The first gray fingers of dawn were pushing into the cloudless Southern California sky and darkly silhouetting the rugged rise of mountain peaks to the north and east.

Montgomery Field, a suburban airport favored by private and charter pilots, lay quietly brooding upon the approaching daylight.

Several men in white coveralls, employees of the flying service which operated the airport facilities, moved slowly among the small craft in the tie-down area in a routine inspection.

Runway lights and the field beacon were still in operation, and brightness spilled from several open hangars.

From the base operator's private terminal could be heard the clacking of a flight-advisory teletype.

Manuel "Chicano" Ramirez and Jack "Schoolteacher" Fizzi occupied a late-model LTD, parked near a service ramp in the shadows of the terminal building. The windows were down and Fizzi was lightly drumming his fingers on the roof of the vehicle, keeping time with a country-music tune from the car radio.

Ramirez, the wheelman, a heavy man with a lumpy face and shaggy hair — expensively attired but rumpled and obviously disrespectful of $200 suits. He was about forty and well known in the police files of several nations. At the moment, the Chicano was slumped behind the wheel of the car, eyes closed, seemingly dozing.

Fizzi was in his late twenties. He had attended a small eastern college for two years, then traveled west to seek his fortune. One year to the day after his arrival in California, Fizzi began a one-to-five tenure at Folsom Prison for Grand Theft — Auto. For the next twenty months he had worked in the prison's rehabilitation program as a teacher of illiterate cons. Apparently he had learned more than he taught at Folsom. His "connection" with Ben Lucasi, overlord of Southern California organized crime, was arranged within a few weeks of his release from confinement.

The Schoolteacher was always sharply dressed, almost tensely alert, his hair longish but carefully groomed in the new mod look. The image projected was the new look in junior executive. It was a false image.

The big man behind the wheel lifted his head sluggishly from the back rest and growled, "Wha' time is it?"

"Time enough," Fizzi replied. "He's ten minutes late."

"Hate these fuckin' milk runs," the other complained.

"Me too." The handsome one sighed, adding, "This will be the last for awhile." He turned off the radio. "Maybe they hit some bad weather." "Go ask the guy inside," Ramirez suggested. "Aw no. He'll be here."

Two men wearing the white coveralls of the flying service rounded the corner of the terminal building and approached the vehicle. "Ask these grease monkeys." "What the tell do they know?" Fizzi growled. "He's been late before. Just cool it."

The men in white were making a casual approach, laughing softly between themselves until reaching the LTD, then they split and came down opposite sides of the car.

The one moving along the driver's side was about medium height, somewhat thickset, dark hair and skin, smile-wrinkles setting the expression of the face.

The man at the other side was tall, broad-shouldered, athletically built — a bit younger than his companion — with chiseled features and eyes that dominated the entire appearance. "Ask 'em," the wheelman insisted. Fizzi growled a profanity and thrust his head outside just as the tall man drew abreast. "Hey, jock, what's the weather report for the mountains?" he asked in a snarly monotone.

"Stormy," the big guy replied in a voice of sheerest ice. A silencer-tipped black auto appeared in his hand from seemingly nowhere, to graft itself to Fizzi's outthrust forehead.

A gasp from the other side of the car signaled that the same unsettling event had occurred over there. The young triggerman very carefully relaxed his tightening muscles and his tone was entirely respectful as he said, "Okay, all right, okay. Let's cool it. What's the beef?"

The tall man issued another quiet single-word response: "Outside."

It was like a voice from some deepfreeze, not calculated to encourage inane argument.

The guy backed off, just a little, the ominous tip of that black pistol unwaveringly remaining on target though, his free hand opening the door and swinging it wide.

Fizzi slid carefully to the outside, keeping his hands in clear view. As though acting out a conditioned reflex, he then turned his back on the big guy, spread his feet, raised his hands, and fell forward against the roof of the car in a "frisk" stance.

Somewhat the same scene was being enacted at the opposite side of the vehicle.

Ramirez was growling, "Where's your warrant? I wanna see a warrant."

"What're you guys — feds?" Fizzi wanted to know as the tall man relieved him of his weapon.

That same icy voice replied, "Sort of."

Before he quite realized that it was happening, Fizzi then found that his wrists were securely taped together at his back and the guy was applying a wide strip of adhesive to his mouth. An instant later he and Ramirez were curled into the trunk compartment and the guy was shoving something into his fist — something small and metallic with irregular edges.

Then the trunk lid was closed and he was sharing the cramped darkness with Ramirez.

He maneuvered the little metallic object into his palm and rubbed his fingers along the outline — and suddenly Fizzi knew what that object was.

He also knew who the big bastard was.

And he knew, with a flooding sense of relief, that he was one lucky goddam triggerman if he was really going to get off this easy.

Not many guys ever met Mack Bolan and lived to brag about it.

Yeah. Jack the Schoolteacher was one goddam lucky son of a bitch.

But why? for God's sake why had the guy left him breathing?

A sharp little red and white Cessna came in just ahead of the sunrise to execute a standard landing approach in the Montgomery Field traffic pattern. It touched down smoothly on the main runway, completed a short landing roll and crossed over to the service area, halting at the gas pumps just uprange from the waiting automobile.

One Sammy Simonetti, the lone passenger, stepped outside, then leaned in for a final instruction to the pilot. "After you've gassed up, put her away. We won't be going back until tonight late."

The pilot nodded. "You'll know where to find me."

"Right."

Simonetti was a "courier." He even looked like one, complete to the wrist-manacle attache case which was chained to his right hand.

Two men in airport service-white moved out of the lengthening shadows of the terminal building and intercepted him halfway between plane and car.

"Mr. Simonetti?" the thickset one pleasantly greeted him.

The messenger frowned, but broke stride and replied, "Yeah?" — his eyes flicking toward the waiting vehicle.

The tall man quietly informed him, "Trip ends right here, Sammy."

The ominously-tipped black Beretta showed itself, the muzzle staring up into the courier's eyes.

The other man reached inside of Simonetti's jacket, took his weapon, then nudged him on toward the LTD.

"You guys out of your minds or something?" he asked them in a choked voice. "You know who you're hitting?"

"We know," the tall one assured him. He opened a rear door and shoved the flustered man into the back seat.

The other guy was sliding in from the opposite doorway. He grabbed Simonetti's hand and went to work on the wrist-lock with a small tool.

The captive's eyes were showing panic. He groaned, "Hey, Jesus, don't do this to me. How'm I going to tell Mr. Lucasi about this? I can't go walking in there with a naked arm."

"You'll think of something," the pleasant one replied.

"Look, boys, no shit now. You want to make a score? I mean a real score? Look, leave it alone. There's nothing in here to do you any good. I can steer you to a real score. I mean, millions maybe."