Mack Bolan
Stony Man #30 Virtual Peril


CHAPTER ONE

Korea Bay,
North of the Yellow Sea

Sudden death approached in long, cool whispers across the
surface of the sea, creeping under the fog-shrouded moon.
Commander James R. Conrad knew the routine well, and
it burned at the back of the primitive warrior's brain as he
swam toward the North Korean fishing trawler now less
than a hundred yards away. As the leader of the handpicked
team of U.S. Navy SEALs, Conrad had seen action in a
aumber of ports during the past seven years. He was
twenty-nine, but had been blooded several times over. No
doubt remained in his mind that it would happen again this
night.
Altering his stroke, he surfaced for just a moment to
study the trawler. She was the Dragon's Gate, a govern-
ment-owned fishing vessel. Blunt and ugly, the trawler
showed the hard years of fighting the sea. Looking like gray
webs cast against the night sky, the rigging didn't appear
strong enough to weather the approaching storm. He figured
that was why the skipper was using the diesel engines.
Conrad submerged, satisfied that his group was on track.
With the trawler's speed, they'd only have one chance to
make the interception. The long swim through the chill wa-





ter from the Swimmer Delivery Vehicles three miles back
was beginning to tell. His muscles cramped slightly, and
he knew the payback on the mission the next few days was
going to be rough.
Activating the UTEL built into his face mask, Conrad
said, "Manha Leader to Manha Squad, give me the quick
count."
"Roger, Manha Leader, this is Manha Two. We're show-
ing clean and green. Picking up no sonar."
The rest of the team quickly counted off, assuring radio
contact and position.
Ahead of his group, the SEAL commander was the first
to intercept the approaching trawler. He fought against the
wake to touch the hull of the vessel with a gloved hand
and glanced up at the railing as he broke the surface. No
one was them. "Manha Three." "Here."
"Secure the line."
"Aye, sir." Less than ten feet away, Manha Three rose
to just below the surface. Conrad couldn't see the man, but
he knew the instructions he'd given.
A silvery sheen of bubbles left from the compressed air
of the speargun was the only thing visible. The trail ended
suddenly when the spear impacted against the wooden side
of the Dragon's Gate.
"Tie on," Conrad ordered. "Count it down when you're
secure." He swam strongly, kicking out hard with his fins.
The trawler pushed through the water at a speed faster than
most of his team could maintain for long despite their train-
ing and conditioning. The window of opportunity for target
lock was shrinking rapidly.
The SEAL team commander touched his face mask and
dropped the modified infrared lenses into place. The ocean
took on a whole new look. Behind him, coming up with

speed, a red glowing line snaked through the water as it
dug into the vessel's side. The infrared lenses picked up
the specially treated line easily.
Conrad grabbed the line without difficulty, submerging
quickly and holding on. The line was knotted every two
feet and made gripping even easier. His team counted off
raggedly, but every man was on.
"Move it," Conrad commanded, pulling himself up the
line. Until then, the ocean had been a friend, buoyant and
supple. Now it became another enemy, shoving and push-
ing against them as the trawler continued on its way. Hand
over hand, Conrad hauled himself along the line. His arms
ached with the effort, but he made himself go forward.
In a long minute, possibly two, he reached the side of
the trawler, then took a small, collapsible grappling hook
from his chest pack and shook out the line. He touched the
release button, and the four flukes popped from the sides.
He spit out a mouthful of salty water and the rebreather
mouthpiece. "Four."
"Ready, sir," the man's voice called out behind him.
"On my. ~ark."
"Aye."
Conrad spun the grappling hook over his head, eresting
the waves expertly. "Go." At the apex of one of the waves,
he let it fly.
"I'm away," Martha Four called out.
Cast well, the grappling hook dropped over the trawler's
side. Conrad held his breath and submerged, quickly draw-
ing up the slack as he slid along the umbilical. The grap-
pling line drew haut with enough force to tug fiercely even
though his falling weight was almost negated by the water.
He released the umbilical and swarmed up the grappling
line. When he broke the surface, he saw the heads of some





of his group already gathered around the ascension point.
"Four."
"I'm on, sir."
"Let's go."
"Aye, aye."
Climbing the rope was difficult, but the trawler's motion
and the spume of the waves made the situation even worse.
Still, Conrad went up it steadily. When he had one arm
over the railing, he worked the zipper on a pouch holding
his silenced Heckler & Koch MP-5 SD-3 and drew the
deadly little machine pistol into the open. He flipped off
the safety, then threw his other arm over the railing and
hauled himself aboard.
The deck was worn, with piles of nets secured around
the bow. Two men stood near the mast, working with the
sail rigging. One end of the canvas had come loose and
was flapping haphazardly. Both men scrambled to secure
it.
Conrad kicked free of his flippers and out of his re-
breather, dropping them on the nearest pile of netting. ff a
fast evac was indicated, he could grab them on his way
over the side. If he couldn't, he could make do without
them, and none of them could be traced back to the U.S.
government.
Water dripped from his black balaclava as he quickly
slipped on a pair of black joggers. By then, six of his team
had joined him on the deck. He slid the headset radio into
place and switched it on.
He waved two of his team toward the men working with
the canvas, then headed toward the wheelhouse with two
more men to back him up. The remaining two went aft,
their H&K MP-5s canter across their chests.
Suddenly a harsh voice rang out, followed a second later
by a blast of gunfire.

Conrad whiffed in time to see one of the SEALs he'd
assigned to the men working on the rigging stagger back-
ward. The SEAL leader lifted the machine pistol and cycled
a dozen rounds, knocking both of the deckhands off their
feet. Tapping the transmit button on the headset, he said,
"We're blown! Move in now!"
He raced for the wheelhouse, pausing at the door as the
two men with him separated. One lined up behind him
while the other took up a position on the other side of the
door. At the prow of the vessel, the downed SEAL com-
mando got to his feet, letting Conrad know the bullet had
been stopped by the Kevlar vest.
More gunfire broke out around them, and muzzle-flashes
slivered the night. The trawler was a rioming hardsite,
which was no surprise. Intel had reported through CIA
channels that the Dragoh's Gate was bringing in a load of
fissionable material to Pyongyang, North Korea, from an
undisclosed source, probably a free agent in China. With
the advent of capitalism and the confusion during the re-
taking of Hong Kong from the British, a variety of players
were actively taking their cut of whatever profits were
available.
Conrad turned his attention to the door. "Manta Two,
this is Manta Leader."
A jagged streak of white-hot lightning slashed across the
dark sky, sprouting two flickering tongues. A crack of thun-
der followed almost immediately, creating a burst of static
on the communications frequency.
"Two copies, Leader."
"Your sit rep?"
"Working it, Leader. Give me another minute, and we'll
have this tub wired for sound and true destruction." If re-
covery of the fissionable material wasn't possible, they'd




been ordered to drop the trawler and its cargo to the bottom
of the bay.
Conrad signed out, then lifted his leg and kicked the door
open. He whirled around the door frame, the H&K MP-5
thrust before him. He had only a second to realize that too
many people were crowded inside the wheelhouse, then a
hail of bullets smashed into his chest and left thigh, knock-
ing him back out of the doorway.

Outside Nampo, North Korea

"CLEAR UP THAT STATIC, dammit!" Dixon Lynch bellowed
as he watched the half-dozen monitor screens on the long
table in front of him. "I don't pay you for static!"
The computer operators struggled with their equipment,
offering no excuses. They were a crack team, the best
money could buy, or they wouldn't have been sitting at
those consoles.
Lynch knew the approaching storm was causing prob-
lems with the satellite feeds from the cameras on board the
Dragon's Gate. To his left, a separate monitor showed the
sweeping advance of the storm system overtaking the
trawler, imaged into a whirling white spiral that jerked with
digital reproduction. Silently he cursed the weather. In a
world that could generally be reduced to a collection of
logic, where people could actually be shot out into space
then recovered quite easily, he hated the chaotic.
"The American spy satellites are locked out of visuals
on this?" Lynch asked.
"Less than a minute ago," the man confirmed.
"Are our cameras getting all of this?" Lynch asked.
"Yes, sir," a young blond man responded. "We're en-
hancing as we need to."
"How much of this is going to be in infrared?" Lynch

shifted his view to a monitor on the fight. Green figures
ran madly across the blackened oufiines of the trawler. It
was easy to discern humans from the surrounding structure,
but not so easy to know which side was which. Both were
firing their weapons now, the bullets showing up a hotter
green than the body-heat readings, the digital tracking
showing them almost floating across the screen.
"I don't know." The man rapidly tapped the keyboard
in front of him.
"Mr. Arno, I need as much of this as possible in color,
in black-and-white at the very least." Lynch gripped his
hands behind his back. At six-four, built like a tennis
player, and wearing a gray pin-stfiped Armani suit with an
authority that seemed innate, he was an imposing figure.
His complexion was a smooth consistency, like butter
mixed with chocolate, reflecting his mixed heritage.
'Tin working to salvage as much of the transmission as
I can, sir."
Lynch glanced around the prefab building. The space
was limited, but his team had made the most of it, nudging
the North Korean military into the support tents that sur-
rounded the building.
General Chai-Song Sym stood less than six feet away,
looking complacent. He was an iron bar of a man, well into
his riffles. Barely an inch above five and a half feet and
weighing perhaps 130 pounds, he was the epitome of the
North Korean fighting man. The uniform was crisp and
clean, and worn with pride. His hair was flecked with gray,
as was his Clark Gable mustache.
"I have my team standing by," Sym said in English. He
purposefully didn't look at Lynch.
"I'm well aware of that, General," Lynch said in Ko-
rean. Languages had~always come easily to him. So did a
position of command. He felt the friction between himself





and the North Korean general, as strong as it had been a
few weeks ago when they'd first met, but ignored it. As
long as Lynch had the Communist government in his
pocket, he didn't have to worry about Sym.
A half-dozen soldiers stood at attention behind their
commanding officer. They were sharp counterpoints to the
T-shirt-wearing civilians Lynch had assembled to man the
computers.
Despite Sym's objection in front of his men, Lynch had
invoked his authority, and the general backed down. The
earlier argument had deepened the schism between the two
units, but Lynch didn't give a damn. He had his own
agenda here, and he knew he was only safe as long as the
North Koreans needed him.
Judging from the amount the Communist party had paid
him, Lynch knew they thought they needed him badly. But
when it came to computer espionage and political sabotage
behind the scenes, he was the best money could buy.
"The sacrifices of those soldiers don't have to be made,"
Sym said.
Lynch pinned him with a hot gaze, then let a sardonic
grin cover his lips. "General, you don't give a damn about
those men on the Dragon's Gate. You'd just like to claim
your pound of flesh now and show the president what a
bully good soldier you are."
Sym's gaze narrowed, and he tried to pierce Lynch with
his stare. "I warn you, Mr. Lynch, your insubordination
will not long be tolerated."
Taking a step closer to the man, Lynch spoke in Korean,
loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. Those that
didn't understand his words would get the gist of his reply.
"It's not insubordination. There's no one at this site that
I'm subordinate to."

Wisely Sym refrained from making the situation worse.
He kept Ms gaze fixed on the computer monitors.
"The SEALs are pulling back," a woman's voice said
in a clipped, upper-class British accent.
Sliding smoothly once more into the command situation,
Lynch scanned the screens. The storm was on top of the
fishing trawler now, and the satellite relays were picking
up the torrent of rain lashing across the deck. He walked
over to stand behind Gutter Razor.
During their three-year association, Lynch had never
learned the beefy Australian's real name. Inches short of
six feet, Gutter Razor was balding and blond, thick and
heavy rather than fat. He had a round face and peered at
the world with baby blue eyes behind round-lensed glasses.
Despite being short and stubby, his fingers played the com-
puter keyboard like a virtuoso. There was no one better at
interfacing with corporate and political ICE, and getting
past the security measures to access whatever data was be-
ing hidden.
"They know they've been set up," Lynch said.
Aboard the Dragon's Gate, the infrared images of the
SEALs were scrambling now, trying to establish a holding
position against overwhelming odds. The trawler had be-
come a death trap.
"Yes." The woman stood at Lynch's side. She was tall
and slender. Her platinum white hair was worn cropped
close, allowing the delicate lines of her skull to show. Long
earrings from a popular science-fiction television series de-
pended from her ears. A cosmetic diamond comprised of a
triangle of blue meeting a reversed triangle of green lay
over her left eye. A ruby earring flashed on her fight nostril.
She wore black leather pants, hot pink pumps and a black
leather vest over a hot pink tube top.
Her name was Kalico, and she was probably the most





dangerous woman with software Lynch had ever had the
opportunity to meet.
"How's the video coming?" Lynch asked.
"I've laid out the parameters," Kalico replied in her
quiet voice. "It'll look good." "How long?"
She flashed him a winning smile. "Minutes. We already
shot the blue-screen stuff. And I've just completed the pal-
ette changes that'll bring everything together." "What about seams?"
"Come on, Dixon, you've seen my work. If seams were
needed in this production, they'd be as artistic as those in
fishnet stockings. Are you getting antsy?"
"No." When he'd found her, Kalico had been working
with a prominent California-based CD-ROM gaming outfit
that was raking in millions every year. His investment in
Kalico to get her away from the gaming company had been
considerable, but Lynch knew her special effects were noth-
ing short of magic. "I do know the rain and the lightning
are going to throw off the shadows and light sources."
"It's taken care of. I used a flicker-image program I
wrote. Which, if I were back in the colonies, would net me
a rather handsome infusion of cash, I might add."
"But without all the subterfuge allowed by using it
here."
She smiled at him. "Touch6, love. There is something
delightfully wicked about this particular orchestration that
satisfies somewhat of an erotic nature."
Lynch shifted his attention to another man. "Jon, how's
the ID coming?"
Jon Cameron was as lean as a rake and had a cocaine
habit that coincided with the intensity of the computer se-
curity systems. The more risky the gig, the more he leaned

on the blow, but Lynch had to admit the drug did seem to
enhance his performance. "I've got three of them so far."
"Show me."
Cameron worked the keyboard. His monitor cleared, then
a computer-enhanced image still from the Dragon's Gate
took shape rapidly, pixel by pixel, like a puzzle falling into
place. The hacker hit the keys again, shrinking and shifting
the picture to the upper left comer. A window opened on
the screen and revealed two more pictures of the same man
in more ordinary full and profile shots. Text sped across
the bottom of the screen.
"Meet Commander James Redmond Conrad," Cameron
said, "leader of special SEAL Team Knock-Knock.
Twenty-nine years old. Been in the Navy since he was eigh-
teen. A SEAL the past seven years. Took his first ops mis-
sion in Panama during the Noriega fiasco. I can also tell
you his birthday, inseam size and favorite color as of his
last psych eval two months ago."
"Set it up and shunt it over to Kalico's machine."
"Done, boss. If I get any more, she'll have those, too."
Lynch nodded and turned to Sym. On the computer mon-
itors, interrupted only for brief flickers by the storm, the
deadly combat continued to take place. It was easier to
distinguish the Navy SEALs now: they were the ones tak-
ing a savage beating. Still, they were holding their own,
running up the North Korean military casualties.
"You see, General," Lynch said, "that's why your gov-
ernment contracted me for this job. In one evening, I'm
going to give you more ammunition against the United
States than all those fissionable materials will do. This is a
black eye that's not going to go away easily."
"Still, you've not said where the fissionable materials
are," Sym replied.
"They'll be along," Lynch said, tuming back to the





monitor. "Getting them here was even easier than orches-
trating this play. But I trust my intelligence circles more
than I trust the North Korean military's." On the screen,
more of the North Korean soldiers disguised as fishermen
were moving against the SEALs. He reached for the radio
handset. "Razor." "Yeah, mate?"
"Secure a corn line to the skipper of the Dragon's
Gate."
"Done."
Lynch pushed the handset at Sym. "They're your people.
Tell them to back off. We need as many of those men alive
as we can get."
Reluctantly Sym accepted the handset and barked the
orders.
"Now," Lynch said, "you can send in your birds." He
stepped back and glanced at Kalico. "Let's see what
you've got."
She nodded and walked back to her machine.
"Arno," Lynch called out.
"Yes?"
"Bring up the media outlets we have on the dissemina-
tion program."
As Kaiico brought up the footage of the actual mid on
one half of the split screen and the preprogrammed work
she'd done on the blue screens on the other, Lynch glanced
back at the images Gutter Razor had showing on his mon-
itor.
The disguised North Korean soldiers had slowed down
their rate of fire. During the brief lull, the SEALs were
trying to reestablish their position and care for their
wounded and dead.
"That's beginning to look like the massacre at the Little
Big Horn," Lynch snapped.

"Don't worry about it," Kalico advised smoothly. "By
the time I get through with this footage, it's going to look
like those soldier boys took a trip down an unarmed
Hogan's Alley."
Lynch looked down at the beautifully curved neck and
felt suspicion dawn inside him. So far, his operation had
never been infiltrated. Still, it wasn't paranoid to pay atten-
tion.
KaJieo's fingers never faltered on the keys. "I worked
on some of the FBI virtual-reality simulation for Quantico's
shooting range, love," she said. "Remember?"
"Sure. Now show me what we're going to do with this
footage." Lynch noticed the smile she was wearing and
knew the earlier comment had been designed to needle him.
"You're a very deceitful little bitch."
"Thank you. Coming from you, I know that's a profes-
sional compliment of a very high caliber. Now watch."

The Dragon's Gate

IGNORING THE THROB in his wounded thigh, Conrad
rammed a full clip into his H&K MP-5, then wheeled
around the lifeboat and fired a 6-round burst into the North
Korean who'd broken cover in an attempt to gain ground
on the SEAL team. The 9 mm parabellum slugs turned the
lunge into a death dance, the corpse tangling in the lines
of a fishing net as it went down.
"Colder than a dead mackerel," Chief Sebastian War-
nicke cracked as he readied an HE grenade. He was a griz-
zled twenty-year veteran, and possessed a black sense of
humor.
Conrad felt a cold grin slide into place across his lips as
he looked at Warnicke. The SEALs knew they were the
first in on an operation, and reinforcement, if any, was usu-





ally too far back to do any good. In the present situation,
there was no backup at all.
Warnicke held the grenade for a brief count, then tossed
it into a small knot of North Koreans huddled near the
wheelhouse. The bomb went off with a loud explosion and
a flash of blinding light. Two North Koreans were thrown
to the deck and didn't move again.
Swinging around the lifeboat on the other side, Conrad
held the machine pistol low and fired controlled bursts into
the reeling survivors. Three of the enemy went down as he
rode the rising recoil. He tapped the transmit button on his
headset. "Three, this is Leader."
"Go, Leader."
"Give me a count."
"Three wounded. Two dead." The radio connection was
clear, but the staccato reports of autofire sounded like static.
"Do we have possession?" Conrad had never left a man
behind, alive or dead, and he didn't intend to be the first
to foul the SEALs' record. Still moving, forcing the leg to
take the weight and hold firm, he fired another burst that
raked a man from the top of the wheelhouse where he'd
set up a sniper's nest. "Aye, sir."
"Abort the mission," Conrad ordered. The words
sounded as if they were coming from someone else. In all
his years commanding his SEAL team or being part of an-
other, he'd never failed to reach an objective. But there was
no choice. Whoever had sucked them into the raid had suc-
ceeded with a vengeance. "Aye, sir."
"Two, this is Leader."
"Go, Leader."
"Keep your finger on that detonator. On my mark."
"Aye."

