Wasn't it sheer ego that kept him on the job? They'd called him a Quixote in the press. They should have called him a cockalorum—yeah, that would be more like it—Sergeant Self-importance, self-appointed Saviour of the Western World.

Bolan had gone for more than sixty hours without sleep. During that period he had been under constant stress, harassed by lawmen and the underworld alike while effecting a "tactical retreat" covering hundreds of miles and many different modes of transport. He had fought his way out of four death traps and eluded the police of three nations, yet he had failed to make his way back to "safe" territory. And now he was at the point of complete physical and mental exhaustion, his last bit of reserve strength fully gone, occupying a narrow ledge of questionable refuge in a world trying its best to swallow him.

Lesser men would have succumbed to the pull of defeat far sooner than this. For Bolan, the moment of defeat had come as a reaction to a young woman's visible disgust, and the wave that inundated him was the cresting of his own mind and soul in a deep pool of self-doubt.

For one infinite and timeless moment he hung there in suspension between the instinct for life and the comfort of death as he let go and slid beneath the actual waters of the warm bath—and then he came threshing out of it, coughing and spluttering and lunging for the Beretta.

Though his present danger was totally within himself, the depths of his exhaustion projected phantom enemies somewhere out there, and Bolan's response came from the very core of himself. When Ann Franklin stepped back through the doorway, in response to the commotion, Bolan was sitting upright in the tub. His fist was full of Beretta, suds were clustered about his face, his eyes were straining for focus, and he was muttering, "It's okay, it's okay."

The girl immediately understood the situation. She dropped to her knees at the tub, one arm going out to encircle his shoulders, the other hand gently and carefully working at the deathgrip on the pistol.

"Give me the gun, Mack," she whispered.

"It's okay," he told her.

Bolan was technically unconscious, and Ann Franklin knew it. "Give me the gun," she urged, "before you get it all wet." The struggle ended then. She took control of the Beretta and carefully placed it on the floor, then pulled the plug from the drain and put a towel about Bolan's shoulders. "Let's go to bed," she whispered.

He struggled out of the tub and steadied himself with a hand against the wall while Ann towelled him dry, then she moved inside the arm and helped him into the bedroom.

"It's okay," he told her again as she fought the covers back and guided his head to the pillow.

"Yes yes, I know," she assured him.

"Where's my gun?"

She returned to the bathroom for the pistol, showed it to him, and shoved it under the pillow. "How's that?" she whispered.

"Great." Bolan's eyes focussed on the girl then, awareness flashed there, and he muttered, "Hell, I'm naked."

"Utterly," she replied, smiling solemnly. "Body and soul." She flipped the covers over him and said, "Get some sleep now."

He was laboring to hold the focus. "You asked… why I bother to live. Okay. I live to win. When I die, they'vewon. Can't let them win, see. Show them… they're not God. Throw death… back in their teeth, see."

"Yes, yes, I see."

"That's all it means. Not ego… not cockalorum… it's tactics. That's the game. Beat them… at their own game, see."

"Yes. I understand that now." She began removing her clothing, her eyes steady on his.

"What're you doing?" he asked thickly.

She removed her bra, waved it delicately over the bed, then dropped it to the floor. "Getting ready for bed," she replied. "Girls sleep too, you know."

Bolan lifted himself groggily to one elbow as she stepped out of the panties. "Better not," he growled. "I'm not all that beat."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," she replied solemnly. She slid in beneath the covers and snuggled over to him. "I have a survival problem also, you know," she confided in a quivery whisper.

He clasped her in both arms, pulling her in tight, and murmured, "This is great."

"Uh huh." A moment later Ann felt his embrace slacken. Borderline consciousness had surrendered to complete exhaustion. She pushed him onto his back and adjusted the pillow to his head, studied the strong face for a moment, then impulsively kissed his lips.

"Big bad Bolan," she whispered, then nestled her face in his throat and very contentedly joined him in sleep.

For both of them, man and woman, a survival crisis had been reached and passed, each in their own way. It was not to be the final one for either of them.

The Executioner's long night had ended, but across the Atlantic, in an eastern U.S. city, that same night was just beginning, with an informal meeting of Mafia bosses. The site of the conference was the suburban home of Augie Marinello, head of a powerful New York family: the subject was Mack Bolan, and what to do about him.

Contrary to popular myth, there was no "boss of all the bosses," or Chief Capo. There had been none since the violent demise in 1931 of the first and final Capo di tutti Capi, Salvatore Maranzano. Instead, each Cosa Nostra "family" now had representation on La Commissione, or Council of Bosses, which ruled the sprawling crime syndicate.

The present meeting was not a full council, but considerable power was represented there. In attendance were Marinello and the bosses of two other New York families, plus the overlords of several neighboring territories. Only once since the embarrassingly aborted 1957 summit meeting at Appalachia had a new full conference been attempted. And that one, at Miami a short few weeks earlier, had become a fiasco to wipe Appalachia out of the mind forever, thanks to Mack The Bastard Bolan.

Now the eastern power clique sat in sullen thoughtfulness. Each of the men present had been present also at Miami; some bore visible wounds to remind them of the traumatic event; all bore wounds of the soul which would never heal, haunting their dreams and irritating their waking moments. Miami would never be foregotten. Nor would the man who had caused it all.

Two burly men in tailored suits moved silently about the conference table, pouring wine from napkined magnums. With this chore completed, they quietly withdrew and closed the doors on the convention of royalty.

Augie Marinello, host of the occasion, broke the silence with a deep-throated growl. "So the" bastard turns up in England," he said.

Arnesto "Arnie Farmer" Castiglione, chief of the lower Atlantic seaboard, shifted uncomfortably in his chair and explained, "So I guess we didn't get him in France. I got to apologize for the bum dope. But I would've sworn… I mean, I just don't see how the bastard could have got out alive."

"It looks like he did," spoke up a Pennsylvania boss.

"Bet your ass he did," said the man from Jersey. "I got a bunch of dead soldiers over in England to prove it."

Arnie Farmer grimaced. "Don't tell me about dead soldiers. We're still counting the dead in France, and tryin' to get the rest out of jail."

Marinello sighed loudly and sibilantly. "I got word from Nick Trigger." His glance flicked to the Jersey boss. "He wants to take over the Bolan hunt."

"I got a full crew over there right now, Augie," the Jersey man advised.

"Sure, but how're they doing?" Marinello asked thoughtfully.

"Well… like I told you, they've made contact twice."

"We made contacts all over the place down in Miami," an upstate boss pointed out. "So what's that make anything?"

"They're good boys," Jersey argued. "I think they're on top of it pretty good."