The three warriors regrouped at the front fender of the Ferrari as the flames below were burning themselves out.

Gadgets Schwarz quietly commented, "End of track. I defy anyone to say even what was in those trucks."

Bolan said, "Just as well. It's a decent place for a burial."

Blancanales told them, "It doesn't end here, though. It's what I've been wanting to report. Lisa Winters told me that Tony Danger had them all over a barrel. Something about a wild party on a yacht, and some pictures Tony was holding over their heads. She said — "

'It figures," Bolan Interrupted tiredly. "The messes people make of their lives."

Blancanales said, "Well now wait. Tony Danger is the guy that blasted the colonel. He went out there to make a swap, supposedly. Howlie was going to turn over the records on that missing gear in exchange for those pictures. Instead, he blasted the colonel and burnt the papers. I guess Howlie went down fighting, though. It was his own gun that did him in. I think he was planning a little surprise play of his own. Lisa said they were fighting over this gun ... it turned out to be the colonel's. Anyway — "

"Anyway he's dead and gone," Bolan said. "And the game is over. I already consigned Tony Danger to the San Diego cops, for better or for worse. And I — "

"That part's over too," Schwarz put in. "I was monitoring the police frequencies. Heard it while I was coasting along Highway 94. Shoot-out at Maxwell Thornton's house. Police trap. Tony Danger is dead, two other contractors critically wounded."

Bolan sighed and thumbed reloads into his AutoMag's clip. "So it's fully ended," he said wearily. "I believe Thornton will take my deal. Especially after…."

Blancanales was staring at the pile of destruction just below them. He said, "Yeah. So where to, now?"

Bolan gave him a surprised look. He said, "I was on my way to Philly when I received your message."

"What's going in Philly?" "A guy named Angeletti." Blancanales whistled. "That guy. It's going to be a mean one, Sarge. Gadgets and I can — "

"You can go home," Bolan said firmly. "I have to work Philly on my own."

The two death squaders understood. Schwarz said, "You know how to reach us, any time you need to."

Bolan replied, "Sure. You guys hang loose. It's been, uh, like old times." "Sure has," Schwarz agreed. Blancanales whipped off a fat money-belt and thrust it at the Executioner. "The war chest," he said. "Not much gone. All I bought was the gear for Gadgets and the Corvette."

Bolan didn't even look at it. He growled, "Keep it. All I want is what I can carry in my pocket. I pick it up as I need it."

Schwarz grinned. "I guess your credit's always good, eh? How much have you banged the mob for, so far?"

Bolan smiled back. "Millions, I guess. Who counts? Easy come, easy go — right?"

"Well," Blancanales drawled, I guess we better…."

Bolan said, "Set yourselves up in business."

"What?"

"Use the war chest as a stake. Face it, you guys are living on the heartbeat, anyway. Eight? Make it pay."

"What sort of business?" Schwarz asked, interested.

"You'll think of something fitted to your talents." Bolan shrugged. "I can think of a couple right off the top. Industrial counter-intelligence. Large services to small nations. You've got the smarts. And if that's what you like best..."

The two men exchanged glances. A world of ideas met in that interchange of minds.

Blancanales said, "Just the same, if you ever need us ..."

Bolan grinned, shook their hands, and told them, "Split, will you? Keep the warwagon, Gadgets. I'll pick up another somewhere."

And that was the end of another brief partnership.

Blancanales and Schwarz trudged past the smouldering remains of the San Diego Siege, got into their vehicles, and headed west — into only God knew what.

Mack Bolan, forever the Executioner, pointed his Ferrari to the east. Somewhere over there was a U. S. highway … and somewhere beyond that lay another hell called Philadelphia.

Howlin' Harlan, some nice people, and a fine old city he'd been glad to pass over, lay behind him.

Stretched out ahead was an infinity which the Executioner had come to think of as his "wipe-out trail" … and an eternity which he had long ago identified as hell.

A guy would have to be insane to keep on with this.

But, then, he'd have to be dead not to.

Bolan grinned at the eastern horizon without humor, and, half-aloud, told himself, "Right on, man."

Philly was going to be a cold one.