Conrad scanned the deck. His team had pulled back to
the starboard side of the trawler. With no one at the wheel-
house, the vessel was starting to founder in the water. As
if sensing their retreat, the North Koreans redoubled their
efforts to put down the American special-ops team. Conrad
finished off his clip with a blazing figure eight that chopped
a man from the partial cover provided by the forward mast.
The grenade the North Korean had been preparing to throw
erupted in sudden destruction that sent his flaming corpse
spinning.
"Six," Conrad called, fitting another magazine into the
H&K.
"Go, Leader."
"Our satcorn?"
"Dead and gone, sir. They took it out in the initial
blast."
With the miniature satellite dish gone, Conrad knew they
had no way to relay the situation to the waiting sub. The
support teams wouldn't know the mission was a failure
until the SEAL unit went over the allowed time frame. Or
didn't come back at all.
"Over the side," Conrad commanded. "Call out the
numbers when you're clear. Chief, you're with me."
The unit responded like the well-oiled machine he'd
trained it to be. The only discrepancy was the two numbers
that were called out by the men carrying the bodies of their
teammates.
Recognizing the withdrawal, the North Koreans surged
forward, forcing Conrad into deeper cover as he and War-
nicke tried to defend the retreat. Then a PA crackled across
the sound of gunfire, and orders were given in Korean.
"Chief?." Conrad glanced at Wamicke, dropping the
empty H&K to hang from its shoulder strap as he drew his
SIG-Sauer P-226.




"Telling them to back off us," Wamicke said, readying
another magazine. "They want us alive."
Two men came around the wheelhouse in the stern of
the Dragon's Gate as Conrad tried to fathom the reason for
the orders. Responding on instinct, he raised the SIG-Sauer
and fired a dozen rounds at the soldiers. The first target
crumpled from the hail of bullets, but the second tried to
face Conrad, lifting his AK47. The SEAL commander
squeezed off his remaining four rounds into the man's up-
per body, punching the dead man backward.
"Shit!" Wamicke said in a strangled whisper.
Wheeling, Conrad saw the man stumble to the side and
raise a hand to his throat. Bright blood covered the chief's
forearm.
Wamicke tried to say something else, but he was drown-
ing in his own blood. He went to his knees, and the light
dimmed in his eyes. Death took him before he hit the deck.
Conrad kicked the spent magazine free of the 9 mm pis-
tol, plucked another from his webbing and shoved it home.
Then he seized the chiefs body and ran for the trawler's
starboard side. The rest of the team had already made the
evac. The slippery deck eased towing the corpse. Two
rounds hit Conrad in the back, were stopped by the Kevlar
body armor but still staggered him. The harsh Korean voice
cracked out again, and the gunfire died away as the North
Korean soldiers rushed his position.
Conrad slid Wamicke's body under the railing and over
the side, then grabbed his flippers and the LAR V in his
free hand. Spinning, he brought up the SIG-Sauer and emp-
tied the clip at the nearest enemies. Five men stumbled and
fell, tangling up the men behind them.
The SEAL team leader sprinted toward the starboard rail-
ing and hurled himself over the side. He released the flip-
pers and rebreather, intending to retrieve them when and if

he could. Below him, Wamicke's body was already sinking
into the depths, and he concentrated on it, not wanting to
lose visual reference. In the dark water, the corpse would
be almost impossible to find. The other SEALs were swim-
ming away from the trawler.
He tapped the transmit button on his headset. "Two."
"Go, Leader."
Hitting the water hard and slightly off balance, Conrad
went under immediately. He twisted and stroked, coming
back to the surface in heartbeats. Water drained from the
pencil-thin microphone looped at the side of his mouth.
"Blow it, Two."
He glanced up at the trawler as the explosives on board
went off with a rolling, thunderous series of roars. Orange-
and-yellow flames spread in sheets, venting clouds of
smoke that looked gray against the coal black sky.
The North Korean soldiers lining the starboard rail were
blown away, ripped to shreds by the antipersonnel bombs
that had been set to clear the decks. The demolitions crew
had taken their target by the numbers.
As he tuckedaway his pistol and dived for the rebreather
and Wamicke's body, Conrad thought his team might just
make it out of the situation with most of them alive. But
when he surfaced, Warnicke's bloodstained shirt knotted in
one fist and the LAR V in place, someone yelled out a
warning over the UTEL.
"Choppers! Coming this way!"
Conrad looked up into the sky in the direction of the
North Korean coastline and spotted the trio of warbirds
streaking toward the Dragon's Gate. Flaming debris from
the trawler was scattered all around the site. There was no
mistaking the approach pattern of the helicopters, and Con-
rad knew there was no way the choppers were friendly.
"Get under!" he ordered his team. "Stay down. We'll




go as far as we can." He dived, pulling the corpse after
him. All of the team members were rigged for neutral buoy-
ancy, so the body followed easily though slowly.
He swam, using his legs and fins expertly, cruising as
silent and sleek as a shark almost ten feet below the surface.
Harsh white light spilled across the ocean's surface in
elliptical pools, probing the murky water. Dulled by the
liquid medium, the throbbing of the whirling rotors slapped
concussive waves through the brine. Abruptly a steady
stream of machine-gun bullets interlaced with fiery purple
tracers sliced through the water.
"Deeper," Conrad transmitted to the survivors of his
team. He angled his body into a steep descent and pulled
the corpse after him. Despite the odds, there was a chance
the unit could escape.

CHAPTER TWO

"We've picked up some company."
Seated at the steering wheel of the Mazda RX7 with the
crowded downtown streets of Tokyo all around him, David
McCarter hit the transmit button on the headset he wore
that connected him with the rest of his team. "I know it,
mate. Gray Toyota van riding up close, and the Isuzu
Trooper hanging back a little farther."
"Damn," Calvin James said. "If you already had them,
why didn't you tell us?"
"I was about to. You blokes were there at about the same
time." He turned on the cat's wipers, sweeping away the
light sprinkling of rain that continued to fall over the city.
In the night, with the absence of a moon, the streets looked
like glazed black glass.
"How do you want to handle it?" James asked.
McCarter cut his eyes ahead of them, taking in the long
limousine carrying the men they'd been sent to protect. So
far, none of the tails had closed in on the trade represen-
tatives, who were bound for the economic summit in Seoul.
"Let them play about for a bit," the Briton advised.
"Then we'll see what they're up to." He was lean and fox
faced, with green eyes and light brown hair. Once, he'd
been with the SAS, and was a tough commando according
to those he'd worked with. Lately, though, he headed up a




team of warriors called Phoenix Force, working out of a
covert counterterrorist hardsite hidden away in the Blue
Ridge Mountains of Virginia.
"Something?" his companion asked.
McCarter flicked a glance over to Hisoka Ishii. "We're
being followed."
The Japanese National Police officer smiled briefly. He
was in his fifties, hair beginning to silver, but his body was
still lean and hard.
"You," Ishii said, "watch too many movies. You Amer-
icans, you always look for the adventure."
McCarter took a moment to light a Player's cigarette,
crank down the window and expel a cloud of smoke
through the crack. "I'm not American, bloke. Want to
watch me break out in goose bumps when I sing 'God Save
the Queen' ?"
"You work for them."
Nodding, McCarter said, "Quite right. But it hasn't af-
fected my sensibilities, nor triggered any new juvenile fan-
tasies."
"Who is supposed to be following us?"
"Gray Toyota van about four cars back."
"Not a good following distance," Ishii replied. "The
driver could easily lose us."
"True. Let's find out, shall we?" McCarter tagged the
headset's transmit button. "Calvin?" "Go," James responded.
"Be a good lad and dissuade the van from following
US."
"Direct or indirect?" Calvin James was lanky and black,
and from the heart of Chicago. He eventually saw service
with a U.S. Navy SEAL unit, then, after a stint in the police
department, was invited to join the ranks of Phoenix Force.

"Indirect," McCarter said. "Who knows? Maybe the
chap can take a hint."
"I'm on it," James said.
McCarter flicked his eyes to the rearview mirror and
watched as James muscled his sedan farther up the line of
cars, neatly cutting off the van at the next intersection and
slowing deliberately to catch the red light. "Gary, do you
copy?"
"I'm here." Gary Manning, a Canadian, was the re-
maining member of the team in Tokyo, and his specialty
was explosives. Besides a military career, he'd also served
as a demolitions instructor with the RCMP and West
German GSG-9.
The two other Phoenix members were already in Seoul,
South Korea, having finished up their present assignment
of bodyguarding U.S.-sponsored Thailand representatives
to the economic summit taking place there over the next
few days.
McCarter watched, but the van appeared to have no prob-
lem waiting behind James. At the next right turn, James
left the traffic, peeling off. The van was content to work
on closing the gap.
"See?" Ishii said. "They're not following the represen-
tatives."
"I'm glad you feel so confident," McCarter said With
only a trace of sarcasm.
"Cowboys," the INP man said.
McCarter didn't think he was overreacting. During his
career, he'd learned to trust his instincts, and right now they
were reading off the scale. Because the representatives were
known to be sympathetic to American economic needs,
Phoenix Force had been assigned to protect them. With
Hong Kong changing hands and the trade alignments and
spheres of influence altering in the Asian countries, the




President had wanted to make sure terrorists who were anti-
American didn't take the opportunity to target the repre-
sentatives. America had been invited to the Asian economic
summit, as well, but wasn't expected to get the chance to
provide much in the way of influence. "They didn't shake," James said.
"I noticed," McCarter replied. "Means that we're all
wrong--' '
"Or that they've got the limousine wired."
"Of course," Ishii said, his fingers steepled together be-
fore him, "it's not secret that we're taking this group to
Tokyo International Airport."
McCarter grinned. "No, it's not. However, our precise
destination isn't public knowledge. If they'd merely been
wanting to see the representatives off, they'd have been
waiting at the airport like the media."
"Perhaps," Ishii reflected, "your concerns do hold some
merit." He reached for his own radio and started issuing
orders in Japanese. Before he'd finished, the stalking group
made its move.
The attack came from an unexpected quarter, in the form
of a mass-transit bus. Evidently somewhere along the way,
the attackers had stolen the vehicle, then locked on to the
limousine's course through radio communications.
"Hold on," McCarter said, stomping on the accelerator.
Skillfully, drawing on the talent and experience that had
made him a good driver in the rallies back home, the Phoe-
nix Force leader aimed his vehicle at the approaching bus.
The limo driver saw the danger and hit the brakes, flaring
the taillights in bright ruby. Without hesitation, the bus sud-
denly crossed lanes, smashing into an oncoming car and
sending it spinning away, narrowing the distance to the
limousine.
"Calvin, Gary," McCarter called out over the headset as

he drew his Browning Hi-Power pistol from shoulder
leather.
"Here," Manning said.
"Coming around," James replied. "Be there in a min-
ute."
But there was no time to intercept the bus. It barreled
down the street like a runaway locomotive, closing on the
limousine as it tried to back away. Overtaking the luxury
car, the fiat front of the vehicle smashed up against it,
knocking it out of control.
McCarter drew even with the limousine as it butted up
against a light pole on the curb. Then the bus smashed into
it again, driving it through the light pole and up against the
front of a nightclub, scattering the patrons as they ran for
their lives.
The bus driver shifted, then surged forward, using the
bulk of his vehicle to pin the limousine against the brick
wall of the building.
Three or four men inside the bus made a dash to get out,
carrying automatic weapons. They fired at the limousine,
not doing any real damage because the luxury car was bul-
letproof.
Stepping on the brake, downshifting and throwing the
Mazda into a controlled slide, McCarter brought the car
around to face the bus broadside. He opened his door and
got out, shouting at the INP man to stay down.
Bullets sparked across the Mazda and whined from the
wet street surface.
Aiming coolly, making every bullet count, McCarter
fired five times in rapid succession and put down three of
the gunners, his accuracy bringing renewed effort on the
part of the surviving members to take him out.
He ducked behind the Mazda, and a glance at the lim-
ousine told him the representatives inside weren't about to




get out. A really bad feeling began to gnaw at him. He hit
the transmit button. "Calvin, see about getting those people
out of that bloody car. Gary, you're with me." "And where are we going?"
"Into the bus. I don't like the way they've left it perched
there. They knew the representatives would stay inside the
car."
McCarter's premonition was given more credence when
he saw the two tails he'd spotted weren't interested in doing
anything more than picking up the survivors from the bus.
The Toyota van and Isuzu Trooper made their pickups and
turned around immediately, tangling with the Japanese po-
lice cruisers pulling into the area with whirling blue cher-
ries.
"Set up a cordon around that bloody bus right now,"
McCarter said to Ishii, "unless you want a lot of bystanders
killed, too." He pushed himself away from the car and
sprinted to the bus.
Calvin James parked beside the limousine and started to
beat on the driver's window. He was either being ignored,
or the doors were jammed.
Running with the Browning Hi-Power in his fist,
McCarter was the first man to reach the bus. Manning was
at his heels. Palming a flashlight from his coat pocket, the
Phoenix Force leader switched it on and played it over the
interior of the bus.
"Shit," he said when he saw the arrangement of explo-
sives in the aisle between the seats. An LED was counting
down from one minute forty-seven seconds.
Manning had out his own flashlight and was walking
toward the bomb. "It's not wired for a remote that I can
see. Looks like it's just a timer detonator."
"Year, but the bleeding thing has enough firepower be-
hind it to kill everyone in that limousine," McCarter said

as he slipped into the seat behind the steering wheel. The
ignition was empty of keys, and the windshield was thor-
oughly shattered.
Leaning underneath the console with his pocketknife, the
Briton quickly stripped the ignition wires. Sparks flew
when he touched them, and the diesel engine turned over
sluggishly. Still, it caught.
Ishii stuck his head into the bus long enough to see the
bomb as Manning was working on it.
"Clear the street," McCarter ordered, backing the bus
off the limousine. "I need a place to put this."
"There's a parking garage a block up," the Japanese
policeman said, "used only during business hours. It'll be
locked up but empty."
McCarter nodded and got the bus under way while Ishii
stepped off and started talking into his walkie-talkie.
"Gary?" McCarter said.
"What?" Manning was still playing the flashlight over
the bomb.
"What are the chances of defusing that bloody thing?"
McCarter rolled over the center median, barreling over
trees, scanning the building signs.
"If I had three, maybe four minutes," the Canadian said,
"it'd be a piece of cake. I'm looking at twenty-nine sec-
onds here. Find the garage." He switched off the flashlight
and walked forward. "when it goes off, there's going to
be a hell of a bang."
"Let's just hope we're not around, mate. Now see if you
can help me find that bloody parking garage."
"There." Manning pointed at a sign that had a picture
of an automobile on it.
McCarter swerved for it instantly, cutting across a line
of oncoming traffic and drawing a multitude of horn blasts.
The steel doors were closed, but provided only brief resis-




tance. They gave with smashing clangs, then the bus was
inside the building.
Leaving it rolling, McCarter said, "Go," and followed
Manning out the door. The two Phoenix Force commandos
ran hell for leather, barely clearing the hanging steel doors
when the explosives ripped the bus to pieces behind them.
The heat of the blast rolled over them as the concussive
force knocked them to the ground. McCarter covered his
head until all the debris had stopped falling.
"Cut it pretty damn close, eh?" Manning asked as he
pushed himself up. The parking garage was a disaster area.
"Any closer, mate, and we wouldn't be here talking
about it." McCarter jogged back toward the area where the
limousine had been overtaken.
Police cars filled the area. Fire trucks were arriving, as
well, and a cordon had been erected to hold back the flood
of media that had appeared.
"Anybody hurt?" McCarter asked James.
The ex-SEAL shook his head, obviously disgusted. "No.
Looks like everybody came through it okay. If you hadn't
gotten that bus off them, I doubt any of them would have
survived."
"So what's up?" McCarter asked.
James pointed at the dignitaries approaching Ishii. "Do
you recognize all those people?"
"No," McCarter admitted. Most of them he recognized
from the dossiers supplied by Stony Man Farm. Learning
their identities hadn't been as important as keeping them
alive. Interaction hadn't been a facet of the operation.
A slim Japanese man with hard features drew abreast of
Ishii, then spit on the policeman's shoes and walked away.
"Not exactly a happy camper, is he?" Manning said.
"Not a camper at all," James said in a sarcastic voice.

"Notice the people that have obviously taken him under
their wing."
McCarter looked. The man in question was being taken
to a Mercedes, escorted by six young men in fashionable
attire and severe attitudes. The dislike between them and
the police officers was intense and immediate. Upon closer
inspection, the Briton noticed that two of the men had col-
orful tattoos that could be seen on their chests and arms in
the light issuing from the nightclub. "Yakuza," McCarter said.
"I'd be willing to bet on it," James said. There was a
click, and McCarter realized the ex-SEAL had palmed a
miniature camera and was snapping pictures of the man
who'd gotten out of the limousine with the representatives.
"Maybe," the Phoenix Force leader suggested, "this
means that our little stay in Seoul isn't going to be totally
without event."

"THEY'RE GETrING AWAY," General Sym stated.
Not looking away from the monitor reflecting the infra-
red satellite view where the SEALs were shown as duller
green man-shaped images now because the water cooled
their body temperature, Dixon Lynch said, "No, theY're
not." North of the SEALs' position, the Dragon's Gate was
a writhing mass of pale jade with scattered pools of emerald
around it. Lynch reached for the radio handset keyed into
the satellite uplink. "Peregrine Alpha, this is Chiprunner."
"Peregrine Alpha reads you, Chiprunner."
"Bring out the hammer." Lynch put the handset away
and continued watching as the satellite view picked up the
helicopters. The sensors were delicate enough to discern
the images of the men inside through the metal skin. Drums
rolled down ramps in each helicopter and spiraled out into
the ocean.




"What is that?" Sym asked.
� 'Depth charges," Lynch asked. He turned to the general
and smiled. "Never underestimate me. I'm not without re-
sources and cunning. They're set for forty to sixty feet. It
doesn't matter how indestructible those SEALs are sup-
posed to be. They won't be able to handle the detonations.
Kalico, how are those news bytes coming?"
"You'll have them, love. They'll want trailers, too, for
the evening and morning shows. I've almost gotten them
all finished. That way, if necessary, I'll be free to work on
other things as we need them."
Lynch nodded, satisfied. On the screen, sudden lime
green mushrooms flared into shape, sending out concussive
waves that caught the SEALs as they were swimming, buf-
feting them mercilessly. In seconds the fight was over, and
so were any chances of the American special-ops team get-
ting away.
The helicopters deployed life rafts at Lynch's direction,
then patched his voice through the PA systems mounted on
the undercarriage. "Commander James R. Conrad of the
United States Navy, you are on computer lock. You are
also under arrest by the North Korean government for spy-
ing and compounded hostilities. Surrender, or the next
salvo won't be merely set to stun."
Cautiously the helicopters stayed out of range of possible
small-arms fire. Other computer monitors showed differing
views using the FLIRs mounted in the noses of the heli-
copters. None of them were as good as the satellite.
Showing obvious reluctance, the SEALs swam for the
lifeboats. Escape was no longer an option.
Lynch put the handset aside. "Satisfied, General?"
Sym said nothing.
Lynch didn't care. He was working on his agenda, and
things were moving along smoothly. Joining Kalico at her

console, he said, "Break the story." Then he watched as
lies were spun into truth.

