It was perhaps for this latter consideration that Bolan had thus far avoided the city that was known to be the home of "the most stable crime family in the nation." The risks there were too great, the odds too impossible, the task too complex to even formulate a coherent goal of combat. But the Executioner had avoided Detroit for as long as he could. Much as any man would turn with a sigh to face his own inevitable destruction, the mighty Bolan turned to Detroit to face the challenge that he had always known awaited him there. Others turned with him, expectantly, confidently, certain that this would be the final battle of the Executioner Wars and eager to be in on the deathwatch.

No, Mack Bolan had never expected to live forever. But, sure, he played the game to win. He had come to Detroit not to die but to make war. "This whole town is a hardsite," he wrote in his journal on the eve of the Detroit bloodletting. "So let's take it one heartbeat at a time, on the numbers. If this has to be the final battle, so be it. Let's just make it worthy of the name."

Executioner Bolan was taking on the economic heartland of the nation, and for a very good reason. That heartland was a "hardsite" — an armed camp, a fortress of Mafia power — and the nation was coming into hard times. Cancer thrives on a weakened body — Bolan knew that. A powerful Mafia concentration at the hub of American industry, at such a time, could have nothing but disastrous consequences for the country as a whole. And he knew that he had to break that death grip... or he had to die trying.

So, yes, Bolan turned to Detroit with a determined sigh. And the city turned to the Executioner, herself sighing into the deathwatch, knowing full well that judgment had come to the Ville d'Etroit — the City of the Strait. She would become the City of the Straight — or she, too, would die in the attempt.

Resurget Cineribus — It Shall Rise Again from the Ashes — had been the motto for this old city since the great fire of 1805, along with Speramus Meliora — We Hope for Better Things. Bolan understood and sympathized with both ideas — but he knew that a soldier did not rise again from his own ashes — and he had long ago given up on mere "hope."

A man fought for better things.

And sometimes, he died for them.

The watcher was being watched, and he knew it.

But, yeah, that was okay. It was what he wanted, expected.

He was standing a few hundred yards offshore, riding at sea anchor, getting the feel of the big twenty-power nightscope, as the tethered cruiser bobbed gently and rhythmically with the feeble undulations of Lake St. Clair. A scattering of shoreside estates glittered at him across the water, bright lights reflecting off the lake and adding an artificial luminescence to the atmosphere.

One of these in particular held his full attention.

And, sure, their security was pretty good. He had probably been spotted the moment he reached target range, and watched with mounting interest thereafter.

But he had the vision advantage, for two well-calculated reasons. The Startron scope was the chief advantage. It amplified scattered light rays and bent them into the optics with the effect of greatly heightened night vision — very much like that of a jungle cat, Bolan supposed.

The second advantage was provided by the night itself. The moon was full, low, behind him. There were no clouds. The wind was slanting in toward shore from the northeast, also at his back — not strong enough to affect targeting but enough to water the eyes a bit when staring straight into it, as was required of those watchers on the shore.

They could probably see no more than the black silhouette of a cabin cruiser anchored offshore, and perhaps the darkened figure of a man seated motionless on the flying bridge. Even it they'd had the advantage of night optics, chances were about even that the thing in his arms would be taken for a fishing rod.

Bolan was betting his life that they did not have night optics. And the thing in his arms was no fishing rod. It was the favored Mark V Weatherby — a hefty piece with a tripod swivel mount — based at a comfortable distance from the elevated fishing chair.

He was strapped into the rig in such a way that man and weapon were one with the gentle motions of the boat, and he was "feeling in" the rhythmical target-displacement produced by that motion, learning to compensate and keep his target centered, using this same exercise as an opportunity to evaluate the situation in the target zone.

It was a big joint, two stories, a lot of glass fronting the lakeshore — large porch, wide cement steps to the lawn, well-lighted grounds. A circular drive wound in from the far side, only partially visible beyond the corners of the house, but those areas showing evidence of many parked vehicles.

Hardmen were spotted about the grounds — most of whom were now gazing lakeward, grim-faced, wondering — no doubt intrigued by the possibilities presented by the presence of the intruder out there. Two were trotting along the pier, hurrying toward an outboard motorboat — a boarding party, no doubt.

And now the lights were going off in the house. Two hard-looking guys in nautical togs and yachting caps stepped outside to take up stations at the top of the steps.

Sure. Very cautious. Taking no chances.

And with good reason. Things had been getting tense in Detroit. There were rumors of armed clashes between the Combination and some of its franchised gangs, most notably the blacks. Coupled with this, the feds had been doing a lot of harassing lately, with around-the-clock surveillance, phone taps, occasional minor busts.

And now there was this boat, anchored just offshore...

Sure, they were being careful. And they did not know, yet, that the Executioner was stalking them, as well.

But they were going to know. And damn soon.

With a small sigh, Bolan lifted off of the eyepiece, double-checked his range calibrations, took a last look at the wind indicator, then leaned back into the scope and pitched his combat-consciousness into the final evaluation.

The crosshairs tracked the lakefront from north to south, then began a methodical sectioning and cross-sectioning toward the house.

He heard the cough and sputter of an outboard motor being coaxed to life; ignored it; hung stubbornly to the eyepiece of the Startron as the gridding operation developed and formed into a coherent plan of attack; then froze and hung in a sort of suspended animation as target one swung into the hairs — a little medallion with crossed anchors affixed to a jauntily worn yachting cap.

He squeezed into the target, riding expertly with the recoil and grimacing to maintain optic continuity, grunting with professional satisfaction as the two-inch target disintegrated into a background of exploding red and white.

Trajectory evaluation: Perfect, point-blank. No correction required.

The targets themselves were correcting, however. The big 300-grain chunk of sizzling steel beat the sound wave by a couple of seconds. The headless hardrnan had pitched backwards and hit the cement porch at the precise instant that the powerful cra-ack of the big piece explained why — sending people in motion everywhere over there.

Bolan's crosshairs picked up the second yachting cap about halfway down the steps; another screaming .460 punched it into the air, and the man beneath flopped grotesquely and rolled to the bottom of the steps.

The next two rounds went deliberately high to shatter plate glass and wreak havoc on the interior. The remaining lights in there were quickly extinguished. The swivel moved on to the next preselected grid. A target there ran through the hairs and picked up track. Conditioned reflexes sighed into the squeeze. Round 5 sizzled along its flat ballistics course to overtake and overcome mere flesh, and another errant soul was returned to the universe.