Meanwhile Bolan had become an unofficial national hero, and his war was closely followed in the press and other media. That hunted and haunted face became as familiar to the average American in the street as was any movie or television idol — and equally familiar to every police establishment in the nation. In the eyes of the law, this young crusader was a mass murderer and the nation's "most wanted" man. Many individual policemen were secretly sympathetic to the impossible war being waged by this lone warrior, but the official position throughout the country was "Get Bolan!"

Moving cautiously through the no-man's-land between the police and the mob, Bolan one day found himself unwillingly aboard a Paris-bound jet, and the Executioner became an international police problem. He also quickly became a matter of considerable distress to the international arms of the syndicate, and his sweeps through France and England showed that Bolan's war was not a geographically limited one — his jungle and his war accompanied him wherever he went.

Back home again, he took on the combined families of New York City, disrupted an organization movement referred to as Costa di tutti Cosi (Thing of Things — or Big Thing) and he left a mark on the New York mob which could never be forgotten.

The next confrontation was at Chicago, Mob City USA, which Bolan saw as the model city for the Mafia's national intentions. He very effectively demonstrated to the syndicate that they could not get away with it even in their Town of Towns.

In the aftermath of Chicago, the Mafia, — or La Costa Nostra — has come to the grim realization that Mack Bolan is considerably more than a mere thorn in their side. This once-considered-simple soldier boy has grown into his destiny and is actually threatening to accomplisl what the collective police efforts of the nation have failed to do — he is actually destroying the organization — piece by piece, arm by arm, family by family. He walks among them seemingly at will, undetected until he chooses otherwise and with apparent impunity. He sits down with them at their councils, participates in their planning, insidiously pits family against family and arm against arm; he destroys, disrupts and demoralizes this previously omnipotent kingdom of evil wherever Ms attention is focused upon it.

As this present chapter of the Bolan story opens, the organized crime syndicate is attempting to martial its forces for a massive counterblow to end the Bolan menace once and for all Enraged and embarrassed by the memories of New York and Chicago the full resources of this power combine, which has been called "the invisible second government of America " are being focused into the big blow to "squash this Bolan!"

For many members of the organization, also, "getting Bolan" has become a personal obsession that transcends any ordinary sense of dedication or loyalty to the brotherhood For two men in particular, "getting Bolan" has become more important that, life itself. The Talifero brothers. Pat and Mike have made this vow to each other: "We will have no happiness, no rest, and no life until we have washed our hands in Bolan's blood."

This is a vow to the death. Sicilian style. It is the Big Vendetta, and its partners are the two most feared men inside La Cosa Nostra; they are the lord high enforcers of the national governing council, La Commissione. They have met Bolan once, and failed ignominiously. It is not their intention to fail again, and fate has set their course for the Vegas Vendetta.

Mack Bolan, on the other hand…

The task was simple, and yet tinglingly complex. All he had to do was to halt two powerful vehicles, overcome the natural resistance of at least ten heavily-armed Mafia gunners, liberate an awesome shipment of illicit gambling profits, and withdraw along a narrow route of retreat before the base camp reserves could get into the act.

And he had to do it in fifty seconds.

The tall man in the midnight combat suit was Mack Bolan, also known as Mack the Bastard, the Black Blitz, the Executioner, and more often — in one particular segment of American society — "that fuckin' Bolan!"

He was kneeling in a tumble of rocks on a mountainside between Las Vegas and Lake Mead. Directly ahead of him, but many miles away, the nighttime glow of the fabulous gambling city lent a faint illumination to the western horizon. Overhead a bright desert moon presided over the stillness and draped its soft radiance in patterns of light and shadows across the rugged uplifts of rocky terrain. Bolan was himself a part of that pattern, a black-clad three-dimensional shadow — or perhaps, more correctly, a foreshadowing — of death and destruction and uncompromising warfare.

Barely three hundred yards behind and above him stood the guarded entrance to the armed camp atop the hill, the Vegas "joint" or hardsite, the mob's desert home away from home and also the collection point for the before-taxes "skim" from a number of casinos down on the flats. A tireless recon had earlier revealed six hardmen armed with Thompsons patrolling those grounds. Another half-dozen or so had been noted prowling about the two levels of the house itself.

A helicopter had landed up there during Bolan's scouting mission. It carried, according to his reading, a team of accountants and an armed escort for the second leg of the skim transport. But the presence of that chopper had to be taken into Bolan's assault plan — it could be used as a weapon against him. A jeep, also, stood at the main gate, ready to roll on an instant's notice. And he had found the tracks of an all-terrain vehicle in the powdered earth on the back side of the hill.

So, sure, it could be a tricky hit — and it would have to be played by the numbers. Quite possibly he would not have even fifty seconds.

A narrow ribbon of blacktop climbed the mountain on the approach from Vegas, then circled about and dropped into the Lake Mead Recreation Area some miles beyond. The private road to the hardsite hairpinned away from the state road in an abrupt climb, then ran straight and level for about one hundred feet before curving into another near-vertical ascent. It was here that Bolan had staked out his ambush point, on the level straightaway. He was positioned about ten feet above the roadway, commanding the terrain from an embankment which also overlooked the point where the private drive curved away from the main road.

Coming out of the hairpin, his targets would have the benefit of the one hundred feet of level ipproach to the next pull, and they would be revving out of that hairpin for the direct climb to the hilltop. They would in fact, if Bolan knew Mafia wheelmen, be streaking along that straightaway. But he had to meet them here, on the runway, otherwise he might knock them completely off the mountainside and lose them forever. He had come not to destroy a quarter-million bucks, but to add them to his own war-chest. So, it was here or nowhere… and three hundred short yards from the gate to their fortress.

On the plus side, he had excellent cover and command of the terrain, and his own vehicle was stationed directly below on the main road and poised for the life-or-death withdrawal. A Stoner weapon system — the lightweight fully automatic assault machine-gun which had proven so effective in Vietnam — was suspended by a nylon cord from his shoulders. The drum-fed weapon could deliver 1,000 rounds of 5.56mm ammo per minute. The assault drum carried 150 rounds, certainly enough for this mission, and he carried a standard army .45 Colt on his hip as backup weapon.

Bolan's big punch, though, was a harmless looking fibreglass tube that lay on a rock beside him. It was a use-and-throwaway light and anti-tank weapon, or LAW, with all the effectiveness of a bazooka at a range of 400 meters This shooting gallery was a hell of a lot less than 400 meters.