Silver Springs, Maryland

"DAMN!" Harold Brognola swore when he accidentally
poured hot coffee over his hand instead of into his cup.
Automatically he put down the cup and ran his hand under
cold water from the tap in the kitchen sink. His eyes never
left the thirteen-inch color television his wife had mounted
under the cabinets.
Routinely he watched CNN in the morning before leav-
ing for work at the Justice Department, trying to get a leg
up on the rest of the world. As special liaison to the Pres-
ident, he kept his eye on the world picture. Today it had turned bloody.
He turned up the volume on the set as he studied the
picture. He recognized the vessel as a fishing trawler and
got a sick feeling in his stomach. Yesterday he'd been
briefed on the SEAL-team infiltration only hours before it
had been scheduled to take place. After a quick glance at
his watch and calculating the time zones, he knew the
8:22 p.m. showing on the television translated to 6:22 a.m.
East Coast time. Less than eight minutes ago.
"...joining the transmission in progress," the female an-
chor announced. "We don't have all the details yet, but we
have verified that a covert unit of American special forces
has been taken captive by the North Korean military after
a savage auack on a fishing trawler called the Dragon's
Gate."
The scenes shown on the screen were from an infrared
spy camera, Brognola knew. They were also brutal and sav-
age. The American special-ops team clambered aboard the
trawler and raked withering fire across the sailors aboard




without warning, dropping bodies over the deck. More
scenes followed, depicting further atrocities committed by
the SEALs.
Brognola couldn't believe what he was seeing, and only
hoped none of the team had been identified until things had
been researched. However, that hope died with the next
scene and the anchor's accompanying words.
"The team leader has been identified as Commander
James R. Conrad, head of a squad in the nation's SEAL
Team Six counterterrorist unit. Our anchors in Washington
are trying to get further details at this moment. As they get
that information, we'll switch to them so we can keep you
up-to-the-minute with this fast-breaking story."
The anchor broke off for just a moment as more footage
was added. The segment featured in-depth information on
Commander Conrad from a military-type dossier. On-
screen the anchor cautioned viewers that the information
was believed to be correct, but hadn't been verified yet.
However, it was being broadcast from North Korea and was
part of the news. Then the scene cut back to a close-up of
three members of the SEAL team brutally shooting down
a pair of unarmed fishermen. "Hal."
Brognola turned at the sound of his wife's voice. Helen
stood in the doorway, wrapped in her robe and wearing a
worded look.
"I've got it," the head Fed replied. Together they
watched the story unfold. After pouring a full cup of coffee,
he washed down a couple antacid tablets. "Probably be a
late night."
Helen nodded wordlessly.
The phone on the wall rang, and the flashing light re-
vealed that it was the scrambled line from Stony Man Farm.
Brognola picked it up and said hello.

"We were just put on yellow alert," Barbara Price said.
As always, she was crisp and efficient. "The Man wants to
put a team into the field."
"Who do you have available?" Brognola asked.
"I've put a couple feelers out for Mack," Price said,
"but I've already planned insertions for Hawkins and En-
cizo. They're already in Seoul. The rest of Phoenix Force
is with the Japanese economic representatives scheduled to
arrive in Seoul by noon local time. They had some trouble
there, but nothing they couldn't handle." "Where's Striker?"
"The Philippines. From the time we reach him, he's only
a few hours from our target."
"Good enough. I'm on my way to see the Man. Keep
me posted." Brognola cradled the phone and glanced at the
carnage on the television. The tape was already being
shown again. No matter how many times the news media
played the recording, he wouldn't buy it. Conrad was
known to him through reputation as a stand-up guy. And
none of the team was the sort who would shoot at shadows.
Something had gone badly wrong with the operation, and
with the President calling for the Stony Man teams, the
stakes were still on the table. Brognola knew from long
experience that the buy-in ante would have to be paid in
blood.




CHAPTER THREE

Southwest of Seoul, South Korea

"Sir."
Mack Bolan came awake at once despite the comfortable
chair and the long hours he'd had behind him before mak-
ing the contact with Stony Man Farm. The bit of business
in the Philippines had turned nasty with a vengeance. He
looked at the thin copilot. "You've got my attention, Lieu-
tenant."
"There's a chance we're being followed," Navy Lieu-
tenant Frank Edison said. "The captain would like you to
come forward."
Bolan roused himself out of his seat and grabbed the
equipment bag Price had arranged for, then made his way
to the cockpit. The Lockheed P-3 Orion's four engines
filled the plane's interior with noise and vibration.
Equipped with a trailing magnetic-detection boom used in
antisubmarine patrols, the plane was supposed to give the
appearance of being part of the South Korean coastal-
defense system.
However, if the side trip to the Philippines had been
noted, that bit of camouflage was history.
Bolan dropped into the copilot's seat while Edison re-
mained standing by the back wail. Dressed in a light blue

cotton shirt, charcoal gray pants and hiking boots, the sol-
dier gave his transport no clue as to his identity or order
of business.
"Company?" Bolan asked, leaning forward to scan the
radar image on a computer monitor.
Conley, the pilot, said, "I think so." He pointed at the
monitor. "I wouldn't have noticed it if your people hadn't
been monitoring us. They've got a satellite uplink peeping
down on us. But I don't know if they know."
Bolan studied the green glowing blip on the screen.
"How far back?"
"Ten, fifteen miles." Conley shrugged, his ham-sized
hands steady on the yoke. "When it comes to accessibility,
though, you're talking a matter of seconds." "Yeah."
"And they've kept the distance pretty much the same for
the last hundred miles," the pilot said. "The elevation, too.
Probably means they've got a signature lock on us, as
well."
"Could be from the tower in Seoul," Edison said.
"Those people'11 be pushing a lot of traffic through those
channels," Conley said. It wasn't disagreement, just a way
of playing devil's advocate. "Ever since those Navy boys
got picked up, every reporter that could jump a plane or
boat has been coming into Seoul."
"Then whoever's following us has access to a satellite
system, too," Bolan stated.
Conley nodded. "Better than even money on it, hoss."
He flashed the warrior a mirthless grin. "Of course, when
it comes to clandestine operations these days, that bogey
could be one of our own and we're not supposed to know
it."
"I'd rather be sure," Bolan said.
"You and me both," Conley admitted. "In my time, I've




weathered some heavy business. But this situation in North
Korea is promising to be a shitstorm." He gave a sidelong
glance at Bolan. "Whether you're involved in it or not."
Bolan didn't reply, instead turned his attention to the
notebook computer that Price had included in the gear wait-
ing for him in the Orion.
After bringing up the system, he connected to Stony Man
Farm, which took a few seconds while it was routed
through a series of cutouts. Scrambled and transmitted in
bursts, the communication was made even harder to inter-
cept.
"Identify," the liquid blue letters challenged.
Bolan keyed in a response. "Striker."
"Password?"
"Double-down."
"You've got Electron Rider." The code name belonged
to Aaron Kurtzman, the Farm's cybernetics genius.
"What's up?"
"Have you checked the kite lately?" Bolan queried.
"Last time I looked, you were on course."
"The kite picked up a tail."
"Give me a minute, guy. I'll get back to you."
Bolan glanced back at the radar screen. The bogey was
still hanging tight. He looked at Conley. "Break four de-
grees to the east and lose five thousand feet. Let's give
them something to track."
"You got it." Conley made the adjustments smoothly.
The four engines growled more loudly, but the vibration
seemed to fade out. "If we're hot, have they got any
backup ready?"
Bolan shook his head.
"Kind of figured that," Conley said, "when everybody
was being so hush-hush about picking you up. We get in
a dust-off, we're going to be hurting. All we're packing is

a .50-cal machine gun concealed in the nose. Got two thou-
sand rounds of aremo. If they've finessed any sort of
ground force between here and Seoul, that plane running
the back door can light us up with a laser for a land-based
missile and you can stick a fork in us because we're done."
"Then we've got to see that it doesn't happen." Bolan
had already played scenarios out in his mind. None of them
appeared very hopeful. The call from Stony Man had been
placed with a message drop, and he still hadn't had time
or privacy to talk directly with Price or Brognola to figure
out why he'd been called in.
On the computer monitor, the bogey trailing the Orion
made course adjustments. Conley tapped the keyboard, and
for a moment glowing green numerals gave the bogey's
altitude. The figures dropped rapidly.
"No doubt about it," the pilot commented.
"Also proves they're locked on by satellite," Bolan said.
"They monitored the altitude deviation, too."
The notebook computer beeped as new lines of com-
munication flowed across the small screen.
"Your tail's been tagged, guy, but I'll be damned if we
know who it is. Want us to send in a welcoming committee
from the Thomas Paine? They can make the rendezvous in
less than ten minutes."
"Negative. If there are ground units working with the
bogey, more aircraft are going to be sacrificed. In my notes
for the Philippine mission, there's mention of an American
Army contingent carrying out a series of war games about
fifty klicks out of Seoul." There was a brief wait.
"The lady says your Intel is right on the money,
Striker."
"Brief me."
Kurtzman told him that the war games were supposed to




be a show of strength and confidence. With the economic
summit taking place in Seoul over the next few days, the
President figured it would be politically correct to flex a
little muscle. He hadn't counted on the snafu a few hours
earlier.
Bolan gazed through the Orion's Plexiglas windows at
the dark sky outside. The numbers on the play he was put-
ting together in his mind were whispering to him, counting
down as the plane streaked toward Seoul. He asked Kurtz-
man how far the plane was from the war games' location.
The computer wizard replied that the aircraft's location
was in blue, and the war games' was in red, and asked if
the Executioner was thinking of dropping in.
When Bolan answered in the affirmative, Kurtzman sup-
plied further instructions.
"At your present speed, you've got a forty-five-second
window to put you down within a couple miles of the
troops."
"Thanks. I'm going to need some kind of intro."
"The lady's already on it. By the time you get down,
the CO will know to expect the colonel."
"I read you, buddy. I'll be in touch when I can."
"Right. In the meantime, we'll be trying to find out who
your new playmates are."
The notebook computer's screen cleared with a ripple of
white light and a small, liquid pop.
Bolan closed the computer, disconnected the phone and
put the equipment away. Shouldering the bag in a chestpack
rigging, he glanced at his watch. Just under two and a half
minutes remained for his jump zone.
"Maintain your present heading," the soldier told Con-
ley. "I'm getting out."
"No problem," the pilot said. "You have a care out
there."

With the two-minute mark fast approaching, Bolan fol-
lowed Edison back into the cargo hold, shifted the chest
pack into position and shrugged into the parachute he was
offered. He slid an altimeter onto his wrist, then accepted
the SIG-Sauer P-228 Nightstalker pistol in a jackass sling
that Edison offered.
"Got a silencer for it in the pocket beside the two extra
magazines," the copilot said. "It's proprietary, so if you
lose the gun, the silenceifs worthless. It's a good gun.
Dead-on at fifty yards."
"I appreciate it," Bolan said as he pulled the rig on and
slid it under the parachute harness. His watch showed
twenty-seven seconds and counting down.
Working the side door's latches, Edison pulled it in and
slid it sideways. The wind whipped inside the opening.
"Had it modified so we could ditch passengers or cargo as
necessary," the copilot yelled over the noise. He stepped
behind Bolan and did a final check on the parachute.
The second hand on his watch was sweeping the last
eight seconds when Edison clapped Bolan on the back of
the helmet, letting him know everything was go. The sol-
dier glanced over his shoulder and tossed the man a small
salute, then threw himself into the night sky.
The countryside was black and unforgiving below him.
Even though he couldn't make out the details, he knew
rough and broken terrain waited for him. Glancing up, he
saw the stark T-shape of the Lockheed P-3 pulling hard to
the left, veering out toward the coastline again.
"They've tagged you, buddy," Conley calmly reported
over the radio. "The plane's staying with you, not us."
The cold wind ripped into the Executioner's face, numb-
ing it in a hurry. "Rogor." Without a flight suit, he couldn't
control his descent and gain some ground by tracking to-
ward the war games' area. He'd bailed from the Orion at




twenty-eight thousand feet. By the time he reached twenty-
one thousand feet, the bogey had caught up with him.
Limned by the sparse moonlight, the aircraft looked to
Bolan like one of the Gulfstream business jets as it closed
on him. For a moment, he thought it might try to shoot him
down even though at his present rate of descent, success
would have been a near impossibility.
Abrupfiy the Gulfstream heeled up, losing speed at once.
Bolan guessed that it had slowed enough to risk stalling
the engines. As it started to nose down again, obviously
losing the war with gravity, three black specks separated
from the jet, followed quickly by five more. The way they
moved away from the craft let Bolan know they were a
CrOwd of parachutists.
The fall from the heavens had just become a deadly race
to ground zero.

Seoul, South Korea

GUIOn~G ~ STSn'~_X~OOW~ military jeep into an un-
� marked space in the graveled parking lot at the side of the
Blind Cobra Bar, Thomas Jackson Hawkins scanned the
building with a jaundiced eye. Having spent most of his
formative years in El Paso, Texas, he knew at a glance that
the tavern wasn't just a watering hole for the locals.
The Blind Cobra was a two-story structure sandwiched
between a ceramics store and a bicycle-repair shop. The
ceramics store was closed, but lights were on in the bike
shop. Hawkins doubted that legitimate business was keep-
ing the owner working overtime and figured it handled
whatever fencing of stolen property wasn't taken care of in
the bar.
Still, it made sense that the man he was meeting would
= choose such a location. Hawkins's owri presence in Seoul

had started out as part of a security assignment for Phoenix
Force, but with the activation from Stony Man Farm, he
was standing in the twilight space between lawful and un-
lawful himself.
However, his business there was squarely on the side of
right, and that was all that mattered to him. The Navy
SEALs being held hostage were all the reason he needed.
Stony Man Farm hadn't elaborated on all the details yet,
but it was enough for him that Brognola and Price had
agreed to the covert action necessary to attempt a rescue.
He uncoiled from behind the steering wheel and walked
toward the front door of the bar, a lean and muscular man
with light brown hair and flashing hazel eyes. He was
dressed in cowboy boots, denim jeans and a hunter green
brushed-denim shirt with the sleeves hacked off at midbi-
ceps. A battered Texas Rangers ball cap shadowed his face.
At the door, he slipped a five-dollar bill into the beefy
bouncer's hand and was waved inside. The interior of the
bar was dark and filled with smoke. Three nude dancing
women writhed on a chrome-and-mirror-finished stage to a
heavy-metal beat.
Hawkins walked to the bar and ordered a beer from the
tap. He leaned on the scarred Formica bartop and pret~
to watch the gyrations of the women while he scanned the
crowd.
A slim man with dark sunglasses walked up at the bar
to stand beside Hawkins. He ordered a piita colada. After
taking a sip, he turned to the Phoenix Force warrior and
said, "You're Mr. Johnson?"
"Livingstone, I presume," Hawkins replied.
The man didn't crack a smile. "You don't appear tobe
carrying the cash we agreed on."
"I can get it. This didn't seem to he the place to carry
a briefcase in."




"I have a table." Adroitly the man threaded his way
through the thronging patrons as the DJ started a new tape.
The man took a seat with his back to the wall. "You're
alone?"
"Yeah," Hawkins said. He sipped his beer and used his
peripheral vision to pick up the two heavies who'd vectored
in on the table. Both of them looked Korean. Neither was
any closer than eight feet, which was a long distance when
considering the tavem's crowd. But Hawkins knew that a
bullet could cross the intervening yardage in less than a
heartbeat.
The meet had been arranged through Stony Man Farm,
put together by a CIA section chief who'd thought he was
helping out a Naval Intelligence Service operation working
on a drug-supply ring inside the troops stationed in Seoul.
Hawkins's connection was a munitions supplier for deep
covert ops in the area. Barbara Price was already gearing
up for the mission behind North Korean lines to free the
captured SEALs if something couldn't be worked out
through diplomatic channels.
It was that readiness to lay everything on the line to
achieve a worthwhile goal that had drawn Hawkins into the
Stony Man fold. However, on the present leg of the mis-
sion, the point team needed weaponry. Culling from the
American stores was out of the question, though. The res-
cue effort was unsanctioned, and none of the weapons--in
the event of a capture---could trace back to American or
South Korean units.
"You have my order?" Hawkins asked. He could feel
the other two men staring at his back.
"As you have the money you were supposed to bring to
me," the munitions supplier said. "It is nearby." He
reached under his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

Extracting one, he tapped its butt on the tabletop to pack
the tobacco.
"I'm operating on a time frame," Hawkins said. From
what Price had told him and Rafael Encizo, Mack Bolan
was due within the hour.
"Yes. Wait a moment, please. In this business, one can-
not be too cautious."
The sixth sense that had seen Hawkins through action in
Grenada, Panama, the Gulf War and Somalia tightened the
skin between his shoulder blades in a cool prickle. He
smiled. "True. But also true is that one can't take too long
in this business."
The munitions dealer flicked open a chrome-finished
lighter and ignited his cigarette. As he let out twin plumes
of smoke through his nose, one of the bodyguards left his
chair and approached the table.
Without looking at the bodyguard, Hawkins stared
straight at the munitions dealer. "Back him off."
A contemptuous smile twisted the man's lips. "Or
what?"
The bodyguard came to a stop just behind Hawkins.
"Or I'll hurt him," the young Phoenix warrior said in
an even voice. "And maybe I'll hurt you, too."
'Tin supposed to fear an unarmed man?" The munitions
dealer shook his head. "I don't think so."
"Your mistake. Where I come from, it's a man's duty
to warn another man when he's about to take on more than
he can handle."
"You Americans with your John Wayne attitudes." The
man snorted, then expelled a cloud of smoke into Haw-
kins's face. "All this posturing aside, you're going to an-
swer my questions."
"You're not the guy I was supposed to meet after all,
are you?"




There was only a moment's hesitation. "No. He met with
an unfortunate accident only a short time ago."
"I guess he wouldn't answer your questions, either."
"Not at all," the man said behind his black-lensed stare.
"He was only too glad to answer my questions. The prob-
lem lay in the fact that you and your people lied to him
about who you represented."
Hawkins digested that. If the man had access to people
who could sift through the smokescreen Price and Brognola
had set up to cover the operation, then he was heavily con-
nected with military and political factions in South Korea.
"I know you're here as a result of the SEALs' capture,"
the man said. "What I wish to know is who your unit is,
who you represent and what your mission is to be."
"Sorry," Hawkins said, "I can't tell you that for your
own good."
The man released another cloud of smoke. "My own
good?"
Hawkins shifted in the chair. Automatically the man
standing behind him took a small, anticipatory step for-
ward. "If I told you," the Phoenix Force commando said
with a cold grin, "then I'd have to kill you."
The man looked annoyed. Unconsciously he flicked the
lighter open and closed in his hand. The snapping noise
was audible for only a few feet.
"On-Jook," the man said, then nodded at Hawkins. "A
demonstration."
The big man behind the commando nodded, then lum-
bered forward like an automaton.
Hawkins guessed that the guy outweighed him by at least
seventy pounds, and had a longer reach and probably a gun,
as well. Even if he'd been so inclined, a fair fight wasn't
in the offing. But that went either way.
Snapping into motion, Hawkins swiped a whiskey bottle

from a nearby table and brought it around in a vicious arc
that exploded against the bodyguard's head. The bottle
fragmented, and the contents spilled down the big man's
clothes. However, the blow had only staggered him.
The bodyguard yelled with rage, loud enough to be heard
over the crashing riffs of the guitar solo coming from the
overhead speakers. His hand came out of his pocket curled
around a .44 Magnum Charter Arms Bulldog.
Still in motion, Hawkins snatched the lighter from the
other man's hand, snapped it to life and tossed it at the
bodyguard's chest. As soon as the lighter bounced against
its target, flames whooshed up the man's clothing, licking
hungrily at the spilled whiskey.
The cries of rage turned to howls of fright and pain.
Patrons of the tavern sitting at nearby tables jumped to
their feet and tried to get away from the burning man, un-
knowingly blocking whatever shot the second bodyguard
might have had.
Hawkins delivered a spinning front kick to the man on
the other side of the table. The guy went backward, stum-
bled over a chair and went down. As the human torch col-
lapsed to the floor, the second bodyguard fought his way
free of the crowd. A large, matte black automatic vented a
foot-long muzzle-flash toward Hawkins.
The bullet missed the commando by inches and gouged
a deep hole in the paneling. Reaching up, Hawkins ripped
the mounted antelope head from the wall. He held it in
both hands as he charged toward the gunner, catching the
man before he could get off another round. One of the long,
narrow horns sank deep into the gunman's chest. The other
tore into his throat and turned his cry of pain into a wet,
leaking hiss.
Hawkins slipped the Glock 17 from the dying man's grip




and palmed it expertly. He turned back to the contact man,
who was scrambling in a tangle of chairs, trying to get up.
Dying flames lapped at the smoldering body lying on the
floor.
Hawkins moved quickly, holding the Glock in front of
him. The rest of the tavern's patrons seemed only interested
in clearing the building. He was conscious of the time be-
cause the busted play was going to draw police and military
interest faster than cowshit drew flies.
His mouth bloody, the man reached under his jacket as
he stood unsteadily with his back to the wall.
"I wouldn't," Hawkins advised. He didn't stop advanc-
ing, but the Glock was locked on the man's forehead.
"Now I'm going to ask you some questions. Turn around
and put your hands against the wall." The man did as he was told.
Quickly and efficiently, Hawkins frisked him, turning up
a Beretta 92-F, and a butterfly knife sheathed along the
man's wrist. Roughly, wanting to intimidate the man, the
Phoenix Force warrior jerked his prisoner around to face
him. He plucked the sunglasses away and dropped them to
the floor.
"No famous tough-guy last words?" Hawkins asked.
"No."
The man's voice sounded too even, too sure of himself.
Then Hawkins spotted movement reflected in the dark eyes.
Before he could move, he felt the cool kiss of gunmetal
laid across his neck.
"Koh doesn't need them as long as he's got me," a
velvet voice said. "And make no mistake about itlif you
even flinch, you're going to have a bleeding stump where
your head used to be."
Reluctantly Hawkins released Koh and slowly raised the
captured pistol to point at the ceiling.

