Bolan had already dodged back to the corner of the building for cover. He growled, "Send the gun out first, then yourself, hands on head."

A pistol hit the cobblestones and slid into view, then a thickset man moved hesitantly out of the shadows and into the flickering light of the square.

Bolan jabbed the muzzle of the TJziinto the man's belly. The guy sucked in his breath and said, "Hey shit, it's hot. The barrel's hot, huh?"

Bolan withdrew the little chattergun and spun the man around, shook him down for weapons, then pushed him forward. "Start walking," he commanded. "Straight ahead."

"Where we going?"

"Depends," Bolan said. "Who are you?"

"I'm Stevie Carbon. I'm in Danno's crew, under Sal Masseri. Or I was."

"Are you all done living, Stevie?" Bolan asked in a conversational tone.

"No sir, I sure hope not," came the strained reply.

They moved swiftly to the corner. Bolan shoved the man down the street toward the Lincoln. "Okay, Stevie, just keep on walking. Nice and quick and don't look back."

"Where we going?" the man wanted to know.

"Maybe to hell." Bolan allowed the neckstrap to support the Uziwhile he probed his ribs with careful fingertips.

"Christ, can you tear things up in a hurry," the man declared, striving for a buddy-buddy tone. "I figure I got no arguments with a guy like you. I mean, nothing personal you know."

Bolan knew a surge of weariness—not of the flesh but of the soul. "That's the screwy part of this whole thing, Stevie," he said coldly. "There's nothing personal in any of it, is there? And then we run into an old man who's been tortured clear out of his body. And suddenly it gets very, very, personal."

The man stumbled, caught himself, and quickly raised his hands again to clutch the back of his head. "Uh, tell me straight out, Bolan. Are you gonna kill me or not?"

"That depends, Stevie."

"On what?"

"On what you can tell me."

"Look I don't know nothing, Bolan. Besides that, uh, I've taken the oath of silence. You know about that, huh."

"You can die with that oath then, Stevie, if that's the way you want it."

"You know I want to livewith it, Bolan. You know that."

They walked on in silence, Bolan two paces behind his prisoner. Police sounds rose up in the distance, and Bolan felt like this was where he'd come in. They reached the Lincoln. Tiredly, Bolan commanded "You drive."

"Where to?"

"Like I said, Stevie, maybe clear to hell."

They got into the car and the man said, "I'll talk to you, Bolan."

"Start the car, then you can start your mouth," Bolan told him.

Though he was cold as ice on the outside, Bolan was experiencing an inner glow which meant that things were definitely beginning to look up. He had himself a prisoner of war, and not just an ordinary POW, either.

Bolan had no idea who Stevie Carbon was, or had been… but he knew who he was not. He was not the man seated next to him.

The Executioner had grabbed off a caporegime.

His POW was none other than Danno Giliamo.

Nick Trigger, in all his years of gunbearing for the brotherhood, had never suffered such personal humiliation. He felt defeated, disgraced, and deeply dismayed at his own cowardly reaction to imminent death. He was alive, though. He kept telling himself that he was still alive, and that surely this counted for something. There was no profit for the family in a dead hero. When a guy saw how things were going, when he saw that nothing he could possibly do would change anything—then surely staying alive was more important than dying. Death was such a final damn thing—it never really seemed possible that a guy could actually cease to exist, not until he came face to face with death. Then he knew, yeah shit, boy, he really knew.

And what could he have done against that Bolan at a time like that? An act of God, that's what, had spared him from cremation in that damn car. He shivered violently in the mere remembrance of it. Another second, just one more second if he'd stayed with that car, and there'd be nothing left of Nick Trigger right now but a little pile of ashes. If he hadn't had sense enough to get the hell out of there when he did…

Nick was rationalizing his actions, and he was conveniently forgetting the fact that sheer revulsion, not combat sense, had driven him out of that car. Gio Scaldicci's blood and brains were all over the back seat and floor, and Nick had found himself lying face down in the mess. He had flung himself on through and out, and he'd been no more than ten feet away when the explosion came. Then he lay there stunned and half unconscious while Bolan chopped up Danno's hunting party. He had lain there also and watched the bastard in black walking quietly among the dead. He had heard him try to question Sal Massed, and still Nick had lain there, his gun no more than a couple of feet away from his outstretched hand, and he'd played dead, and he had even said a couple of prayers.

He hadn't moved a muscle until after Bolan had struck down Stevie Carbon and the two boys he'd taken through the tunnel with him. Then, as Bolan walked back across the square, Nick slithered away in the other direction. He hadn't gotten to his feet until he was completely clear of the square, and then he'd jumped up and started running… running!

He was appalled at himself, despite the rationalizations. Nick was beginning to understand, though, why Mack Bolan had remained so long alive against everything the brotherhood had thrown at him. He understood why Danno had seemed so awed of the guy, so willing to humble himself and ask for help from someone outside his own family. When that Bolan bastard made a hit, he didn't fool around with no light feints. He didn't just hit, he broke hell all around a guy. For Christ's sake, who wouldn't lose his head at a time like that?

Well, something had to be done about him. Some thing that hadn't been tried before maybe, some new wrinkle. They couldn't let that guy get away with that kind of shit. Until a few minutes ago, Bolan had been just a name to Nick, something to hit, just another name on a contract and another job and maybe another rung up the ladder of rank. That was all changed now. He had seen at first hand what Bolan could do.

Nick himself had brought death to more than a a hundred men, yet it had remained for a guy like Mack Bolan to introduce Death to Nick Trigger, to make it a personal experience that Nick Trigger could understand. He understood it now, all right, and he wanted more than anything else to share that understanding with Mack the Bastard Bolan. He would, too, he decided.

The luckiest part of the whole fiasco, for Nick, was that nobody else knew. Apparently only Nick had survived. Nobody would ever have to know that Nick Trigger had played dead and watched the bastard turn his back and walk away, nobody would have to know that Nick had even been there when it happened.

Yeah, that was the luckiest part of all. Or so Nick Trigger thought.

They were rolling slowly up Tottenham toward Regents Park, and the conversation was accomplishing very little in the way of intelligence. Giliamo was glibly avoiding direct answers to sensitive questions, playing his role of dumb street soldier to the very hilt. Bolan had decided to let him play… for awhile. They swung onto Marylebone and up to Park Road.

"Go in the park," Bolan directed.

"Into the park, Bolan?"

"That's what I said, Stevie."

They crossed over the tip of a lake moments later and Giliamo nervously asked, "What're we doing here?"

"That depends," Bolan told him. "There's an open air theatre straight ahead. I want you to stop there, Stevie."