sarge. Sure, and that would mean Hinshaw against Bolan.

"No sweat," he told the empty room, repeating it for emphasis. "No sweat! But he was lying to himself and he knew it.

Hinshaw's Palms were moist again. It was a hell of a sweat.

Mack Bolan was a supreme military strategist, his expertise acquired in the crucible of Southeast Asia. He had long ago learned that the best offensive tactic is seldom a wild-assed charge into the stronghold of an unknown enemy. Such kamikaze tactics might suffice on certain rare occasions but generally tended to be suicidal. Discretion often was the better part of valor, and the Executioner knew from practical experience that an overzealous enemy may sometimes be lured into a rash offensive with suitable bait. Invested with a false sense of progress, the enemy may be sucked to his doom in a prearranged ambush. The tactic was especially useful when the enemy was successful in camouflaging his base of operations, as Nick Bonelli's strike force had done so far.

Yeah, a suck play was clearly indicated. It remained only for the Executioner to choose the site and the bait.

The site was a shallow horseshoe basin on the western fringe of Echo Canyon Park, a miniature valley, really, bisected by a two-lane highway with lightly wooded hills on three sides. He parked the warwagon atop a shaded knoll on the left or northern tip of the horseshoe, nose toward the highway and rocket pod elevated. From his Position he held a commanding view of the basin and the highway leading into it, ready to unleash his lethal firebirds on selected targets as they Presented themselves.

Next on tap was the matter of bait.

He made the necessary call and again received instant pickup. "Ranch."

"It's me again. Put the man on."

"That was some damn fancy shooting, mister. Just a minute."

It was not a minute but a mere second before another instrument clicked into the line and Kaufman, very subdued, said, "Okay, you proved your point. We need to talk. Let's meet. You say where."

Bolan told him where, adding, "Ten minutes. If You're later than that, I won't be there."