"Good boy," the velvet voice said. "Now let Koh have
the gun."
Hawkins did.
After retrieving the pistol, Koh backhanded him across
the face.
Hawkins rolled with the blow as much as he was able.
The gun pressing against his neck never wavered. He stared
into the other man's eyes. "Touch me again and you'll
have to kill me to stop me."
"Out the back way," Koh ordered. Wisely he stayed out
of reach.
Turning, Hawkins faced a blond stripper.
She was undressed, wearing only a scanty scarlet G-
string. Her green eyes were as cold and dark as the muzzle
of the Ladysmith .357 she held.
"Do you moonlight as a stripper," Hawkins asked, "or
do you moonlight as a hired gun?"
"Whichever way pays the most at the time, cowboy.
Let's go."
A big man with a beard and a Special Forces tattoo
showing on his right forearm stepped out from behind the
back door with a cut-down double-barreled shotgun. His
T-shirt advertised the Blind Cobra Bar, and Hawkins fig-
ured he was either one of the owners or a bouncer. "You
people want to hold up fight there till we sort this thing
out," he warned in a whiskey-toughened voice.
Without a word, the blond stripper raised her pistol and
fired three rounds that caught the man in the chest. A drink
coaster could have fit neatly over all three bullet holes. He
was dead before he hit the floor.
"You might want to keep in mind that I didn't even
blink," the blonde told Hawkins.
"I will."


She put the .357 ba;ek on him. "Hands behind your head.
Lace your fingers."
"Just like they teach you back in MP school," Hawkins
said.
She pushed him toward the back door. "Wiseass."
The door opened into a narrow corridor leading back to
another door that had to front the alley behind the club.
The stench of rotting vegetables and sour liquids was also
a clue. It was dark in the corridor, too, which helped him
disguise his movements.
Quickly he slipped his thumb and forefinger under his
watchband. Tripping the quick release he'd designed, he
pulled the watch from his arm when the band slid apart.
Gadgets and gizmos had always been a specialty of his
while he was growing up. Each new James Bond picture
had only fed an already fertile mind.
Walking into the Blind Cobra empty-handed hadn't sat
well with him. The pistol he'd secured in the borrowed
military jeep might as well have been in another galaxy.
However, inside the watch was enough plastic explosive to
tilt the odds in his favor even if only for a moment.
He pressed the button to initiate the fifteen-second delay
detonator. Ahead of him, Koh was reaching for the door
and talking on a cellular phone.
At six seconds, Hawkins dropped his watch. It clinked
when it hit the concrete floor, still audible above the con-
fusion echoing in from outside.
"What was that?" the blonde demanded. She knotted
her free hand in Hawkins's shirt and pulled him around.
Hawkins didn't answer as he kept the measured count
going in his head.
"Talk, you son of a bitch." The woman slapped him,
cutting his cheek with her fake nails.
Ignoring the sting of pain that covered most of the side

of his face, Hawkins used the movement to scan the floor
for the watch. He had to be standing almost on top of it,
but the darkness in the corridor allowed little visibility.
"What is it?" Koh asked.
"He dropped something."
Koh pulled the door open. "Ignore it. There isn't--"
A brief flash of moonlight on metal was all Hawkins
needed. Two seconds remained before detonation. He man-
aged a short kick that sent the watch streaking toward Koh,
then tried to concentrate on the woman just as a muzzle-
flash erupted in his face in a fiery blast that blinded him.




CHAPTER FOUR

"You're being followed."
Rafael Encizo didn't react to the news as he stood across
from the tall wooden counter in the Taiwanese curio shop
in Seoul's main marketplace. He spread currency across the
glass-topped surface. "How many?" "Three," Hiu Kwan-jo replied.
Encizo shifted and let his lightweight jacket fall open so
he could get to the Beretta 92-S snugged into shoulder
leather. He wasn't surprised that he was being followed.
The feeling had been nagging at him for the past hour, but
he hadn't been able to confirm it. His tails were definitely
good at their job.
He'd started looking for leads on the locations of the
captured SEALs in the marketplace almost three hours ear-
lier after splitting off from Hawkins. So far, he hadn't
turned up any hard evidence of who had tipped off the
North Koreans about the SEAL mission, or where the
SEALs might be being held.
One thing Encizo was sure of, though: if the street
sources had been cut out of the information link, whoever
had ultimately been responsible for taking down the SEAL
team had his own network in place. That no one knew of
it for certain let the Phoenix Force commando know he was
dealing with a deadly enemy.

"Do you know them?" Encizo asked the shopkeeper.
"No." Kwan-jo kept smiling as he reached into the dis-
play case and brought out another item of jewelry for En-
cizo's inspection. "I thought at first they might be Amer-
ican CIA agents."
"Why did you think that?" Encizo asked.
Kwan-jo shrugged. "All these years in this business, and
you get a feeling for these things." "They feel American?"
"Look it, too. I'll show you." The old man reached un-
der the counter again and brought up a brocaded mirror
with a gilt overlay that made it resemble a spider web
emerging from the reflective surface.
Encizo reached out as if he were only getting the feel of
the mirror but actually adjusted it so he could see the shop's
front door behind him. He spotted two of the three men
easily. The third he took Kwan-jo's word for.
Outside the shop, most of the businesses were closed. It
was after 11:00 p.m. Only a few, like Kwan-jo's curio shop,
offered small caf6 areas to legitimize the late hours. The
street was deserted except for occasional vehicles.
The two men Encizo identified were tucked into the
shadows just beyond reach of the shop's lights. Both were
of medium build and wore casual clothing that allowed
them to blend in with the people who'd crowded the mar-
ketplace earlier.
"Were they there when I first walked in?" the Cuban
asked the shopkeeper.
"I didn't notice them." Kwan-jo put the mirror away.
Encizo guessed they had a reason for closing in now,
and their motives couldn't have intended any good for him.
He pointed to one of the bracelets he'd been shown earlier
as if deciding on a purchase. "So why tip me off?."
"You pay well," Kwan-jo said. "And I won't stand for




losing any customers inside my shop. Bad for business."
He put the bracelet in a small paper bag and handed it to
Encizo.
"Where's the third guy?" Encizo asked.
"Alas, I lost him."
The Cuban's stomach tightened. He wasn't worried
about handling himself if things turned violent, but running
a high profile at the start of the mission wasn't good. Being
IDed tore the hell out of the element of surprise. "Have
you got a back way out of here?"
The old man's eyes twinkled. "If I didn't, I wouldn't
have lasted in this business as long as I have. The hallway
to your right, follow it all the way to the back. The door
is locked from the outside."
"Thanks." Encizo kicked in another twenty percent to
the amount he had placed on the countertop.
"You probably won't have much time," Kwan-jo said,
making the money disappear with a sweep of his hand. "I
don't intend to attempt preventing them from following
you."
"No problem." The Cuban took his package and headed
nonchalantly for the rear of the curio shop as if he were
still interested in checking out more of the offered goods.
A glance at the front of the shop showed him one of the
men walking toward the entrance.
The hallway Kwan-jo had indicated was covered with
dozens of string beads interwoven with silver bells. Encizo
parted them with his hand and pushed through, setting off
a small cacaphony of tinklings. He deposited the bracelet
on one of the small shelves that covered the wall on his
left. Drawing the Beretta, he raced to the exit with the
sound of the small bells ringing in his ears.
He kicked the heavy metal door open, both hands grip-
ping the 9 mm pistol as he took up a Weaver stance, then

sprinted into the alley. His car was parked four blocks
down. ff he'd been followed as long as he believed, the
vehicle was no longer an option.
The glowing red dot of a laser sight sweeping across a
broken and taped window ahead of him lit up his survival
instinct. He went to ground automatically, a heartbeat be-
fore a bullet cored through the area where he'd been. Roll-
ing to his left, he came up against the building fronting that
side. The pavement was rough under his free hand and
against his stomach as he took cover. He knew the laser
sight indicated the unseen sniper probably had some kind
of night-vision capability, as well. Another bullet slammed
into the bricks only a few inches above his head, confirming
his suspicions. Brick splinters needled against his exposed
skin.
With the Beretta thrust before him, he scanned the store-
fronts above the exit from the curio shop. He detected the
movement in his peripheral vision as he heard the snick of
a bolt action being worked. Since there'd been no muzzle-
flash, he knew the weapon was shielded.
He fired on instinct, starting where he guessed the snip-
er's ankles might be and riding the recoil up as he squeezed
off a blistering eight rounds. Sparks jumped from the
wrought-iron railing on the third floor where he'd seen the
movement.
A pained cry echoed down the alley. Abruptly a shadow
separated from the darkness pooling along the small bal-
cony and fell over the side. The corpse hit the pavement
with a meaty thud.
Encizo was back on his feet as the other two men came
crashing through the back of the curio shop with Kwan-jo
screaming curses at them in a handful of languages.
"There!" one of the gunners yelled, pointing at Encizo.
In the dim moonlight, it was hard to make out details,




but Encizo was certain the two men were now wearing
night-vision goggles. They brought up their guns like well-
oiled machines.
Stepping into a combat crouch, both hands slipping
around his pistol, the Cuban targeted his enemies and
squeezed off two rounds apiece, working from left to right.
He saw the guns flare in their hands a second before his
bullets took them, but he got lucky as both rounds passed
him by.
He moved forward, keeping the men covered. When he
was close enough, he kicked away their weapons and
stripped the NVGs from all three dead men. Two of them
were identifiable, but the 9 mm hollowpoint rounds had
ripped the sniper's face into a gory mess.
Kwan-jo moved closer. A sawed-off shotgun dangled
from one of his bony hands. He glanced at Encizo and
broke the weapon open, extracting the shells. "In case they
decided to attack me," the shopkeeper explained.
Encizo nodded, then knelt to go through the dead men's
pockets.
"You don't have much time," Kwan-jo said. "I have an
arrangement with some of the police officials. There's a
button in my shop that alerts some of them who have a
special interest in my business. I used it when you left my
counter. They'll be here soon."
Encizo understood. Kwan-jo didn't just work the inter-
national scene; he also kept local authorities up-to-date in
exchange for protection. There was nothing in any of the
men's wallets that would tell Encizo who they were or who
they might be working for. The Cuban took a small pen-
light from his jacket and played it over the dead men. "Do
you recognize any of them now?"
"No." The shopkeeper removed his glasses, cleaned
them and looked again, then shook his head once more.

A screaming siren cut through the air and kept up a
steady banshee wail as it approached.
"But the clothes," Kwan-jo said, "definitely aren't do-
mestic." He bent down, surprisingly supple for a man his
age, and pulled at the backs of the jackets the dead men
wore.
Encizo moved the penlight. He kept the Beretta in his
other hand.
"The labels have all been cut out," Kwan-jo said.
"Standard operating procedure for a number of agencies."
He felt the material. A small smile lit his face in the gath-
ering gloom. "Ah, but the cloth.-I think it's British. One
of their knockoff weaves."
"You'd know?" Encizo asked.
Kwan-jo nodded. "I'd know."
In the inside pocket of the sniper's jacket, Encizo found
a magazine rolled up into a cylinder. When he unfolded it,
he was looking at the cover of a current Sports Illustrated
dedicated to all-baseball coverage.
The shopkeeper tapped the magazine. "No one else
would be so interested in baseball. These men were Amer-
icans."
"In cheap British suits," Encizo said.
"Yes."
The police siren sounded as if it was almost on top of
them.
Encizo kept the magazine. Maybe it was more than just
something to pass the time while they'd been stalking him.
He also took the rental-car keys he found. If his own trans-
port was questionable, there was a chance he could use
theirs. After saying a final goodbye to Kwan-jo, he jogged
into the night. But he didn't put the Beretta away for almost
two blocks.
Not many cars were parked on the street, but he got




lucky two blocks away. The rental car was parked in a
marked fire zone. The small tag on the rear bumper an-
nounced that it was a rental.
His thoughts turned to Hawkins. If someone had made
him, Encizo felt certain his teammate had probably en-
countered trouble, as well. He started the car and pulled
out, keeping the speed at five miles over the posted limit,
and arrived at the Blind Cobra Bar in ten minutes. Seeing
the crowd of people out front, but not noticing Hawkins
among them, the Cuban drove the stolen car around to the
back of the tavern. If Hawkins wasn't there, he fully in-
tended to go in after him.
Before he got halfway down the alley, a group of men
spilled from a parked van. All of them had guns.
Without warning, the back door to the bar suddenly blew
off its hinges and fragments of it scattered over the alley.
Encizo rolled forward during the confusion, taking the time
to put a fresh magazine into the Beretta. He had no doubt
that Hawkins would be somewhere near the eye of the sud-
den storm of violence.

STANDING BEHIND KALICO as she tapped computer keys,
Dixon Lynch studied the news footage as it played on the
two computer monitors in front of her.
The American military and political machines were still
reeling from the blow he'd dealt them by offering the doc-
tored film to the various media. On the surface, they were
disclaiming any knowledge of the SEAL operation in North
Korean waters, but behind the scenes the covert troops were
starting to put the pressure on various resources to gather
information about the aborted raid on the Dragon's Gate.
Behind Lynch, the temporary base camp was a flurry of
activity. A number of agencies were entering the fray, in-
cluding the Chinese, British and Japanese. Keeping track

of all of them was time-consuming but necessary. He
wouldn't settle for anything less than a stellar success with
the mission.
"Quite the party, eh, love?" Kalico asked as she leaned
back in her chair to stretch for a moment.
"Expected nothing less from you," Lynch said. "You're
a true artist."
"But a commercial one," she reminded pointedly. "I
expect to get paid very handsomely for my endeavors."
"The moon," Lynch said. "If I could, the moon would
be yours." He took her hand and kissed the back of it.
"Only," Kalico said sagely, "if you could be guaranteed
keeping ownership of fifty-one percent of it."
Lynch laughed because he was in a good mood and be-
cause events were actually ahead of his timetable. The only
fly in the ointment was General Sym.
For the time being, the general had decided to vent his
wrath on his troops, and was pulling a surprise inspection.
Occasionally his shouted orders could be heard through the
doors when one of the cybernetics tegm entered or left.
Gazing at the left monitor with its identifying CNN tag
in the lower right comer, Lynch watched as one of the
committee heads of the House regarding American military
involvement in the Far East was grilled mercilessly by the
press.
"There's two obvious ways for the President to handle
this situation," Lynch stated. He held up a finger. "First
he can pick someone to be the scapegoat."
"True, but then you'd have to plan on whether he found
a willing scapegoat, or simply picked one."
"Let's assume it would be a willing one."
Kalico showed him a doubtful smile.
"Or second the President can lie to the people and plead
ignorance of the situation."




"Lies are such wonderful little things," she replied. "If
done properly, of course."
"So you think he'll lie?" Lynch asked.
She nodded. "Especially if he's activated that covert
squad you're sure he has."
"I'm sure he has them." Lynch watched the news foot-
age continue across the screens. Barring a natural disaster
somewhere, he knew the raid on North Korea was going to
be the darling in the news media for hours. He intended to
keep the pot stirred. "I think we've targeted two of them."
"Any IDs?" Kalico asked.
"Not yet." Lynch glanced around the computer nerve
center. Gutter Razor and Jon Cameron were deeply in-
volved in the programs they were running. "One man's
been intercepted by Koh and Desiree while trying to pur-
chase munitions. Another's been spotted making the rounds
in the black-market district."
"What makes you think they're part of this phantom
force you're looking for?"
"I've been hunting these people for over a year," Lynch
answered. "They've been involved in several operations
around the world. From what I've found out, they're mul-
tinational, but they operate on orders from the American
government. These men fit some of the descriptions I've
arrived at."
At that time, General Sym walked back into the room,
looking perturbed.
Spinning in his seat, Razor got up and approached. He
brushed hair out of his eyes as he spoke to Lynch. "The
guy you told me to keep an eye on down in the black-
market sector?"
"Yes," Lynch said.
"The bugger just blew away all three of the people you
had on him and waltzed out one step ahead of the police."

"Where is he?" Lynch demanded.
"Haven't got a clue. The only thing I was left with to
keep track of him was the police frequency. They don't
know, and the description they're being given by the shop-
keeper conflicts with what I know to be true."
"He'll turn up again," Lynch said confidently. "What
about the other man?"
"Things got hairy there, mate. But Koh and Desiree have
him in tow."
Lynch nodded and turned his attention to Sym, who was
walking toward them. "Let's see if they manage to hold
on to him." Personally he didn't think they could. The team
he was hunting was extremely competent.
Razor noticed the general's approach, gave a dramatic
sigh and returned to his workstation.
Sym came to a stop within ann's reach of Lynch and
locked eyes with him. "My superiors wish to know about
the delivery of the fissionable materials," he said without
preamble. "These elaborate plans of yours are getting much
too chancy, and your interest in the movements of the
Americans is wasted. We have the SEAL prisoners. They
will not do anything to jeopardize them."
Lynch shook his head and broke eye contact. "Wrong,
General. Your superiors may be getting antsy, but the pres-
ident and his staff are kept fully briefed on everything I'm
doing. They're satisfied."
"This is a military matter," Sym argued, having no
choice but to follow him.
Stopping and turning so abrupfiy that the general looked
awkward as he came to a halt, as well, Lynch said, "Then
maybe you should call the president and inform him that
this whole operation should be under a military aegis and
not trusted to him and his staff." He had to give it to the
smaller man because he didn't immediately back down.




"Accepting delivery for the fissionable materials is my
responsibility," Sym said. "I want to know when they're
going to arrive."
Lynch glanced at his watch. "Three hours and twenty-
seven minutes."
Calmly Sym checked his own watch. "How will they
arrive?"
"I'll let you know." When the general started to inter-
rapt, Lynch talked louder, barreling over the man. "When
the time comes, I'll let you know. Until then, it's a closed
house to you and your men. Your government is paying
me because they know I can deliver. I'm not going to let
you within an inch of fucking this up. If you can't handle
the program, let me know. I'll suggest that you be replaced
so fast that it'll make your head swim."
A cold, tight smile spread across the general's face but
never touched his eyes. "At the moment, you are a guest
of my country," he said in a low voice. "Perhaps you'll
still be within its borders should that change."
"And maybe," Lynch said, "I'll ask for your head as a
souvenir when I decide to take my leave. Until then, let me
get on with doing my job."
Visibly stung, the general had no choice but to leave.
Lynch watched him go, aware he'd made an enemy that
would last a lifetime. Of course, knowing that meant that
Sym's lifetime would be appreciably shortened. It was fool-
ish to leave someone as powerful as Sym standing some-
where he might need to return to.
He walked back to Kalico's station. "If the President
decides to deny knowledge of the SEALs' actions, it's go-
ing to delay events. Get in touch with Wayda and have him
drop the file on the mission to the media."
Kalico nodded and punched buttons on the cellular head-
set phone she wore.

