They had both ways covered. Shots came from the right and the left, almost simultaneously. Bolan reached back and got the second dead, dragged him to the door, heaved him upright, then shoved him out.

As the body toppled out into the hallway, shots came again.

Bolan followed, squirming flat on his belly, as the shots at the dead man went high. He turned left, sighted and gutshot the soldier who stood like an old-time gunfighter, legs spread wide, arm thrust full-length, sighting. The man doubled in the middle, screaming, fell backwards, dropping his gun and holding his guts.

Bolan rolled over twice, taking what cover the two dead men and the toppled stretcher afforded. A shot knocked a jagged hole in the tile floor four inches from Bolan's elbow. All along the hallway, patients screamed in terror. A nurse came rushing out of one room between Bolan and the live gunman, and the soldier used her as a shield to pop up and snap off a shot. The woman fell and Bolan thought she'd been hit, but she'd only fainted because he heard the crack overhead, then the bullet whacking into the wall.

Mack Bolan had never killed an innocent person, never harmed one, nor any cop. He had, in fact, allowed himself to be shot by Leo Turrin's wife rather than kill her when she began pumping slugs at him from fifteen feet with a tiny .25 automatic back when The Executioner first declared war on the Mafia.

But now....

Maybe it had come to that point.

If he tried to turn and run down the hallway toward the open end — where the gutshot soldier moaned continuously in pain — he left his back open for the other gunman. The hallway was too narrow for jinking, zigzagging with any real hope for success.

With regret, Mack Bolan snapped off the last shots in the Beretta magazine to keep the gunman's head down, and at the same time undipped one of his grenades, pulled the pin, let the spoon fly, and with a swift, hard underhand snap-toss, skittered the frag down the hallway.

He punched the button on the pistol, dropped the empty clip, pulled a full one from the leg pocket of his black combat suit and shoved it home, racked back the slide and chambered a round. He drew himself up into a coiled muscular readiness, and when the frag went in a thunderous roar of noise, dust, and whizzing shrapnel, Bolan charged.

He was almost sick with relief when he reached the end of the hallway and found the grenade had gone off in to the stairwell and exploded between floors, and the only person hurt was the Mafia soldier who lay dead, his back shredded.

Bolan went down the stairs at a full run. His only chance lay in total and complete surprise.

He got past the fourth, then the third floor without interference, except for hospital personnel who kept trying to "capture" him, while screeching questions.

As he broke loose and dropped free-fall five steps, then to the landing between the third and second floors, he came face to face with two gunmen. He hesitated only a fraction of a second, saw neither man wearing a police shield, then Bolan pumped two shots into each man, one, one, then one and one again, insurance.

That was six, at least two more, the wheelmen, and somewhere down here Bolan knew the crew leader waited. Standard Operating Procedure, S.O.P., for Mafia hits, contracts. The crew leader never does the work himself except as a last resort. He uses young punks on the make, kids looking for a "sponsorship" into a Family, proving their worthiness by doing the dirty work. Sometimes they got paid off in lead, or concrete blankets, like Tenuto when he hit Schuster on Anastasia's orders.

Noise no longer mattered, so as he charged out onto the ground floor, Mack holstered the Beretta and drew the huge silver .44 Automag. A security guard with drawn revolver stopped, mouth agape, started to bring his gun into action and Mack shot a hole in the floor three feet to the side of the guard's right foot. The thundering explosive power of the .44's muzzle blast and the shattered tile stinging his legs proved too much for the guard. He broke sideways, ducking low, and ran for cover.

Mack went through the front door with such speed and power the doorframe sprung loose from its hinges. And then he was outside, in the dark, in the open where he could use his experience and cunning.

Bolan saw the cars. They had been positioned well. One at each opposite corner, so the wheelmen could see a side and front, or the other side and back of the hospital. Just as Leo said. Bolan stopped in the dark shadows cast by the tall building, rested his shoulder against the brick, blew off one wheelman's head as the man opened the door and got out, gun in hand.

Bolan ran for the car. As he crossed the street, the other car came rocketing around the corner, closing on him. Bolan dropped to his left knee, brought the Automag up and held it in both hands, and pumped three shots through the oncoming grillwork. The engine exploded and the car swerved, hit the curb, toppled over on its side, then rolled slowly over on its top.

Bolan dragged the dead wheelman from the car at his side, got in and drove away.

An hour later, Bolan stepped through the back door of a Village shop, attracted the attention of an elderly clerk, and a half-hour later emerged with a wardrobe somewhat more "fashionable" than suited his personal tastes; but he'd chosen the shop because the clerks were accustomed to freaks in such far-out clothing the gray-haired lady hardly looked at Bolan's black combat garb while outfitting him. Twenty minutes later, Bolan rented a shabby furnished room, slept until dawn, then hit the street again in his new clothes and found another shop which sold clothing of more conservative and nondescript styles. Here, Bolan completely outfitted himself, underwear outwards, for the long trip. Then he went to see a man about some papers.

Captain Charles Teaf felt like an ass. Ten minutes ago he'd been inside the company office wishing like hell he could get a good charter, maybe to Cleveland or Chi. But it was probably raining both those places, too. Miami or Phoenix were too much to hope for, on this soggy wet day at Teterboro Airport, New Jersey. He had might as well wish for the friggin' moon, or another trip to Rome like he'd had ten days ago.

That was ten minutes ago. He'd been grousing around the office, and hinting to Annabelle maybe they could slip back to the long-range jet, the one with seats on the starboard side aft that made down into a bunk, and rip off a little. But the gloomy day must have been working on her, too. She told him to go commit an impossible act with himself. As though she had some kind of treasure, saving it for the right guy.

What a laugh. Forty, if she was a day, but she sometimes worked stew on charter jobs. The thing was, hardly anyone ever noticed her face. With tits like she had who cared? Throw a flag over the face and go for Old Glory. Just what the hell else she did, Captain Charles Teaf was not quite sure. A little typing, answered the phone, spent a hell of a lot of time examining freight manifests, and when not in the office she was out walking the line, talking to guys and gals from the competition.

That was ten minutes ago, when Teaf s mind was occupied with speculation upon whether Annabelle wore a 44D— or 42DD-cup bra. Now he had something important on his mind. Around aviation's somewhat incestuous circles, Captain Charles Teaf had an acknowledged reputation. The word was greedy. He would backshoot his nice little old gray-haired mother for a guaranteed profit.

But Teaf found the man with the money rather frightening. A big, icy-eyed bastard with a bandage on his face who walked with a slight limp. And who insisted on such privacy that Captain Teaf stood outside in the goddam rain talking to him. Teaf's stiffly starched white shirt had turned to clammy glue against his skin, his fancy black shoulder boards with wide gold stripes dripped, and he knew the large wings above his left shirt pocket would need cleaning and polishing because they were brass, not gold.