The tall man in midnight combat garb stood in stark silhouette on the high ground atop Point Loma, gazing broodingly upon the sprawl and sweep of California's oldest city. Coronado and the impressive Naval Air Station lay directly ahead, Lindbergh Field and the Marine Base slightly to the north, the complex of seagoing navy activities spilling off toward the south bay. Backdrop to it all was the old city herself with her hills and freeways and suburban clusters — "Dago" to generations of servicemen, San Diego to those who proudly loved her and made their homes in the sunny, smog-free environment ... "hell-ground" to the tall man in black who quietly contemplated his next area of operations.

He was Mack Bolan, Mafia-fighter extraordinaire, the one man army who had already become legend in the world's annals of crime.

This time, however, he was not alone.

Another man moved into silhouette against the city's lights — a shorter man, heavier, powerfully built.

The meeting had been pre-arranged. The greetings, though restrained almost to the point of stiff formality, were nonetheless warmly emotional in undertone.

"You got my message," the short man said, for openers.

"I wish I hadn't," the other murmured.

"Sure, I know. But... well, you said it yourself once or twice. A life without challenge is no life at all. I couldn't stay up there boy-scouting while all this — "

"Okay," Bolan interrupted. He was not a man to spend much time on small talk, but the voice was tired, concerned, and admiring all at once as he added, "You're looking good, Pol. Dropped a few pounds, eh?"

"Yeh." The man patted his belly. "Few inches, too. You look as mean as ever. Even with the pretty new face. Brantzen did a good job."

"They got Brantzen," Bolan declared coldly.

"Yeah, I heard."

"They'll get us all, eventually. You have to know that, Pol."

"Sure, I know that," the other agreed. "In the meantime...."

Bolan sighed. "Okay. What's the big smell?"

"That town down there. They call it 'the city around a park,' or words to that effect."

"So?"

"They should call it 'the town that Uncle built,' meaning Uncle Sam. Between the military bases and the defense contractors, it's the highest federal-impact area in the nation, dollar for dollar."

"Go on," Bolan prompted.

"Well you know what federal dollars mean."

"The city built around a picnic," Bolan replied quietly.

"Yeah. And also the city with a Mexican border. Plus one of the world's ten greatest natural harbors."

The man in black again sighed. "I don't have this town on my hit parade, Pol. They're too well covered here. There's no battleground down there, no combat stretch. San Diego doesn't have skin lesions — it's got cancer of the gut. I can't carve it out without removing a lot of good tissue along with the rot."

"That's exactly the problem," the other man muttered. "An old friend of ours is caught up in that rot down there."

"Who's that?"

"Howlin' Harlan Winters."

Sure. Colonel Harlan P. Winters — Howlin' Harlan or Howlie to his troops, a soldier's soldier, once top-dog of the elite Penetration Teams in Vietnam.

Bolan said, "I heard that he'd retired."

"Yeah. Kicked him up to Brigadier and right out the goddam door."

"That happens to good soldiers sometimes," Bolan mused. "Especially when they get too good."

"Well, he's in a hell of a mess now."

"A mob mess?"

"That's the smell I get. I stumbled onto the thing up in Frisco, sheer accident. He's in deep shit, Sarge — and he needs a guy with a big shovel."

"Meaning the Executioner."

"Yeah."

Bolan's shoulders drooped forward in an almost imperceptible movement and the eyes turned to ice as they returned to a sweep of the crescent coastline of San Diego Bay. He told his companion, "I just came from a messy one, Pol."

"Yeah, I know, I heard. They were even trying to tie you into an assassination attempt on the President. I knew that was pure bullshit the minute I heard it."

"This one could get even messier," the Executioner declared. "I brought quite a bit of Intel away from that Washington sweep. Enough to know that ... well, I can't just blitz into San Diego. And especially not for Howlin' Harlan."

"You know something about him I don't," the other man decided.

"Maybe. Did he ask for me, Pol?"

"Hell no. He doesn't even know I'm into it, yet."

"Then how .. . ?"

"I bumped into him up in Frisco. Looked terrible, scared outta his skull when he recognized me. Said he was on a business trip. Had a chick with him, introduced her as his niece. We had a drink together, the three of us. Small talked, that's all, then they split. Next day the chick looked me up, with SOS written all over her. Now is the time for all old troopers to come to the aid of the C.O. That was her message. You see, he — "

"Save it for a full briefing," Bolan suggested. "You split for now. Meet me again tomorrow — same time, same place."

The other man displayed a tense smile. "It's a go, then."

"A tentative go. I want to scout the terrain a bit before I commit myself."

"Okay, but look out for these San Diego cops. I hear they're pretty savvy."

Bolan knew about the San Diego cops. Many of them, especially higher echelon types, were ex-feds who'd decided they could do a better job under local colors. Which usually meant that something was rotten in fedville. He told his friend, "Yeah, I'll watch it. Now split. Too long already."

"Gadgets wants into this one, too," the other man said, smiling soberly.

Bolan gave a resigned sigh and replied, "Okay. Tell him I said welcome aboard. I'll need every talent he's got."

The smile grew. "The death squad is reborn."

"Not quite," Bolan said.

"Yeah, you're right, not quite."

Rosario "the Politician" Blancanales, along with Herman "Gadgets" Schwarz had fought beside Bolan in Vietnam ... and also in Los Angeles with seven others ... the Executioner's "Death Squad." Of the nine, only Pol and Gadgets survived.

The two men locked eyes for a moment, and there was no disguising the pain which passed between them. Then Blancanales punched his old friend lightly on the shoulder and faded quickly into the darkness.

The entire meeting had consumed less than two minutes.

But the man in black remained on Point Loma for another half-hour, pushing an infinity of ideas through his combat-conditioned mind, re-examining his priorities, re-assessing the implications and directions of this eternal damned war of his. He was realist enough to realize that it could not, in fact, be an eternal war ... it simply seemed that way. He could survive just so many firefights, elude just so many cops, live just so long.

And he had to make every breath of life count for something positive.

As for a resurrection of the Death Squad, even a partial resurrection ... he had vowed never again to take on allies, never again to deliberately place friendly lives on his firing line. There had been much too many live sacrifices upon the altars of the Executioner's crusades. And yet... Pol and Gadgets were living in some sort of purgatory, at best. If they wished to come out and meet their fates head-on...