Lynch walked around the room, conscious of the passage
of time. He had planned so carefully, allowed for every
kind of contingency, nothing could go wrong. Except for
the handful of men he was certain operated behind the
scenes for the American military to clean up problem areas.
They were a ghost force, as Kalico had called them, but
their network was there. He'd bumped up against it during
other business he'd done. But no one had any idea who
they were or where their base was located.
Since he'd discovered them, Lynch had made it his mis-
sion to find out. His interest in computers and software had
begun at an early age, and he was easily as conversant with
them as any of the genuises he employed. Others had their
special talents or areas of interest, but Lynch preferred man-
agement of the systems. As a result of his involvement in
North Korea, he was going to be able to put a deal on the
table that would create a crime cartel the likes of which
had never been seen before.
And the beauty of it was that he would be there as an
enabler of that cartel, taking a percentage of everything he
touched, but not getting too close to the front lines.
"Dixon."
Glancing up, Lynch looked at Arno.
"That transport plane you asked me to keep an eye on,"
Arno said, "just had someone jump from it."
"Parachute?" Lynch came over to the computer monitor
as interest sparked inside him.
"I think so. It hasn't opened yet."
On the screen, the satellite picture showed a downward
view of two airplanes. A lambent green blip was near the
center of the monitor, trailed closely by a string of eight
more. Pale red digital numbers skated across the computer
monitor, decreasing with every second.
Lynch pointed at the numbers. "Descent?"




"Yes, sir."
"Have we identified this man?"
"No."
The numbers fell from a thousand to the hundreds as
Lynch continued to watch. The string of blips behind the
solitary one soared closer, but their descent rate wasn't as
great as their quarry's. There was no doubt about who
would reach the ground first.
"Are you in contact with the leader of that group?"
Lynch asked.
"No," Arno replied. "But it'll only take a few sec-
onds."
"Get it done." Lynch watched as the jumper hit eight
hundred feet. There was still no sign of a parachute. Cam-
eron had alerted Lynch to the special-ops transport that had
been assigned to the pickup in the Philippines. When Kal-
ico had traced the orders back, she'd found them to come
from one of the military adjutants that he'd identified as
being on the periphery of the covert team he was hunting.
As a result, Lynch had staked a team on the flight, hoping
to learn more about the passenger.
"I have them," Arno said a moment later.
As soon as the pale red LED readout hit four hundred
feet, the first green blip suddenly sprouted a spray of lime
green. It spread out, hovering over the blip like a jellyfish.
Lynch knew the man had used his parachute.
Lynch took the handset Arno gave him. "Tarantula
Prime, this is Chiprunner. Do you copy?"
The reply came back only slightly broken up by the dis-
rance and the overlay of the compressed covert-commu-
nications relays. "Tarantula Prime reads you, Chiprunner.
Do your instructions stand?"
"Yes," Lynch said. A loss this early in the game would
send a message to the nerve center supporting the covert-

ops unit. From what he'd discovered, there were any num-
ber between ten and thirty men in the core group. But they
had access to other resources at times. The whole North
Korean gambit had been designed by him to cut those re-
sources off.
Whoever those people were, Lynch was certain they
were alone on the operation. No one would dare help with
the wild-card play they were undertaking in the Koreas.
Political backlash was a potent weapon in the United States,
and the media would expose every mistake that was made.
"You're sure killing him is what you want to do, love?"
Kalico asked at his side.
Lynch hadn't even heard her approach. "Yes. Following
him now is out of the question. I want him killed and iden-
tified. Then I want to find out as much about him as we
can. We can tie him to the U.S. government, and when we
give that to the media, these people will take a direct hit."
"Won't it make them back off?."
"I don't think so." On the monitor, Lynch watched as
his eight hired killers hit the ground and closed on the sta-
tionary blip they were tracking. He was surprised the man
wasn't attempting to run. But then, the guy didn't know he
couldn't hide. "These people are a last-ditch team. They're
good. They won't give up."
"You could drive them into hiding."
"No," Lynch replied. "They can't be hidden any more
than they already are. Success is the only chance at survival
they have, and I'm sure they know it. But replacing this
man--" he pointed at the blip on the screen "--is going
to take some time. During that time, they're going to be
more vulnerable. I intend to capitalize on that."
"You're awfully sure of yourself, love."




"Yes," Dixon Lynch said as he watched the green blips
he controlled close in on the one he wanted to eradicate,
"I am."

CHAPTER lIVE

The heat from the blast swirled over T. J. Hawkins like the
fetid breath from some desert predator. He'd closed his eyes
an instant before detonation, hoping to preserve his night
vision. Now he opened them, searching for the woman.
Fire clung to the remnants of the door opening onto the
alley. Thrown by the concussion of the explosion, Koh's
twisted body lay just on the other side of the threshold.
Hawkins knew the man offered no further threat.
"You son of a bitch!" Desiree screamed as she backed
away, blinking furiously. The pistol was up and firing. She
squeezed off round after round, blinded by the flash.
Hawkins had been partially deafened by the blast him-
self, so the gunshots sounded dulled, not really threatening
at all. He bent his knees, diving to the side of the corridor,
then springing for the woman like a big cat.
His greater weight and momentum brought them crash-
ing onto the floor, sliding a handful of feet. Desiree con-
tinued to fire even after he had a hand around her wrist,
until the pistol cycled dry.
Beneath him, she turned into a snarling animal. She
raked the nails of her free hand across his neck, narrowly
missing his right eye. The red-hot furrows bled, running
quickly as the blood mixed with sweat.




He gave her a backhanded slap that rendered her uncon-
scious.
Angry voices filtered in from the alley.
Hawkins figured Koh's people had been waiting for them
outside and would investigate any second. He picked up
the woman's pistol and confirmed that it was empty. With
the way she was dressed, he knew she wasn't carrying any
extra bullets.
Shadows drifted into the doorway.
Getting to his feet, Hawkins sprinted back along the cor-
ridor until he reached the dead bouncer's body. He picked
up the double-barreled shotgun, then cut loose the bandolier
of extra shells around the man's chest with his boot knife.
A pair of bullets chopped into the door frame beside him.
A third struck the dead man's foot and made it jump.
Hawkins wheeled with the cut-down scattergun, staying
in a crouched position. His left hand was on top of the
barrels to help control the recoil, and he touched off one
trigger. Loosing a thunderous roar, the shotgun belched a
widely spread pattern of double-aught buckshot that caught
two men and flung them backward.
On the move at once, Hawkins drove himself hard,
breaking through the irregular arrangement of tables and
chairs like a linebacker headed through a scrimmage line.
Bullets chased him, splintering the wooden furniture, scar-
fing the bar and shattering the mirrors and bottles.
Movement at the door alerted him that someone was
waiting, but more gunners had taken up position in the
corridor. There was no way he could try to hold the middle
ground.
Bullets pocked the floor as he changed direction and
veered toward the latticed window fronting the Blind Co-
bra. He dropped the shotgun briefly in line, then squeezed
the trigger.

The double-aught pellets ripped through the windows
and thin boards easily, propelling a glass-and-wood mael-
strom ahead of them.
Hawkins didn't hesitate about leaping once he reached
the window. He went out, slightly off balance. Unable to
get his feet under him, he went down in the gravel parking
area. Rolling, the Phoenix Force commando managed to
reach brief cover behind a car that had parked close to the
building.
Autofire raked the vehicle. His back to the fender as he
ejected the spent cartridges from the scattergun, Hawkins
felt the car shift as bullets cut through the tires and deflated
them. He took two more shells from the bandoiler and
shoved them into the 12-gauge, then closed the breech.
Running footsteps crunching on the gravel alerted him.
Hawkins scuuled down the side of the car as bullets con-
tinued to drill into it. When the man came around the rear
bumper, he dropped one of the hammers of the shotgun.
The burst of double-aught took the man in the chest,
lifting him from his feet and depositing him a couple yards
back from his original position. The AK-47 he was carrying
dropped into the gravel.
Hawkins broke open the shotgun and replaced the spent
shell, trying to figure out how he was going to make it
across the open ground to his vehicle.
The strained growl of an engine and transmission pro-
testing abuse rolled out of the alley. It was a rental car,
Hawkins saw as he lifted the shotgun into a ready position,
but it had taken some devastating damage. The windshield
was a tattered and webbed remainder of the original con-
dition, and the back glass had holes punched through it. As
it wheeled around the comer, streaking toward him, another
burst of autofire ripped off the passenger-side mirror in a
flurry of sparks and shrieks.




"Hawk!"
The Phoenix Force commando recognized Encizo behind
the wheel.
hmming on the brakes, the Cuban stopped only a few
feet from his teammate. He pointed the Beretta in his fist
through one of the holes in the starred windshield and fired
rapidly at the collection of ragged shadows that appeared
to consider giving chase from the alley. Two of them
dropped in response.
"You waiting for an engraved invitation?" Encizo de-
manded.
"No." Hawkins gathered himself and leaped for the rear
of the sedan. He landed across the trunk and stretched a
hand through the broken back glass, grabbing the backseat.
"Go."
The car's front wheels spun as they searched for traction.
Then the rubber met the road, and the car shuddered into
motion.
Hawkins held on tightly, rocking across the back of the
car, his feet sticking out beyond the edge. A pair of gunners
fired from the shadows in the alley, their muzzle-flashes
highlighting their features. They didn't look Korean.
Shifting, Hawkins thrust out the shotgun and fired. He
wasn't sure if he hit anything, but at the least it drove them
back to cover.
Less than a mile farther on, traveling along the side
streets away from the heart of the city, Encizo pulled over
in front of a closed candy store.
Hawkins released his hold on the rear seat and got off
the car, his arm aching with the strain of maintaining his
grip.
"I don't think we were followed," Encizo said, aban-
doning the car.
"No," Hawkins replied as he concealed the shotgun un-

der his shirt after pulling it outside his pants to hang loose.
He hadn't seen anything. "But these guys knew about me.
They took out the munitions dealer we were going to do
business with."
"There are others," Encizo added. As they walked down
the street, alert for anyone who might be unduly interested
in them, he related his own story.
Hawkins digested it, then fieshed out what had happened
at the Blind Cobra. "This isn't the North Koreans," he said
when he finished. The abandoned rental car was almost a
half mile behind them. They'd changed directions three
times, heading for the safehouse Price had arranged.
"I don't think so, either," Encizo said. "But whoever it
is, we know they're out there now."
"Only means one thing," Hawkins said with grim cer-
tainty.
Encizo looked at him.
Flashing his teammate a cocky, evil grin, Hawkins said,
"They don't know it yet, but there's no escape."
Encizo was silent for a moment. "Hawk, there are times
you worry me. You really do."

Outside Seoul, South Korea

THE SHROUD LINES of Mack Bolan's parachute had fouled
and gotten caught in a tree that he hadn't seen until the last
moment. He hung in his harness a little more than twenty
feet off the ground, saddled with the extra weight of the
notebook computer in the chest pack. In the quiet of
the jungle surrounding him, he could hear the silence of
the nocturnal animals. Part of it he'd caused, but he knew
the rest of it resulted from the approach of his enemy.
Simply loosing the parachute harness wasn't an answer.
The drop wasn't enough to kill him, but it was enough to




twist an ankle or break a leg. In the end, the result would
have been the same.
Instead, he unbuckled the harness and hung on. Slipping
the Swiss Army knife from his pocket, he gathered the
shroud line on the other side of the harness and sliced the
cords. The parachute jumped in the treetop as the weight
changed, but it remained stuck.
The soldier put the knife away, then worked his way
down the shroud lines and harness. The extra lines cut the
drop to something more than ten feet, which he managed
without difficulty.
Night covered the terrain around him with a near impen-
etrable dark. He freed the SIG-Sauer P-228 Nightstalker
from shoulder leather and moved out. There was a small
compass in his chest pack, and he retrieved it. As he eased
through the trees and dense underbrush, he plotted his
course. The U.S. Army unit couldn't be far off.
Without warning, a small sapling on his right jiggled and
sprouted a sudden white scar that blistered across the bark,
and a ringing impact vibrated in his ears. There was no
other sound.
Instinctively Bolan went to ground a heartbeat before the
first loud cough of the sound suppressor reached his ears.
More bullets clipped the tops of brush and grass around
him as he scrambled for cover.
The gunner seemed to track him effortlessly, letting the
Executioner know he was up against troops assigned to kill
and equipped with night-vision capabilities. The man's
voice carded to him softly, one half of a radio conversation.
"He's here," the man said with an American accent. "I
saw the bastard and had him in my sights. If he hadn't been
moving so fast, I'd have had him easy and we could be on
our way home."
Thirty yards farther on, moving through a maze of trees,

Bolan halted and turned back to spot his pursuer. He had
time for his peripheral vision to pick up a hazy outline of
the man.
Then a ragged burst of autofire tore through the trees and
ricocheted dangerously close.
Bolan gathered his feet under him and plunged on. He
was confident the man hadn't tracked him to his hiding spot
through normal means. His jungle skills had been honed in
war, proved by continued survival.
"Man," the gunner said, shoving his way through the
brush now, not even bothering to mask his approach, "this
bastard's moving now. I've got him on the screen, but it's
like chasing a ghost."
Bolan kept advancing on the high ground. He wasn't sure
what he was up against, but controlling the high ground
was part of every soldier's strategy. The thick brush worked
both for and against him, scratching him and slowing him
down while concealing him.
"He's coming around on you, Two. Coming fast." His
pursuer's voice carded, but he just didn't care. "Fuck it.
Use the damn thing if you've got a target lock on him.
Nobody's going to come out here anytime soon to check
out whatever noise we make."
Bolan heard the telltale whumpf of a grenade launcher.
Breaking cover, he raced up the incline, vaulting over a
fallen tree and taking cover.
The 40 mm grenade exploded against the leafy boughs
twelve feet off the ground and just short of his position.
Shrapnel ripped through the branches and brush, thudding
into the tree trunk.
Aware that the burst of heat would work in his favor at
least for a moment, Bolan got to his feet and ran. He knew
he wasn't up against conventional night-vision equipment,
and thermal imaging wasn't that good, either. The assassin




team Knew where he was by homing in on his heat signa-
ture---and they knew where each of them was, too. It added
up to GPS gear. And that didn't add up to the North Ko-
reans at ail.
According to the maps he'd studied of the area, a creek
meandered off to the east some seventy yards, cutting a
path of least resistance through the hilly terrain. With the
season and the rainfall, he guessed that it would be deep
enough and cold enough to suit his purpose.
He sprinted, hoping the effects of the grenade would last
long enough. It was possible that he could simply outrun
the pursuit, once he'd established a sufficient lead, but that
wasn't taking a ground crew into account.
Keeping to the trees and brush as much as possible, the
soldier reached the final hill overlooking the stream just as
a swath of bullets cut through the brush behind him. He
didn't hesitate. As he went over the hill, more than a hun-
dred rounds slammed into the trees and ground in his wake.
For twenty yards, he angled along the stream bank. Trees
shrouded the area, casting a pall over the dark water that
passed by with a steady trickle. He secured the chest pack
and made sure the waterproof seals were zipped, then he
waded into the water.
The chill it carried was a physical assault. Within two
steps, the Executioner knew the stream was deep enough
for what he had planned. He took a deep breath, then
plunged under the surface and swam downstream so he
wouldn't have to fight the current as well as the cold. Un-
able to see, he used his hands to guide him, pulling himself
along the cold mud at the bottom.
Only when his lungs were burning did he surface. A
glance at the ridge above the stream where he'd gone in
showed him two figures scanning the area. Their voices

carried into the small valley and across the water, but the
words were indistinguishable.
From their body language, the soldier knew they'd lost
him.
Reeds grew at the side of the stream, partially strangled
by strands of wild rice and lily pads. Frogs jumped into the
water at Bolan's approach. Using the Swiss Army knife
while staying mostly immersed, his muscles aching from
the unrelenting cold, the soldier slashed through one of the
taller reeds, then cut off the other end. When he was fin-
ished, he had a serviceable breathing tube.
On the ridge, the two men turned in his direction hesi-
tantly.
Bolan slipped the reed inside his mouth and went under
again. Lying in the mud amid the wild rice, reeds and lily
pads, he had a restricted view of the gunners' approach. He
breathed slowly and evenly, trying to make the amount of
oxygen work for him even though it was less than his lungs
wanted.
His eyes hurt from the cold, but he kept them open. The
SIG-Sauer was hard and angular in his hand. In his mind,
he became another layer of mud over the streambed. He
was certain that the team hunting him was tied into a sat-
ellite feed, targeting him through his body heat. And he
was also certain that the cold water would serve to insulate
him from its cybernetic gaze.
"You think the bastard went into the water?" one of the
men asked as he walked along the bank.
"Maybe he just got wet," the second man replied. He'd
split off, heading back upstream. "Got his clothes soaked
enough to blind the satellite's sensors and ran like a bat out
of hell."
"This rig doesn't work like that," the first man said. "If




he was up and running, the satellite would pick up his heat
signature."
"But with wet clothes..."
"Trust me, Junior," the first man advised. "This is high-
tech gear. If he was out there, we'd know about it."
"Then he's in the water."
"I think so, so watch your ass and don't get out of ear-
shot." The first man waded deeper into the stream, less
than six feet from Bolan's position. "Shit, this is colder
than a well-digger's ass on a January midnight."
The gunner was in the process of calling in the rest of
the team when Bolan came up out of the water. He caught
the man's silenced Uzi in his free hand, then jammed the
SIG-Sauer's barrel against the goggle lens over the man's
left eye. His right eye was covered by a protruding NVG-
like visor.
The Executioner pulled the trigger twice. The pistol's
reports were harsh cracks that echoed across the running
water. The corpse fell away from him even as he turned to
deal with the second gunner.
Little more than fifteen yards separated the Executioner
from his target, but the man was covered in Kevlar body
armor and sported a bulletproof helmet. Unable to get off
a clear shot at the man's face or neck, Bolan opted for the
guy's forward ankle. The Nightstalker's laser sight touched
the gunner's ankle, and the soldier squeezed off three
rounds.
Unable to stand on a foot that was nearly severed, the
gunner fell into the water.
Bolan charged through the water as the man fiailed
around and succeeded in bringing his silenced Uzi back on
track. Dodging to the left, the Executioner narrowly
avoided the stream of 9 mm manglers. He brought up the

SIG-Sauer and fired a pair of shots that took the gunner in
the center of his face.
The corpse was hammered back into the water and
floated toward Bolan.
"Hanks! Feldman!" the radio headset chirped. "Report
in!"
The Executioner hauled the first dead man to shore, then
grabbed the second one before the body could float by. He
raided them for gear, knowing the other members of the
team would be on him in seconds. When he was finished,
he pushed the second man's body back into the stream. It
floated away at once, captured by the current.
Using the first man's web gear, the soldier secured gre-
nades and extra magazine clips for the M-16 the second
man had been packing in addition to the Uzi. The GPS
computer hookup was rigged for an over-the-shoulder
carry. He slipped on the helmet, then snugged the chin
strap.
When he pulled down the visor, the night retreated and
his vision cleared. LED readouts chased themselves across
the lower lenses of the visor monitor. He scanned the hill-
side as he settled the radio headset into place and secured
the five-button keypad connected to the backpack PC.
He'd adjusted his load as much as he could, but the
weight was still considerable. He took off at a jog, moving
back into his enemy. With two of them down, there were
six left. Now confusion was a weapon in his arsenal.
The battle gear was familiar to him. The keypad and
menu layouts were much like the Army's Soldier Integrated
Protection Ensemble he'd seen, but the portable PC was
smaller than any that had ever been coupled with the sys-
tem. Much of the available software was unfamiliar to him,
too. The basics contained night-vision enhancers, GPS in-
fomarion married to a digital compass and a large data




base that included first-aid instructions, maps, languages,
distance finders and descriptions detailing the usage of a
number of weapons. The SIPE system was going to change
the face of land warfare, Bolan knew. He and John Kissin-
ger had talked about it as the technology was developed.
Someone had not only managed to steal the Army de-
signs, but had evidently improved on them, as well.
"Feldman!" the radio squawked in his ear. "Hanks! Do
you copy?"
At the top of the ridge, Bolan unlimbered the M-16 and
took a prone position. Tapping the menu select on the key-
pad, he changed the view in the visor to one coming from
the satellite. The breeze that rolled over him brought a fresh
wave of chills from the wet clothing.
When the visor changed, six green blips were shown
closing in on his position, marked in ghostly lavender. An-
other was stationary behind him, while one more was in
smooth, gentle motion flowing south along the stream. The
soldier shouldered the M-16 and flipped back over to night
vision after marking the positions of the men on his mental
map of the area.
"He's making his way downstream," one of the men
radioed.
From his vantage point, Bolan could look down on that
end of the ridge as the land fell away. He picked up the
first man easily. The infrared sight on the M-16 was good
enough to identify targets 2200 meters out. The distance
separating them was perhaps 170 meters.
Settling into a prone position, his weight resting easily
on his elbows as he sighted in on his target, the Executioner
took up trigger slack. He led his man slightly, then pulled
the trigger. The assault rifle recoiled against his shoulder,
but he rode it out easily and brought it back to his target
in time to watch the man stumble and fall.

