And maybe they did, Paulie thought, the grim notion ricocheting back and forth inside his mind until he got a grip on it and put it down where it belonged.

No million rounds, no way. His troop had taken Kuwahara's people by surprise, and they were fighting back the way Japs always fought — with everything they had. But they were losing, right, surrounded by some of the toughest gunners he had ever seen, cut off from any possible escape. Cut off.

He risked a backward glance in the direction of the gates, and saw the Lincoln was still burning brightly, all four tires melted down, the limo resting on its belly in the middle of the driveway like a flaming dinosaur carcass.

Paulie wondered what the hell had happened to it, just exploding like that. Maybe some kind of land mine, or some other kind of goddamn booby trap — except, why had the Japs let three cars through, then blown up the last one.

Why?

To trap your ass, you stupid jerk.

He shrugged, refusing to acknowledge the idea that they had suckered him somehow, prepared a trap that would be inescapable. One of the gate guards just got lucky, maybe with some kind of armor-piercing round, or maybe even with one of those frigging grenade launchers you were always hearing about. No telling what kind of hardware that goddamn Kuwahara had floating around, with his contacts in Tokyo and Vietnam or wherever.

Paulie risked a glance above the Lincoln's hood and almost lost it as another automatic burst came sizzling in from the direction of the house. The bullets hit the armored bodywork and whined away, but he still felt terribly exposed out there, despite the bulwark of the limo that protected him from any head-on fire.

Beside him, Jake Pinelli was chafing at the bit, anxious to get in there and start wasting Kuwahara's troops. He jabbed at Paulie with the muzzle of his silenced Ingram, leaning forward and raising his voice to make himself heard above the din of battle.

"We've gotta get in there, goddammit! We can't just sit around out here all night and wait for the cops to come in on our blind side."

The cops.

Paulie had forgotten them when all the shit had started flying, but he knew Pinelli was correct.

It could not be long now before the first patrol cars made the scene, and he for one did not intend to face a lineup charged with multiple counts of homicide.

Not for the sake of some yellow bastard like Seiji Kuwahara.

"Okay," he snapped back, reluctant in spite of the new urgency he felt. "Let's take 'em."

"Right." And Jake Pinelli was already rising from his crouch with a long burst from the Ingram, raking the front of Kuwahara's house as he charged out of cover and into the direct line of fire.

Paulie watched him, frozen where he sat, his hand white knuckled where it gripped the walnut stock of his.357. He could not force himself to take the necessary first step, could not make himself get up and follow Jake Pinelli through the hellgrounds.

And the New York gunner made it maybe twenty feet before converging fire ripped into him and through him, spraying crimson back along his track so that huge globs of him spattered on the Lincoln's bullet-scarred hood and fenders. Paulie felt something wet sting his face and he ducked out of sight, vainly willing his mind to erase the image of what he had seen. Of what might have been him.

They were trapped, he acknowledged it now, and if Kuwahara's samurai could not find an exit, neither could the troops who still survived outside the house. He tried a hasty head count, stopping short of two full carloads when another bullet snapped the smoky air beside his ear.

They had lost something like half of their force already with no end in sight, and Paulie Vaccarelli started concentrating on a way to disengage the enemy without losing the other half in a blind-assed retreat. The point, after all, was to get out alive, and he would worry about Spinoza and the consequences of his failure when he was safe on the other side of that frigging wall two hundred yards distant. He froze, staring at it through the smoky night. The wall.

If he could make it... Paulie stopped dead in his tracks before he could translate the thought to action. There were others here who were his responsibility. He could not run and leave them here to make it on their own. They were depending on him. And yet... His thoughts were swallowed by the sound of another explosion, and Paulie turned back toward the sound just in time to see an upstairs-window casing shiver and disintegrate, expelling bits of wood and plaster with a flaming body, everything raining down on the steps twenty feet in front of his position.

He scanned the battlefield, taking advantage of a momentary lull in the cross fire to check out his surroundings. Suddenly he saw a nightmare figure moving toward him through the battle murk. The man was tall and muscular, clad in something like a black skinsuit, carrying the largest tommy gun Paulie had ever seen. The guy's face was black — but whether he was made up or a natural, Paulie could not say. His full attention now was centered on the smoking weapon that the big guy carried, and he knew instinctively that he was looking at the source of the explosions that had ripped the night apart. Whatever else he was, the guy was no damned Japanese, but Paulie had to figure that he was responsible for taking out the two demolished Lincolns. If he had also blasted Kuwahara's house, then that was fine. But clearly this one was not taking sides. Instead he seemed intent on wiping both sides out, and that was where Paul Vaccarelli drew the frigging line.

Spinoza's hardman lurched erect, his big .357 Magnum out in front of him and steadied in both hands, the sights wavering briefly before they came to rest on the big guy's chest. He was an easy target, right, if only Paulie could make his goddamned hands stop shaking so much. Downrange, the big man seemed to sense his danger, pivoting in the direction of Paulie's position, the ash-can muzzle of his weapon tracking with him, belching flame before poor Paulie could notice a finger on the cannon's trigger. The high-explosive can impacted on the Lincoln's nose, punching on through the grille to detonate beneath the hood with thunderous effect.

Vaccarelli was driven backward, sprawling on the grass, his Magnum flying. Miraculously, he made it to his feet, coming out of the somersault erect, ears ringing from the near concussion of the blast. He glanced around, but there was something warm and sticky in his eyes, and he was being blinded by the smoke from... Holy mother, from his own damned jacket burning!

Paulie Vaccarelli knew that he was standing there on fire, and then the panic hit him, made him run, the black-clad stranger long forgotten as he streaked across the night, a racing human torch.

The burning scarecrow figure lurched along for half a dozen strides, then Bolan saw it toppled by a rifle shot. Inside the house the gunners were attempting to regroup their forces, and the flaming silhouette had been a target too inviting to resist.

He swung their way and sent a high-explosive doublepunch through the ruin of the twin front doors, following it up with a hissing can of smoke to add confusion. The house was burning fiercely now at several points, and Bolan knew that there were only moments left until he heard the wail of sirens on his flank, announcing the approach of riot squads responding to the din and smoke of combat.

It was a roaring hell in there, but Bolan had to get inside and seek out Seiji Kuwahara, close down this end of the pipeline before the Executioner took another step along the campaign trail in Vegas. He knew from grim experience in the jungles of the world that you exposed yourself to needless danger any time you left the serpent's head intact, still able to deliver lethal venom even with its dying spasm. Kuwahara was the Oriental viper's head in Vegas, and when Bolan had disposed of this one, there were others of an Occidental cast who called for his attention, right. But first things first. He was advancing on the house, prepared to answer fire with cleansing fire when Bolan heard a labored engine drawing closer on his flank. Almost before the sound had registered, a sleek white Caddy cleared the side of Kuwahara's mansion, running straight and fast along an offshoot of the drive and making for the gates.