Bolan lifted off, jaw tense, eyes iced.

Situation evaluation: Great. The delayed reaction was coming now, in the form of return-fire from several quarters. Two dudes on the roof, with rifles. Several near the water, in a trench of something. Others closing to center from both ends of the lakeshore. Some advancing along the lawn in front of the house.

The riflemen were having trouble ranging him, though, and he had counted on that. A silhouette on water, with a bright moon in the background, could be very deceptive. The first scattered fusillades were coming in low, falling short. They'd be finding their range very quickly, of course — and Bolan was now moving on tight numbers.

The motorboat had closed about half the distance. Those aboard apparently had nothing better than handguns and were waiting for a closer shot.

Bolan tuned his hairs to that problem and quickly solved it with two heavy rounds smashing in at the waterline and a third punching into the motor. The boat immediately lost headway, and its two occupants went into a hasty abandon-ship drill.

Bolan smiled grimly and retreated below, taking the Weatherby with him. He carefully stowed the impressive piece in a watertight float bag, then he went forward and quickly hauled in the sea anchor.

His craft was taking repeated hits now, in a manner that could not suggest blind luck on the other end.

So, okay, he was ready.

He started the engine and kicked in full throttle, pulling away in a roaring circle toward open water, then brought her around to the desired course and secured the steerage on that heading.

An instant later he slipped over the side and began quietly working his way landward, while the cruiser plunged on toward Ontario.

The rifle fire from the shore was dying out, replaced now by the full-throated roar of a powerful cruiser that was leaping into hot pursuit of Bolan's abandoned boat.

He was within earshot when the big speedster paused to pick up the survivors from the outboard. He listened with interest to the angry mouthings and profane promises of the chase. And he was grinning to himself as they sped off into the night.

There were easily a dozen men aboard that craft, which meant that most of the hard force were now chasing an empty boat out across the wide reaches of Lake St. Clair.

Which was, of course, precisely what the Executioner had hoped for.

He hooked an arm into the flotation bag, oriented himself to the big joint on the shore, and continued on.

The real target of the night lay at the end of a five-minute swim.

The assault on Fortress Detroit was underway.

The place on Grosse Pointe Shores had once been the lakeside estate of a pioneer auto magnate. It had been purchased by the Combination some years back, remodeled a bit, and christened "The Sons of Columbus Yacht Club." There was not, of course, a genuine yachtsman on the roster. The original idea had been to provide a genteel and exclusive resort for the families of the lower echelon mafiosi of the area, a sort of club for employees. The new charter also provided an excellent conduit for the washing of black money, and served as a nice cover for secret meetings and various illicit activities such as gambling, prostitution, smuggling, and so on — so much so that most of the members stopped bringing their families around, in deference to the other, more meaningful, activities. Eventually the SCYC was placed off-limits to the sons and daughters and wives, and was operated strictly as a mob headquarters.

Now the Combination entertained their friends and future friends here, consummated business deals, and held "family" councils and other secret rites, such as initiations and executions.

The location could not have been more convenient, nor, certainly, more exclusive from a social standpoint. Most everybody who was anybody in metropolitan Detroit lived within a ten-minute drive to the "club" — and, indeed, the entire ruling council of the Detroit Combination lived within walking distance. Even a special visitor from Windsor could hot it across the Ambassador Bridge and zoom out the Edsel Ford Freeway in less than a thirty-minute trip. For those who felt a bit shy about presenting themselves through U.S. Customs, there was always the Detroit River and Lake St. Clair — with an innocent and entirely legitimate yacht club ready to receive these special visitors at all hours.

On this particular evening, the SCYC was the chosen site for an "area conference." Important men from both sides of the border had been invited to attend. A few had flown in from as far away as Toronto and Buffalo.

It was to be an important meeting. First of all, of course, was the issue that was on everyone's mind these days: the "energy crunch" and how it could be turned to the best interests of the Detroit Combination. Of almost equal interest were the unsettling developments down Texas way. Many millions of Detroit-area dollars had been invested in the Flag Seven gamble, and the dust was just beginning to settle around Texas in the wake of that Bolan bastard. The question on everyone's mind, of course, was how much had been lost and how much could they reasonably expect to recoup.

With regard to this latter problem, nothing had been said beyond the usual condolences directed to Anthony Quaso, who had lost his kid brother in Solan's latest blitz.

Quaso was high in the administration of Salvatore (Crazy Sal) Vincenti, one of the top bosses in Detroit. They had just buried young Joe Quaso a few days earlier, and this meeting was the first opportunity for many of those present to personally express their sympathy.

The talk had then inevitably turned to the "BoIan problem." A nervous industrialist from Toronto had voiced the fear that the "direct Quaso link to Texas" would magnetically attract Mack Bolan to the Detroit operations.

Sal Vincenti had scoffed at that suggestion, assuring one and all that "the guy wouldn't dare show his tail around here."

And then the house chief of security had come in to quietly advise Mr. Vincenti of the presence of a strange boat anchored just offshore.

"Send someone over to check it out," Vincenti instructed the house boss. Then he'd tried to get the conference back into the mainstream discussion, but somehow nothing really jelled after that. And this made Charley Fever nervous.

Charley Fever (born Favorini) was Sal Vincenti's chief torpedo — the one Vincenti himself often referred to as "my good third arm." That good arm had been seated directly behind his boss throughout the meeting, more like a brooding ghost who was there but not really, present for the proceedings but really not part of them. Vincenti was the only boss in the Combination who could get away with bringing his personal triggerman into the conference rooms — primarily because Crazy Sal was the uncrowned but actual boss of the works, partly also because the other bosses genuinely respected and trusted Charley Fever — more so than they trusted Crazy Sal.

Vincenti was given to ungovernable rages, sometimes over trifling or imagined offenses. Charley Fever was a godsend at such times. He had a special knack for calming his boss and defusing the emotional tizzies — or heading them off.

At this particular point in the evening's proceedings, Charley had moved to the edge of his chair and was watching the old man like a hawk. All it took to get a collection of "friends" nervous and jumpy was to mention the name Bolan. And when the friends got jumpy, someone might say the wrong thing to Sal Vincenti, and then look out. Charley Fever was already looking out.

Then the shooting started. Everyone stood up and stared solemnly at the shuttered windows. Without a word, Charley glided over and took Vincenti by the arm, and they walked together to the "strong room" — a specially fortified chamber that was designed for just such emergencies. The others followed in single file, quietly, no pushing or shoving, as meek as schoolchildren going through the rote of a fire drill.