"Son of a bitch," someone said over the com link.
"Someone just blew Chauncey's brains out."
Switching back to the infrared visor, Bolan located a
second target, who'd taken up a position in a copse of trees.
The visor's night-vision capabilities seemed to take away
the forest. When he took up the M-16's scope again, Bolan
noted the thick tree the man was standing behind.
The Executioner was aware of the man's body armor, so
he settled the assault rifle's crosshairs just above a fork in
the branches. He waited patiently as the team leader ran
through the roll call, coming up three people short now.
"The bastard's infiltrated us," the unit leader said. "Do
a visual confirmation."
Checking back with the visor, Bolan saw each of the
enemy blips flare briefly, then die away. He didn't know
how to access the software to maintain his illusion. Going
back to the rifle scope, he saw his quarry's face appear
between the fork of the branch. He let out half a breath,
then squeezed the trigger through.
The man died between heartbeats, a bullet coring into
his skull just above his left eyebrow and below his helmet
line.
Bullets thudded into the trees and ground around the Ex-
ecutioner. He reached under the M-16 for the M-203's trig-
ger and readied the grenade launcher. Expertly he placed a
round almost on top of a gunman streaking for him from
sixty yards out.
The man had been taking advantage of the tree line, but
the antipersonnel grenade ripped that and his life away. The
soldier recharged the launcher with one of the three re-
maining grenades he had.
"Pull back, dammit!" the leader snarled. "Get organ-
ized! He's just one man."
Bolan waited, watching on the sensor visor as the sur-




viving three gunmen worked themselves into a point and
two wingmen. Once they seemed to be moving in tandem
and the assault on his position was more pronounced, he
ripped a pair of incendiary grenades from the combat har-
ness he'd liberated.
He pulled the pins, then lobbed the bombs into the mid-
dle distance about thirty feet apart. They went off almost
together, filling the night with thunderous roars and blind-
ing light.
Bolan pushed himself into motion at once, flipping back
the visor. For the moment, he'd rendered his enemies'
night-vision capabilities questionable if not totally ineffec-
tive. Flames from the incendiaries spread over the trees,
then the grass caught.
The Executioner was up and running, skirting the flam-
ing area as he circled in on the last place he'd seen the trio
of active blips. He came up on them an instant before the
left wing spotted him.
"He's here!" the man yelled, bringing around his ma-
chine pistol.
Raising the assault rifle, the Executioner loosed a deadly
figure eight that hammered the man backward, catching him
in the face and destroying the surprised look he had. A
short burst from the other wingman sent Bolan to cover.
With the magazine empty, the soldier raised the M-16
again, framed the man in the sights and triggered the gre-
nade launcher.
When the 40 mm warhead struck, fiery pieces of the
corpse scattered throughout the jungle.
Bolan rolled and got to his feet just as the remaining
man's rounds vectored in on him. He dropped the useless
M-16 and raced behind a tree. Bullets tore into the trunk,
and one of them ripped through his shirtsleeve as he drew
the Nightstalker and whirled.

The guy was screaming incoherently, barely audible
above the chatter of the unsilenced assault rifle in his hands.
Coolly Bolan stroked the pistol's trigger twice, putting
the rounds just below the bridge of the guy's nose. He
closed in as the man collapsed, holding the Nightstalker in
both hands. The dead man's bloody face was bathed in
reflected light from the bonfire.
The soldier took up the M-16 again and fed it a new
magazine. After a brief recon, he resituated his gear, then
checked the GPS readout.
Nothing was moving in the area.
He broke into a distance-eating jog that served to stave
off the chill from the wet clothes. One and a half miles
farther on, satisfied that he wasn't being pursued, he took
the notebook computer from his chest pack and attached
the cellular phone. He got Aaron Kurtzman on the second
ring. "Me," he said simply.
"We were beginning to wonder," the cybernetics expert
said. "Hawkins and Encizo ran into some trouble in
Seoul."
"Phoenix is here?" Bolan asked.
"They are," Kurtzman replied. "McCarter and the rest
of the team are en route with a convoy from Japan."
"The economic summit."
"The very thing."
"Can you get a fix on me?" Bolan asked.
"Already done," Kurtzman answered.
"How about a message through to the Army unit running
maneuvers in the area?"
"Sure. We've negotiated authorization now. What do
you want?"
"Transport,"
"Give me a minute."
Bolan waited patiently. His clothing had dried some from




the wind and from his exertions, though some of the damp-
ness had been replaced with perspiration from carrying the
heavy load. A keyboard clacked hurriedly on the other end
of the connection.
"Got it," Kurtzman said. "ETA's seven minutes."
"Thanks," Bolan said.
"No prob, guy. Barb was getting ready to send out a
search party with a loud-hailer. With things getting dicey
in Seoul, and not making any real sense as to who's in-
volved yet, she's on a timetable from hell to get the three
of you into play."
"Where?"
"North Korea."
"The SEAL team that got captured?"
"Yeah," Kurtzman replied. "There's more to the story
than what's hit the news. She's getting a brief prepared for
you, Hawkins and Encizo."
"What happened with Hawkins and Encizo?" Bolan
asked.
Quickly, without a wasted word, Kurtzman brought him
up-to-date on the assassination attempts. "Like yours, they
don't appear to track back to the North Korean government.
At least, not on the surface."
"Got a prize for you on this one, too." Bolan told the
cybernetics specialist about the SIPE suit.
"Definitely not the North Koreans," Kurtzman said.
"Too much money in high tech."
"Unless they're paying someone. The software on the
SIPE database looks specialized, too."
"If Akira or I can get into it, maybe it'll tell us more."
Bolan agreed. In the distance, he heard the steady thrum
of rotors. "How does the game plan shape up from here?"
"You get a straight shot into Seoul," Kurtzman replied.
"Jack's meeting you there. He'll be flying you and the

others into North Korea. Encizo and Hawkins scraped up
enough gear from a couple other sources to make you op-
erational for an extraction."
"Do you know where the SEALs ;are being held?"
"Not yet. But Hal and Barb are working on it, and Katz
is following up on another avenue. At any rate, we're in
the position to make an educated guess right now. Once
you're on the ground, hopefully something will break."
Bolan agreed and cleared the link. He used one of the
flares he'd recovered from his attackers' stores to mark his
position for the helicopter pilot. It burned a bright red star
in the cloudy heavens.
The helicopter was a fat-bodied Boeing Vertol CH-47D
Chinook with dual rotors. Searchlights stabbed through the
night, crisscrossing on the ground, then locking onto Bolan
just long enough to let him know they'd spotted him. Then
they flicked away, probing the ground for possible snipers.
The Chinook was also outfitted with FLIR fore and aft.
The big chopper landed in the nearest clearing. The rotor
wash whipped the grass and brush into a frenzy, and tore
branches from the trees.
Bolan went forward, letting the assault rifle hang by its
shoulder strap while he kept his hands out at his sides.
A trio of young infantrymen met him. Their weapons
were at port arms, ready for instant action. "Colonel Pol-
lock," the young corporal shouted above the din created
by the Chinook.
"At ease, soldier," Bolan replied. "We're alone here."
"Yes, sir. I need password verification."
Bolan gave the password.
"Thank you, sir." The corporal saluted smartly.
Without breaking stride, Bolan returned it and stepped
up into the Chinook. A moment later and the helicopter
leaped from the ground, heading north-northeast.




"Sergeant Lasko," a thin, athletic man with a high fore-
head spoke up. He offered his hand. "I've been assigned
to get you into Seoul."
"Pleased to meet you, Sergeant," Bolan said. "Have
you got a topographical map of this area?"
"Yes, sir." Lasko pulled a map from an inner pocket of
his BDU.
Taking the map, Bolan marked the area where the battle
had taken place. "About two klicks south you're going to
find eight bodies. I want them recovered and held. You'll
be getting instructions regarding them later." "Yes, sir."
"How far away from Seoul are we?"
"Fifteen or twenty minutes. We've already radioed
ahead. You'll be met by your pilot at the base."
Bolan nodded and settled back against the hulkhead.
He'd known from the time the story first broke on the
SEAL team that not everything had been revealed about
the mission. Looking at the helmet in his hands with its
sophisticated visor, he didn't have a doubt that the covert
action had been set up for failure.
The attack on him and the Phoenix Force members re-
yealed that their unknown enemy had considerable re-
sources and was willing to use them. The stakes on the
play were obviously high, and the gauntlet had been
thrown.
Bolan didn't intend to let it go unchallenged. The real
front line was somewhere ahead of him, and he was going
to find it and stake his claim.

CHAPTER SIX

Dixon Lynch stared at the monitor. The satellite link show-
ing the ambush site was still on-line. On the screen, the
helicopter was reproduced in a dozen different greens, the
most brilliant of them the hot areas of the engines and rotor
bearings. "He killed them all," he said. "He also has one
of the SIPE units."
"Yeah," Jori Cameron said. "I've limited access to the
channels available to the SIPE PC, but I haven't been able
to cut them all."
Lynch was agitated. He'd underestimated the man. He
didn't often do that, and there'd been a long list of con-
quests behind him who could testify to that. "Shut that unit
down completely," he ordered.
"If I do that, we're going to lose some of the systems
open to us."
"Only for a time," Lynch replied. "It's worth it. Get it
done."
"Sure, boss." Cameron leaned forward and started open-
ing windows on the computer monitor, calling down
menus.
Lynch moved on, marshaling his thoughts. With the way
he'd designed the campaign, he still had a lot of trump
cards. "Razor?"
"Yeah, mate."




"Get me a patch through to the White House."
"Scrambled?"
"For now." Part of the campaign's success depended on
the media getting the same amount of information as the
American President. During his early years, while he was
amassing his empire in Singapore and across Southeast
Asia, Lynch had used the same tactics to scuttle competing
entrepreneurs and to set up buyouts that had delivered com-
panies and corporations into his hands at a fraction of their
actual values. In the information age, knowledge was more
than power; it was a weapon. And Dixon Lynch wielded it
with a callous and sure hand.
"How do you want it sent?" Razor asked.
"Take it through the subroutes we've set up at the mil-
itary base," Lynch replied. "Dixon," Kalico called.
He joined her at her console. "What?"
"They made a phone call."
"You're sure?" Lynch peered more closely at the
screen. Getting into the computer system regulating the
undersea phone lines had been fairly simple. One of his
companies had bought stock in the South Korean venture,
and another had done some of the work laying it.
Figuring out some of the cutouts the American covert
team used had been the difficult part. He'd labored for
months developing sort software that would trace phone
calls that had been made from international points that he'd
tentatively identified as sites the covert team had hit. But
the investment of time and bribes had paid off. During their
last operation, he'd tagged many of their calls.
However, as yet he hadn't succeeded in getting past the
scrambling techniques used on some of those communica-
tions or tracked down the hidden base. That was what Kal-
ico was working on.

"As sure as I can be, love," the woman said. "They
made the call from here." She tapped the keyboard in quick
syncopation.
On the screen, the image shifted, becoming a street map
of Seoul. Lynch recognized some of the street names.
Abruptly a window opened up in the center of the monitor,
and a crimson dot was placed next to a coffee shop down-
town.
"The call originated here." Kalico tapped more keys,
pulling down menus.
Lynch watched as a line sped from the pay phone on the
street to a junction box for the South Korean phone com-
pany. As the line grew longer, the picture jerked and re-
calibrated, the dot getting smaller while the street map grew
larger.
White letters formed on the screen, initialing the coast-
line where the call had moved into the Korea Telecom sub-
marine cable. It also provided the time. When Lynch
checked his watch, he saw that less than sixteen minutes
had elapsed since the call had been traced. The time was
well within the strike window he'd created in the software
program.
The line continued on across to Hong Kong.
"After the trace reached Hong Kong, things got a little
dicey," Kalico confided. "I didn't know if they were going
to stay on the phone long enough."
The trace grounded out at a satellite-relay station in Hong
Kong. Swiftly, while the line stalled, the clock started
working against them.
"That's why we put so much pressure on them in
Seoul," Lynch said. "By taking away their primary outlets
and shutting down the munitions supplier, they'd have to
alert their base and get a timetable change on the mission."




"I'm going to speed this up a little." Kalico worked the
keyboard for a moment.
Three minutes twelve seconds into the satellite relay in
Hong Kong, the blue line was on the move again. The
monitor view changed even more, pulling back to a subor-
bital shot of space. The blue line looked like a small comet
trailing iridescent cobalt fire as it arced toward a commu-
nications satellite, then bounced off five more satellites of
various long-distance phone carriers. It touched down in
North America.
"Canada," Kalico responded.
�'Cutouts?"
Kalico nodded. "These people you're hunting, love,
they're very, very good." Her slim fingers caressed the
keyboard. "The signal ended up on a line in an independent
film company called Hooper and Martin Video Heroics.
They specialize in made-for-video feature cartoons about
comic-book heroes. They do a lot with computer-generated
graphics."
"So they have a lot of computer hardware."
"Exactly."
"And they do a lot of E-mail." Lynch could already see
the tangle that was starting.
Kalico nodded. "Fax lines. E-mail. They even do some
process serving on the side to subsidize their aaistic ef-
forts."
Lynch watched as the clock ran again. He felt irritable.
He was so close to tracking them down, but time was work-
ing against them.
At seven minutes and twenty-two seconds, the blue line
streaked out of Vancouver, slipping down the West Coast.
"It moved out of the movie studio on an open transmis-
sion line rigged for faxes to a special-effects place in Hol-
lywood." Kalico wrinkled her nose in distaste. "I did some

independent work for them. They were good at what they
did, but they discouraged creativity."
"It's a legitimate business, too?" Lynch asked.
"Sure. But before I could trace it any further, the phone
conversation quit." The glowing numerals on the monitor
showed eight minutes and fifty-three seconds. "Can you trace it any further?"
"I'm trying." Kalico shrugged. "As I said, these blokes
do know their business."
"Can we restrict the location to the West Coast?"
"I think we'd be fools if we did. That could have been
another jumping-off point. If we manage to get another
phone call or two, it'll help triangulate the area."
"It'll come." Lynch clapped her reassuringly on the
shoulder. "You did good work."
She nodded and went back to the keyboard.
Even though it was a setback, Lynch wasn't overly con-
cerned. The covert assault force, whether or not it knew it,
was dancing to the tune he was calling. There was an
amount of latitude, but the targets would be his in the end.
They had to be. He'd never lost before.
'�Razor," Lynch called. He noticed how Sym's posted
guards tracked onto him when he spoke loudly. It was easy
to reason that all of them spoke English as a second lan-
guage. The general would be kept up-to-date on everything
that was said.
� 'Yeah, mate?" The Australian hacker turned in his seat.
"That line to the White House?"
"Up and running. I was waiting on you."
"Then let's get it done."
The Razor cracked his knuckles and turned to his con-
sole. �'What are we sending?" "Filename--Realdoal."
A flurry of tappod koys !ate, Razor said, "We're set."




"Burst transmission," Lynch directed. "In and out so
fast they have nothing to lock on."
"Done and done." Leaning back in his chair, the Razor
watched his handiwork in action as the computer signaled
full transmission.
Lynch nodded in satisfaction. It was a definite shot
across the bow of the Americans, and it would be interest-
ing to see how the President reacted. The cellular phone he
had clipped to his hip buzzed for his attention. The building
had been outfitted with a satellite-and-scrambler combina-
tion to provide the computer network its own phone lines
to work along. One of the secondary lines was his.
"Lynch," he said crisply. Only a handful of people had
this number, and he wanted to do business with all of them.
"Mr. Lynch," the heavy Slavic voice said. "You know
who this is?"
"Of course, Aleksei." Lynch slid smoothly into his busi-
ness mode, shutting out all the disruptions around him.
Aleksei Kandinsky was one of the most powerful men to
emerge in the Russian Mafia. He was also the only man
Lynch had invited who'd turned down the chance to be
part of the network he'd organized. The rejection had galled
him; he'd been very selective about whom he'd chosen and
thought the Russian should have felt flattered. "How are
you enjoying the show so far?"
"I must admit, my friend, you're a very convincing ring-
master."
"I appreciate your candor."
"One has to wonder if you'd appreciate it as much," the
Russian said, "if you were faced with denigrating com-
ments."
"Fortunately," Lynch said, "I've not often been faced
with those."
"So I'm told." The Russian laughed politely. "Further-

more, I've been informed that you're very quick to render
retribution when someone offends you."
"Not offends," Lynch corrected. "Only if they cost me
money, or betray me and cost me a profit."
"I didn't think revenge was cost-effective."
Lynch smiled confidently, knowing the Russian would
hear the sound of it in his voice. "A man must have his
hobbies."
"I'm going to cut to the chase, Mr. Lynch," Kandinsky
said, "because time is money." Lynch couldn't agree more.
"I'd like to be a part of the meeting you're staging to-
morrow afternoon."
Deciding to play hardball because he knew the Russian
wouldn't be expecting it at this point, and partly because
he was still incensed over the earlier rejection, Lynch said,
"I'm afraid that meeting must be made in person. If at all.
Are you, by chance, in Seoul?"
"No," Kandinsky replied. "Business here has kept me
somewhat preoccupied." The Russian controlled most of
the illegal activities flowing through the island of Aruba in
the Caribbean Sea, including Colombian cocaine, Sicilian
heroin and a dozen other profitable crimes spread across
the globe.
"I'd heard the DEA was trying out a new paramilitary-
type strike force down there," Lynch said.
"Doomed to failure, I assure you," Kandinsky said.
"Still, I like to oversee these ventures myself. I assume
you're on-site there in North Korea." "Yes."
"I like doing business with a man who takes a personal
interest in his affairs."
"So do I," Lynch replied pointedly.
Kandinsky chuckled. "A man of few words, too. Since




I obviously can't be there, I thought we might arrive at a
compromise."
"I'm listening."
"I took the liberty of placing an associate of mine in
Seoul. On the surface, this person's there representing cer-
tain investments my company has made in Hong Kong.
With things in a state of flux the way they are there, a
number of opportunities have arisen."
"I know." Lynch had taken advantage of several of
them himself over the last year.
"Make no mistake about it," Kandinsky stated. "My
associate is very important to me. If anything happened to
this person as a result of my decision to trust you, I would
hold you personally accountable."
Lynch nodded, feeling good. If Kandinsky was going to
roll over, he had the deal in the bag. Nothing was going to
stand in his way. He glanced at the roving North Korean
guards. Not even Sym and the missiles. "Believe me, I
understand completely. Because if this associate of yours
turns out to be a problem, I'll be knocking on your
door."
"Of course."
"Does your associate know where we're meeting?"
Lynch asked. "Yes."
Lynch nodded, knowing it meant the Russian
had checked him out thoroughly. "Is there anything
else?"
"Not at the moment. I'm sure I'll have questions after
tomorrow's meeting. Until then, however, I'm interested in
what you're doing next with the Americans."
Stating at the computer consoles, Lynch grinned. "I'm
turning up the heat, Mr. Kandinsky. Just turning up the
heat."

The Oval Office, Washington, D.C.

"So WHERE ARE Striker and the two Phoenix Force com-
mandos now?" the President demanded.
"Minutes away from Seoul," Hal Brognola answered.
He sat in a chair across the desk from the Man and leafed
through the satellite photos Aaron Kurtzman's team had
managed to relay from South Korea only a few minutes
earlier. They were of the strike team that had tried to take
Bolan out of the play, "Transportation's there waiting on
them."
"Have we got something on any of those people?" The
President used the remote control on the twenty-seven-inch
television built into the wall across the room, surfing
through the channels to pick up the news specials. Most of
the footage was familiar by now. The only additional
scenes involved the names of the SEAL team members
who'd been captured or killed. Reporters were digging into
the background they'd been given with a fervor.
"Not yet," the big Fed said. "We're working on it now.
We should have something soon."
"I hope so. This is turning out to be a fiasco."
Brognola didn't say anything. He'd advised against the
SEAL mission. A military operation left too many sources
open to foreign intelligence agents. He'd felt it should have
been a Stony Man operation from the beginning.
"Look," the President said in an undertone, "they're
releasing another one."
Brognola focused on the television, an icy knot forming
in the pit of his stomach. So far, the North Korean military
leaders had given up the names of two dead SEALs. Both
times the information had been released through a staged
computer presentation.
"This just in," the CNN reporter said. He was bearded,




curly haired and on location in Seoul, standing in front of
one of the downtown hotels housing the economic-summit
representatives and the media. "Another of the SEALs has
been confirmed by the North Korean government as killed
in action."
The scene shifted, replaced in an eye blink by two rows
of head-and-shoulder shots of the men that had been in the
SEAL team.
Brognola could already recognize the faces. As much as
they'd been shown on television during the past two hours,
he was certain that most of America could recognize them,
tOO.
Two of the faces had a crimson X across them.
The reporter went on in a voice-over. "The latest in the
list of the slain is Ensign Luke Hamilton, the twenty-seven-
year-old father of two."
Four men across on the lower row, Hamilton was a dark-
haired guy with a sardonic smile and light gray or green
eyes. A crimson X scratched across his face.
"Son of a bitch," Brognola growled. Wherever Hamil-
ton's family was, the head Fed knew they were staying
glued to the television. After the files had been released to
the media, the military had confirmed the story to the fam-
ilies, asking that it be kept quiet. It hadn't been.
Quietly Brognola prayed that the SEAL's children were
in school or at a friend's house. Anywhere but near a tele-
vision set.
A window opened up on the television screen. It was a
casual picture, taken at Christmastime. In the picture, En-
sign Hamilton had his arm around a vivacious redhead
holding a small boy while a five- or six-year-old girl with
hair like her mother's leaned on his shoulder. Presents sat
around the tree in the background, and stockings hung from
the modest fireplace.

"Ensign Hamilton leaves behind a wife and two chil-
dren," the anchor said.
"Where did they get the picture?" Brognola asked, turn-
ing to the President.
The Man shook his head. "I don't know."
"Somebody has to," the head Fed argued. "See if you
can get someone in NIS to look into it."
"I don't see your point," the President said. His tie hung
at half-mast, and there were bags under his eyes.
"Those hoys didn't take any ID with them," Brognola
stated. "And they sure as hell didn't take any family pho-
tos. Finding out how the North Koreans got hold of them
might help us figure out what went wrong over there."
Without another word, the Man lifted the phone and
placed a call. His orders were short and definite. "Got it,"
he said. "Should be getting word back soon."
"They overplayed their hand." The head Fed reached
into his pocket and took out a couple antacid tablets. He
chewed them carefully, then washed them down with luke-
warm coffee. "This proves they either knew about the op-
eration before it went down and had time not only to iden-
tify each member of the SEAL team, but to ferret around
in their personal lives, as well."
"Or?" the President prompted.
"Or they've got someone inside the military feeding
them information." Brognola's words hung heavily inside
the room.
The TV screen had switched to a young blond woman
in a crowd of what looked like supportive family members.
A man dressed in a Navy uniform talked briefly with her,
then she collapsed into the arms of an older woman and
started sobbing hysterically.
The President's face was grim. "Bastards are milking
everything they can out of this. Everything they show about




those families now is going to feed the information the
people holding those boys will have."
Brognola nodded in agreement. "I still think you should
make a statement. Let the public know what that team was
doing over there."
"I can't." The Man shook his head. "If I tell them we
were looking for fissionable materials in North Korea, we'll
have the hawks in this country in an uproar, further con-
fusing the issue. Certain heads of state in the United
Nations wouldn't be exactly thrilled, either. Not to mention
how angry the South Korean government would be at our
involvement." He tapped a pen on his desktop, staring at
the television. "For the time being, we'll concentrate on
the hostages. We'll either free them or we'll avenge them.
And if those damn fissionable materials are to be found,
we're going to take those, too."
Brognola nodded. The Man was right about the political
atmosphere. Too many self-interests were active there. "At
this point, without proof, it would also look like we were
crying wolf after the fact to layer in some kind of justifi-
cation," the big Fed growled.
As Brognola sifted through the satellite photos some
more, a tattoo on one of the men's forearms caught his eye.
He flipped back to the reference material Kurtzman had
included with the packet, checking the notations against the
picture number. So far, the tattoo hadn't been identified.
Sorting back through the pictures, he found the color
photo Kurtzman had included. All the pictures had come
in both color and black-and-white, for color and detail.
The tattoo showed a shapely woman in a green sarong
with a black leopard curled around her protectively, its paw
reaching out to strike. A banner with writing ran under her
feet. Unable to make out the words, Brognola went over to

the coffee service and picked up a thick-bottomed drinking
glass.
He sat the picture on the edge of the desk, then placed
the glass down over the tattoo. He moved the glass up and
down, using the magnifying properties of the bottom, until
the letters were in focus.
"Something?" the President asked.
"Graceful Mu Lan," Brognola read. He looked through
the bottom of the glass again to confirm it.
"I wouldn't think it was his mother," the President said,
studying the tattoo. "His girlfriend, maybe?"
"I don't think so." Brognola moved the glass over the
man's other arm. In the corner of his elbow, the comical
figure of a blue gray shark wearing boxing gloves danced
on heavy fins, the dorsal fin jutting up over the rounded
sleekness of the marine predator. "May I borrow a
phone?"
The Man gestured to oneof the phones that littered his
desk.
Grabbing the nearest one, Brognola punched in his num-
ber for Stony Man Farm. When the call was forwarded to
Barbara Price, she answered on the first ring. "I may have
something," the big Fed told her. "Have you got copies
of the pictures of the guys who tried to whack Striker?"
There was a pause, then she said, "Yes."
Brognola checked the back of the picture for the desig-
nation number. "Take a look at that one and see if it can
be blown up. Have the Bear send pictures of that guy to
the merchant marine and see if he's licensed somewhere.
I'm betting he is, or was, listed as an able-bodied seaman
somewhere. Those tattoos remind me of the time I spent
walking a beat down at the docks. Graceful Mu Lan may
be the name of a ship."
Before Price could reply, the intercom on the President's




desk suddenly buzzed. "Sir," a woman said, "there's an
eyes-only coming through the satellite channel." "Who from?" the President asked.
"I'm not sure. The source code isn't clear."
The Man glanced up at Brognola.
"Hold on," the big Fed said into the mouthpiece.
"Put it on," the President said.
On the other side of the room, the TV-VCR suddenly
exploded into color, erasing the news footage that had been
there. An olive-drab screen had a white banner running
through the heart of it, then darker green letters spelled out
"Realdeal."
Working the remote control, the President turned up the
volume.
"What you're looking at is footage of an actual event,"
a calm, cultured voice said, "in case you're wondering if
the North Koreans really possess the fissionable materials
your people went after."
The rainbow static cleared and revealed a night scene,
showing a train straining up the side of a mountain. Without
warning, an explosion rippled along the narrow tracks and
rolled the locomotive, the four cars following and the ca-
boose.
Armed guards spilled out of the train cars in dazed dis-
order, and lightning flickers of autofire tore holes in the
shadows draping the mountainside.
"This little raid took place less than two weeks ago out-
side Yongdingzhen, China," the voice went on. "The train
was carrying plutonium. Only a few agencies knew about
it."
"Barb," Brognola said, "get Aaron to track down this
transmission. Now. Copy it, and find out about Yongding-
zhen."
"Working it," the mission controller said.

The camera angles changed on the television, shifting
from the aerial view to a ground perspective. Foot soldiers
equipped in SIPE suits moved in. Their skills were deadly
and telling. Men in Chinese military uniforms dropped in
their tracks as the high-tech warriors rolled in for the kill.
The view changed again, taken from a helicopter, Brog-
nola judged. It showed the attackers walking among the
dead Chinese soldiers, mercilessly finishing the killing. A
cargo net was lowered from another chopper. In rapid, or-
derly fashion, crews gathered canisters from the broken
train cars and loaded them into the cargo net. There was a
close-up of one of the canisters. The Chinese characters
were painted in red, but a translation in English was printed
out across the canister. Brognola knew the plutonium grade
at once.
An LED readout flashed in the lower-fight corner of the
screen. In less than four minutes, the mission was over and
the strike force had reboarded their aircraft. The last scene
had been shown from the satellite view as three helicopters
winged toward North Korea,
"As you can see," the cultured voice went on, "the raid
was totally professional, and resistance was futile. Within
a couple days, the deal was finalized with the North Korean
government. Delivery is being made despite the efforts of
your SEALs."
The suddenness of the picture exploding and melting
from the screen was startling. Only the rainbow static was
left.
"Do not lightly dismiss the danger the North Koreans
represent, Mr. President," the voice went on. "The eco-
nomic summit offers an internationally focused forum for
them to air their grievances." The audio transmission ended
with a pop.
"Tell me you traced it," Brognola said to Price.


"I don't know," the mission controller replied.
"Aaron's working on it now. We didn't get a copy, though.
That, I do know. But the CIA file I took a look at had
rumors in it concerning a train raid in the foothills of the
Ailao Shan. This looks legit."
Brognola thought so, too. The game board still held a lot
of dangerous pieces, and the opening gambit of the play
had cost plenty. It was hard to separate the actual moves
from illusion. But the Stony Man teams had no choice
about involvement. With the fissionable materials con-
firmed, they had to make the attempt to get them back.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

With years of experience and millions of dollars worth of
hardware and software at his disposal, Aaron Kurtzman had
learned to keep watch over the world, protecting it from
the predators~ He sat at the horseshoe-shaped desk on the
raised dais at one end of the room and scanned the three
monitors before him as he worked the keyboard. Unaware
of the movements his fingers made on the keys, he was
totally submerged in the cybernetic processes of his ma-
chines.
He had a tenuous hold on the transmission signal to the
Oval Office, then lost it somewhere in uncharted ICE. Be-
fore he had a chance to breathe even one of the choice bits
of profanity he'd selected during the tracking effort, his
systems warned him of the virus spinning back toward him.
He hit the Escape key to try to get out of the loop, but
the virus continued to vector in on him, burning up the
miles between them in seconds. Shifting to the trackball
with one hand, he pulled down his ready menus, selected
a virus buster he and Akira Tokaido had put together and
sent it winging along the cybergrid to its target.
At the moment of impact, his computer shut down, hes-
itated, then rebooted itself and began running diagnostics.




He leaned in closer, watching the numbers spin, relaxing
only slightly as they all fell within normal parameters.
"Did you get it?" Brognola was on the speakerphone.
"I don't know yet," Kurtzman answered. "There was a
surprise package waiting at the other end. Before I access
any information I might have retrieved, I want to make sure
our systems remain clean."
Silently Barbara Price walked up beside him. Honey
blond and still possessing all the natural beauty and grace
that had allowed her to be a magazine-cover model during
her college years, the mission controller was nevertheless
a professional.
"The monitor here is fried," Brognola said.
"We would have been, too," the cybernetics expert said.
He got into the DOS shell and checked out other systems,
Ionking for damage where experience and cunning told him
to. "Okay. Everything looks clean." He initiated the jump
into the specialized software he'd created to run most of
the Stony Man applications. A quick peek into the video-
optical jukebox drive let him know that he hadn't been able
to record the transmission in either audio or video, and he
relayed that news to Brognola.
"What about tracing it?" the head Fed asked.
"Actually," Kurtzman said, uploading another program,
"we might have had some luck there. Hunt and I were
playing with some programs over the past few weeks and
came up with an idea for tracking burst transmissions like
this one."
The screen flickered and changed, becoming a map of
the Blue Ridge Mountains where the Farm was carefully
hidden away. A dot appeared on the screen in the topo-
graphical area where the Farm was, then radiating rings
formed around it.
"Normally you can't trace a burst transmission back to

the source," Kurtzman said as a window opened on the
upper-left comer of the screen and showed a power gauge.
"What we did was incorporate an immediate send-receive
E-mail file that we might be able to track back." He keyed
in an adjustment. "Okay, I've got the signature. Let's see
how far we get."
On the screen, a thin red line spit out from the Farm,
speeding toward Washington, D.C. No news there, but the
big man was hoping. The red line kept moving north and
east.

"Buc_,GE~ M~!" Gutter Razor snapped, hunching back over
his console. "Dix! Somebody has a lock on us, mate!"
"What?" Lynch demanded. He covered the ground
quickly, joined by Kalico seconds later. "That's impossi-
ble."
"Then someone should bloody well tell them," Razor
said. He typed rapidly. "I can't shut the board down. Son
of a bitch, they're going to get the location in New York.
Another couple jumps, they're going to have the satellite
pinpointed, as well. After that, we might only be a couple
minutes from having a Tomahawk missile shoved up our
arses."
"Move," Lynch commanded.
In spite of his bulk, Razor jumped up from the seat as
if it were electrified.
Ignoring the gathering of Sym's guards, Lynch seated
himseft and took over the keyboard. Thc hoard was locked,
and he couldn't disengage.
"The trace is at New York,, Kalico said quietly in his
ear. "Seems to be having trouble making the transfer over
to the satellite signal."
"What is going on here?" General Sym demanded. He
came to a stop almost within ann's reach of the computer
tactical group.




Lynch disregarded the question, thinking furiously. If the
trace was having trouble making it onto the satellite grid,
there had to be a reason why. The only possibility was that
the transmission lines were crowded with the programs run-
ning through the New York CPU.
"Who's tracking us?" Sym asked. "Lynch, talk to me!"
"Stay out of my face," Lynch said as he began down-
loading software programming and kicking it into the sig-
nal. "Kalico."
"Right here, love."
"I need that hard-drive virus set up."
"We're going to crash and burn New York?" She was
already in motion, racing back to her console.
"Yes." Lynch dumped the Grolier Encyclopedia on-line
and sent it to the other computer station. With all the video
bytes logged into the software, it would eat up available
disk space, jamming the board even further. He knew it had
to be the E-mail they were using to track him.
Sym took up a position in front of the computer monitor.
Before anyone could move, he pulled his side arm and
pointed it at Lynch's face. "Stop what you're doing or I'll
shoot you down."
Lynch was grimly aware of his own dark reflection in
the monitor. He looked up at the North Korean general.
"You shoot me and you'll be killing yourself. This whole
building is wired with enough explosives to put it into or-
bit." He smiled. "You won't have to worry about anyone
finding you."
"You're lying." Sym took a fresh grip on his pistol.
"Am I?" Lynch reached into his pocket and took out a
remote-control detonator.
Sym's eyes widened as he recognized it.
"I'm not the only person who has one," Lynch said.
With a flick of his thumb, he armed the detonator. "I had

the building mined in case we had to evacuate quickly. I
didn't want to leave anything behind. But it'll work just as
well for this."
A nerve quivered in Sym's jaw as perspiration trickled
out of the hollows under his eyes. The gun never wavered.
"If I stop what I'm doing here," Lynch said, "the Amer-
icans will find us." "How?"
"That's not important." Lynch kept his hand loose
around the detonator.
"You were hired to do a job," the North Korean general
said, "not to endanger our operation here." "I'm doing my job," Lynch responded.
,"Dixon," Kalico called, "I've got the virus ready."
Lynch didn't look away from Sym. "Send it."
"Going."
"Your move, General." Lynch didn't bat an eye. "Shit
or get off the pot."
For one frozen moment, Sym didn't move. Then he
slowly eased the hammer down and flipped the safety on.
"If you betray us, you'll never make it out of this country
alive."
"I wish you could believe me as much as your superiors
do," Lynch said. "Because betraying you is one of the last
things on my list." And it really was.
"Do what you have to." Sym stepped back, and a dozen
soldiers stepped back with him.
"Okay, love," Kalico called out, "the virus has hit New
York."
Tapping the keyboard, Lynch accessed the infrastructure
of the American relay, pulling the stats up on the screen.
The trace had stopped dead in its tracks. Within seconds,
fragmentation had begun on the other CPU's hard drive,
eating away at all the files.




Lynch pushed back from the computer console and ad-
dressed Razor. "Stay with it and make sure nothing crawls
out of that chaos."
"Right, mate." The big man seated himself.
Lynch went back to the center of operations and sur-
veyed his teams. Everything was running smoothly even
after the brief excitement.
"You're up against a very inventive mind," Kalico
stated as she joined him. "They very nearly had us there."
"A good challenge will only make me rise to the occa-
sion," Lynch retorted.

"I'VE GOT A LOCATION in New York," Aaron Kurtzman
said. He stared at the blinking dot on the screen.
"Was that the source of the transmission?" Brognola
asked over the speakerphone.
"I doubt it." Kurtzman flipped through programs, trying
to reach past the ICE barriers. "More likely, it was a trans-
fer point."
"Able Team's in Newark, New Jersey," Barbara Price
said, "finishing up some business with the Chinese immi-
gration ring we uncovered there. They can be in New York
in a short time."
"Can you get a fix on that transfer location?" Brognola
asked.
Kurtzman watched as the longitude and latitude degrees
popped onto the monitor. He tapped the keyboard and
brought up a topographical map. A heartbeat later, cross-
hairs formed on the screen, pinpointing the location. "Got
it." He blew up the image and started accessing other ree-
ords. "Looks like private property outside the Pepacton
Reservation in the Catskill Mountains." He called over to
Carmen Delahunt's console. "Carmen."
Delahunt was old-line FBI that Stony Man had lured

away from the Quantico offices. Short and red haired, she
followed up an assignment with tenacious efficiency.
"Yes."
"I'm splitting off a file for you," Kurtzman said. "See
if you can find an address and a realty history on the area
I've tagged."
She nodded, already at work as she surveyed the topo-
graphical map on her monitor.
"Can you get Able in there?" Brognola asked.
There was enough of a hesitation that Kurtzman glanced
over his shoulder to see what Price was doing.
Only a few feet away, the mission controller finished up
a cellular phone conversation and punched it off. "Able's
already moving on it, and should be there within forty
minutes."
"What about a support team?"
"I'm going to see if I can cut a deal with state troopers
in the area," Price replied.
"Aaron," Delahunt called.
Kurtzman looked over to the redhead's workstation.
"What have you got?"
"The address," Delahunt said. She tapped the keyboard
rapidly. "I've tracked it back through one of the local real-
estate agencies, but they show it was purchased by a com-
pany in Hannibal, Missouri, called Circus Hats." "Can you get anything on Circus Hats?"
Delahunt shook her head. "I've got an address, but ac-
cording to the information I have, the business bankrupted
and everything ended up in probate court three months ago.
None of it's been resolved."
"Was an executor named?"
"Richard Stanfill."
Kurtzman noted the name, asking for the spelling. Men-




tally he broke the information down into areas of attack.
"Akira."
"Yeah, boss." Akira Tokaido sat in front of the huge
screen that filled the forward wall at the far end of the room
and carried images from the capture of the SEALs. A mini-
CD player was strapped to his right thigh and led up the
single earphone in his right ear.
"Get on the files Carmen has and see if you can break
through the red tape surrounding that land transaction. It's
probably a front for a holding company or companies. See
if you can run it down through whatever garbage they've
put up."
"You got it." Tokaido turned back to his console. A
pink bubble spewed between his lips, then popped as it
reached bursting point. The young Japanese American was
unconventional and didn't appear to fit within the military
guidelines of Stony Man Farm, but that was one of the
major reasons he'd been recruited. He had a keen, incisive
mind that could make creative leaps that weren't all that
logical at times, but that often scored direct hits. Kurtzman
regarded the young man as one of the most dangerous hack-
ers he knew.
Kurtzman turned to the remaining member of his cyber-
netics team. "Hunt, I need a package put together that we
can transmit to Able Team. Terrain, blueprints, satellite pic-
tures if we can get them. Let's bring our guys up to speed
as soon as we can."
"Right." At one time, Huntington Wethers had been a
full professor of cybernetics at Berkeley. He always dressed
for business, and the glasses, as well as the pipe he habit-
ually chewed on but never smoked, enhanced his scholarly
appearance. In seconds, he was assembling the necessary
information.

"Carmen," Kurtzman said, "stick with Stanfill. Find
him if you can. Find out more about him if you can't."
She nodded and turned back to her work.
Finished for the moment, Kurtzman looked back at his
own screens. He pulled down another menu and routed an-
other trace, this one an inquiry through other long-distance
telephone carders that might have leapfrogged the trans-
mission burst further on. So far, he was coming up empty.
"Have we been able to target a search area for Striker
and his team?" Brognola asked over the speakerphone.
"No," Price answered, putting her phone away as she
returned to the desk. "However, Yakov is following up a
possible lead with the Chinese trade lobbyist group in
Washington, D.C."
"A lead?" the big Fed asked.
A small smile twisted the corners of the mission con-
troller's mouth. "He assured me that Chunae Hwan wasn't
your typical lobbyist."
From the sketchy background he'd been able to pull up
on the female Chinese agent, Kurtzman had to agree. She'd
been linked to at least two particularly bloody assassina-
tions over the years. Yakov Katzenelenbogen was no saint,
the big cybernetics expert knew, but approaching Chunae
Hwan was like stepping into a dragon's mouth.

"MR. KATZENELENBOGEN.' '
The voice that spoke his name was quiet and earnest.
Katz turned in the hallway, navigating the chattering crowd
in spite of his broad shoulders. Dressed in the double-
breasted pin-striped blue Armani suit, he easily fit in with
the other lobbying groups jockeying for position in the hall-
way of the House of Representatives. His gray hair was
neatly done, and his light blue eyes looked out of place in
his craggy face.




A beautiful young Chinese woman made her way
through the crowd and stopped just out of arm's reach.
"Ms. Hwan sent me, and asked that you accompany me to
her," the young woman said. A polite smile lighted her
face. "Ms. Hwan suggested that you might be more moved
to join a pretty woman than one of her other associates."
Katz smiled. "Ms. Hwan is correct. But why isn't she
here? She agreed to meet me."
"Due to circumstances, Ms. Hwan is unavoidably de-
tained."
"I see." Katz translated the statement as meaning that
Hwan was currently running a high profile. "And where is
she?"
"We're going to meet her outside."
"I could have done that," Katz said.
"It was easier to verify that you were alone and unarmed
like this."
Katz nodded. "What's your name?"
"You may call me Rikki." She stepped closer. "Now I
would like for you to give me a hug as though I'm a fa-
vored friend or niece you've not seen for some time."
Katz took the woman into his arms and found she fitted
very well. Acting as though she was glad to see him, she
hugged him back, but he was aware of the way she
searched him with her body and her hands. There was even
a quick dip between his thighs at his crotch to check for a
concealed weapon. No one appeared to notice.
"You're unarmed," the woman said, breathing softly
into his shoulder.
"I think you would know after that," he said.
"If you'll accompany me, then," Rikki said, moving
away.
"You don't mind if I take your arm," Katz stated, "see-
ing as how we're such good friends."

She nodded her head, calmly, but she had to know that
he was taking control of her to use as a shield against a
possible setup.
Katz hadn't lived to his present age in his line of work
by being foolhardy. He kept scanning the corridor as they
walked toward one of the side entrances.
"This way," Rikki said, pulling him toward Indepen-
dence Avenue once they were outside.
"We're being followed," Katz said.
"They're there for our protection."
"Besides the two men that picked us up as we walked
through the corridor," the Israeli replied.
"How many?" Rikki turned her head as though to look
at him and laugh at a remark he'd made. The move also
improved her peripheral vision.
Katz smiled at her, turning his head also. "Four. Three
men and one woman."
"American?"
"Not Oriental."
"Ah." Rikki nodded and looked forward again. "Then
I suggest we walk faster."
Katz complied. "You have no way of alerting your peo-
ple?"
Rikki bit her lip. "We have no communications gear on
us. There are too many listening devices in this area. Per-
haps they know."
The Israeli didn't think so. A cold chill spread down his
spine. Reluctantly he released his hold on the young
woman. They were nearly to the street now.
"Perhaps you should go on without me." Katz veered
away from the crowd gathered at the mass-transit stop. He
already knew about the attacks on Striker and the Phoenix
Force members in South Korea. ff there was violence, he
didn't want any innocents harmed.




"Leave you?"
'TII be along." Katz looked up and down Independence
Avenue as if getting ready to cross. The glances afforded
over his shoulder showed him that the two Chinese guards
seemed troubled by the departure from their planned route.
"Ms. Hwan won't like that idea."
"Probably not," Katz agreed, "but it may be the best
course of action."
A long black Mercedes limousine made the corner from
First Street onto Independence Avenue, then cut expertly
through the traffic toward Katz and the woman. "There she is," Rikki said.
"Go." Katz gave her a gentle push to get her moving,
then turned to the east, hoping to draw the four predators
with him.
Instead, they gave him only a moment's notice and con-
tinued after Rikki as she walked toward the waiting lim-
ousine. The woman, a short brunette with a medium build,
drew a Smith & Wesson .40 pistol from her purse, her
movements steady and unhurried. The weapon came up in
both hands, bracketing Rikki as she reached for the lim-
ousine's rear door.
Katz shouted a warning, realizing that he hadn't been the
target at all. He flexed the muscles in his right arm. The
limb below the elbow had been lost in the Six Day War,
but he'd adopted a prosthetic that had interchangeable parts.
He hadn't been as unarmed as his Chinese contact had be-
lieved. Housed in the artificial hand was a 4~shot .22 LR
that he could fire through manipulation of his upper arm
muscles.
One of the Chinese guards died as he turned around,
catching a full load of double-aught buckshot from a cut-
down shotgun wielded by one of the four killers. His corpse

tumbled to the sidewalk as pandemonium erupted among
the pedestrians.
Katz fired twice, and both .22 hollowpoint bullets scored
on the woman's face as she moved the pistol toward him.
She rocked backward and went down, the pistol flying from
her hands.
The other Chinese guard succeeded in pulling his
weapon and firing at the gunner closest to him. His bullet
took the man in the leg and knocked him around. The other
gunner moved smoothly, evading two girls who'd mistak-
enly run in his direction to get away from the more visible
weapons, and shot the Chinese guard in the throat.
Katz was already in motion, streaking like a broken-field
runner as the shotgunner shifted to take him out. The deep-
throated roar of the 12-gauge shattered the crescendo of
screams. A newspaper vending machine blew apart next to
the Israeli. Metal slivers knifed into his legs and left side
as paper exploded in a flurry of confetti.
Throwing up his arm while the shotgunner worked the
pump action, the Israeli cupped his elbow in his left palm
and fired his last two rounds from twenty feet away. Both
hollowpoint bullets sailed through the man's dark glasses
and fragmented inside the skull, ripping his brain to shreds.
The dead man fell backward, and the shotgun clattered
against the sidewalk.
The front door of the limousine jerked open, and a
slightly built Chinese man in a dark suit stepped out with
an Ingram MAC-10 on a shoulder sling. Firing the machine
pistol with one hand, he ushered Rikki inside the waiting
limousine with the other.
The surviving two assassins pulled back in a strategic
retreat.
Before they could target him, Katz covered the half-
dozen steps separating him from the dead woman. He




scooped up the S&W pistol, then added to his cache when
he found a full magazine clenched in her other hand.
"Come on!" Rikki yelled from the limousine.
One of the two assassins broke and ran. A hail of bullets
from the MAC-10 caught him and drove him forward, off
balance. He sprawled up against the base of the steps lead-
ing back up to the Capitol.
Federal guards sprinted out of the building, taking up
positions in seconds. The surviving assassin seized a young
woman and used her as a shield against the Capitol guards.
Shrill shrieks of rubber on concrete blasted over the
sounds of the battle. Coming from the west end of Inde-
pendence Avenue, a full-size Chevy van riding low on its
tires baneled through the stalled traffic. The front bumper
connected with a midget Toyota and shouldered it aside
and over a fire hydrant. Immediately a plume of high-
pressure water shot skyward.
The assassin saw the van and changed his course, head-
ing toward it with his prisoner.
Knowing he would be taken into custody by the federal
guards if he remained, Katz jogged toward the limousine.
With his papers in order, he would have been sprung from
lockup in a short time, but the opportunity to speak with
Hwan might evaporate.
The van didn't stop for the assassin. Instead, it acceler-
ated and raced straight for the limousine. The limousine
driver realized his danger with enough time to put the lux-
ury car in reverse and try to back away, the rear tires spill-
ing out black smoke. But the effort was too little and too
late, and the van rammed into the side of the limousine
with weight and momentum behind it.
They came together like two metal leviathans. Glass and
plastic from the grillwork and headlights exploded out of

both vehicles. Rear tires screeching, the van's engine
roared, and the limousine was pinned against the curb.
Katz was aware of two motorcycles slipping through the
stalled traffic like a pair of sharks hunting up a blood trail.
He changed his course, heading for the stopped commuter
bus. Most of the passengers had already emptied from the
metro carrier.
The Capitol guards reacted, closing ranks slowly and de-
liberately.
The lone assassin with his human shield had his attention
divided between the federal cops and the van. He moved
in crab fashion toward the van, holding the woman before
him. The guy didn't see the Israeli until Katz was less than
ten feet away and closing.
As the man's eyes registered on him, recognized the
threat that was there, Katz raised the S&W and fired a
single round between the assassin's eyes.
The woman screamed and covered her face with her
hands. She struggled to remain standing while the dead man
clung to her.
Still in motion, the Israeli rocketed his prosthetic arm
forward, catching the corpse under its bloody chin and peel-
ing it from the hysterical woman. Propelled by instinct, she
ran toward two women who called out to her.
Autofire raked the street, interrupting the clang and bang
of metal and the roar of the two straining vehicles dead-
locked against the curb.
As Katz vaulted into the bus, he motioned the heavyset
Puerto Rican driver out with the pistol. The man went with-
out a word of protest. The Israeli dropped the S&W pistol
on the seat, sat and reached around the steering column
with his left hand. The diesel engines shuddered into life
at once.
His move toward the bus hadn't escaped notice, though.




Two men bolted from the Chevy van and raced toward him.
Beyond them, Katz spotted the motorcycles again. Both
were riding double.
A bullet hammered off the side mirror in a shower of
sparks and ringing noise. Slipping the transmission into re-
verse, Katz cut the wheel sharply and pinned the accelerator
to the floor. He got a brief glimpse of the rear riders on the
motorcycles as they dismounted. Both men carded short
tubes.
The back end of the big metro transit bus quivered as it
struck the Chevy van from the side. Metal screeched in
protest and tore. The pair of gunners who'd exited the van
stepped back, one of them forced up and over a car stalled
in the street. Both of them fired at the front of the bus,
chipping glass out of the windows behind Katz and starring
the windshield.
Reluctantly the van gave ground, freeing the limousine.
Ducking the hail of glass that rattled inside the metal
walls of the bus, Katz slipped the clutch and backed into
the van a second time. The whole side of the vehicle crum-
pled, folding in on itself.
The limousine pulled around the bus, riding up over the
curb and coming around on the right. With white smoke
belching from under the crushed fender, the van backed
away, ramming a pickup that had been abandoned by its
owner.
One of the motorcycle passengers was in a kneeling po-
sition across the street in front of a copying shop. The tube
extended in his hands, and a peep sight reared up.
Katz recognized the light antitank weapon at once and
knew it was going to turn the bus into a long mass of
earnage. He grabbed the pistol and leaped from his seat,
going out the door toward the waiting limousine.
The limo's rear door was badly warped but evidently still

functioned. A petite Chinese woman sat inside and looked
up at him.
"It has been a long time, Yakov," Chunae Hwan said,
loud enough to be heard above the noise. She was looking
as good as ever, dressed in a blue chiffon dress that didn't
go with the mini-Uzi she held with practiced efficiency. Her
black hair was cut to shoulder length, and she could have
been anywhere from twenty to forty.
Katz knew for a fact that she was older than that. "Under
similar circumstances, as I recall." The Israeli swung him-
self inside.
A phalanx of federal cops approached on the passenger
side, shouting orders to stop or be fired upon.
"They've targeted the bus with a rocket launcher," Katz
said. "I'd like to borrow that machine pistol."
Withoiit a word, Hwan handed it over. "Drive," she
ordered the chauffeur.
The federal cops were thirty feet away when Katz swung
outside the limo and fired across its armored top. Aiming
high, he emptied the Uzi in a solid roll of thunder, hooking
himself onto the car with his prosthesis.
In response, the Feds went to ground.
An instant later, the warhead from the first LAW im-
pacted against the bus, rupturing the side in a fiery gout as
the limousine sidled over the curb and back into the stalled
traffic across Independence Avenue.
Katz dropped back into the luxury car and tried to shut
the door. It creaked closed but didn't catch.
Suddenly the driver swerved and yelled, "Hold on!"
There was enough time for Katz to register that the sec-
ond LAW-wielder had somehow gotten around in front of
them. He saw the puff of white smoke that signaled the
weapon's discharge, then the explosion rocked the limou-
sine.




CHAPTER EIGHT

Near Pepacton Reservation, New York

Carl Lyons sat in the passenger seat of the McDonnell
Douglas MD-520 and cinched the Kevlar armor, getting
ready for the drop. The mountainous terrain seen through
the Plexiglas nose of the helicopter was still snowcapped
in places, the fir and pine trees stark greens against the
virgin white. Spring was slowly coming to the Catskills this
year, and the ground was covered with shimmering streams
carrying the melting snow away to the lower valley regions.
The pilot was young, tight-lipped and military to the
marrow. He'd hardly said a dozen words as he worked the
warbird toward the site.
Looking as if he'd been put together with railroad ties,
Lyons was ex-military himself, and ex-LAPD. He under-
stood and appreciated the younger man's mind-set. His
blond hair was cut short, and his ice blue eyes were con-
stantly scanning, reading information.
He was togged out in a counterterrorist suit overlaid with
body armor in combat black. A Colt Government Model
.45 rode on his right thigh in a drop holster. The .357 Mag-
num Colt Python rested in a strap on a holster across his
upper left chest, clear of the other equipment he was out-
fitted with. He was going in heavy, loaded with extra mag-

azines and speedloaders for the pistols, and extra 20-round
drums for the Atchisson Assault 12 shotgun he'd chosen
for his lead weapon. Other pockets held grenades, garrotes,
handcuffs and a gas mask.
"You ready for this, kid?" Lyons growled as he spotted
the targeted house over the next snowcapped rise.
"Yes, sir," the pilot replied. His face and voice were as
empty of emotion as the mirrored aviator glasses he wore.
Lyons tapped the headset's transmit button. "Pol. Gad-
gets."
"Go, Ironman," Blancanales answered in his smooth
voice.
"How about that heavy equipment?"
"Gadgets is hooking up the electronics now."
"I'm looking at the house." Lyons checked the notebook
computer in front of him. They were tied into Stony Man
Farm, getting their Intel straight from the Farm's comput-
ers.
"Should be getting a green light up there about now,"
Schwarz spoke up.
Lyons glanced over at the pilot. "You on?"
The guy checked the armament panel Schwarz had
bolted in with an electric screwdriver less than twenty
minutes ago. "Live, and five by five." "Good enough."
The helicopter was a civilian aircraft that was in use by
a number of police departments and businesses, but hadn't
been outfitted with weapons when it set down in Newark
International. They'd been in crates in the back, stripped-
down systems that carried all the kick but none of the frills.
Price had provided for a belly-mounted .50-caliber machine
gun and one 12-tube rocket launcher. Lyons had buckled
the machine gun into place through a removable plate on




the floor while Blancanales mounted the rocket launcher
and Schwarz tied the systems into the control panel.
"What about the targeting, sir?" the pilot asked.
"If that box shows you' ve got a lock," Lyons said, "bet
on iL That guy back there running the wires, you don't find
anybody better."
"This hasn't exactly presented him with optimum con-
ditions, sir."
"Trust him," Lyons said. "I do."
"Yes, sir."
The Able Team commando pointed. "Put us down on
the south side, then circle around and cover the north side."
"Yes, sir. When?"
� 'Now." Lyons pushed himself out of the seat and went
back to join the other two members of Able Team.
Rosario B!ancanales sat by the door dressed in armored
black. His hair was salt and pepper, and his features were
regally Hispanic. He was called the Politician because of
his facility with human emotions, thinking and ability to
bolster a friend or totally demoralize an enemy through
psychological tactics. He carried an M-16/M-203 combo.
Hermann Schwarz, also known as "Gadgets" by those
who knew about his affinity for booby traps and anything
electronic, finished putting away the slim metal toolcase he
usually carried, then reached for the M-21 Beretta sniper
rifle at his side.
Lyons nodded at Blancanales.
Popping the lock, Blancanales s~ioved the door back-
ward. Air rushed in, swirling through the small compart-
ment.
Stepping into the doorway, Lyons held on and watched
as the two-story ranch house rushed toward them. The nat-
ural wood finish made it blend in with the bare areas left
by the melting snow. Three 4x4 vehicles, two Ford

Broncos and a Jeep Wrangler, were staggered along the east
side of the house.
"First target's the computer system. Anything else we
get is gravy," Lyons directed.
"Sir," the pilot called. The helicopter hesitated slightly
in the air.
"Do it," Lyons ordered, "then get the hell around to
your position."
"Yes, sir." The aircraft lost altitude rapidly.
Bracing himself against the sharp descent, Lyons slung
the Atchisson, then gripped the rope in gloved hands. Once
the chopper leveled off again, he went through the door
and rappeled to the ground.
Bullets split the air as he descended, missing him by
inches as he sped toward the ground. "Gadgets," Lyons transmitted.
"Sniper," Schwarz replied. "Second floor on the bal-
cony. You stay alive long enough for me to get there, I'll
take him."
Shock ran through Lyons's legs when he hit the ground.
He released the rope and pushed himself toward a fallen
tree for cover. A bullet smashed into the Kevlar at his
shoulder, momentarily numbing the area of impact. He un-
slung the Atchisson to provide covering fire while Blan-
canales smoked down the rappeling line. It wouldn't take
the gunner long to realize the helicopter made a much eas-
ier target.
The house was more than fifty yards away. The spread
of the double-aught buckshot wasn't going to hurt the guy
even if it managed to hit him.
Lyons touched off two rounds anyway.
"Go," Schwarz said.
Without looking back, trusting his teammate implicitly,
Lyons vaulted over the fallen tree and sprinted for the ranch




house, managing a zigzag route that took him behind trees
and large boulders. He concentrated on the front door to
the house, knowing that Blancanales would be circling
around to the west to cover the side exit that overlooked
the parked vehicles.
The gunner on the balcony stood amid a table and chairs,
partially covered by a wooden railing.
Bullets chopped bark, leaves and branches from the trees
around the Able Team leader. Ricochets whined and burned
close.
Then the sharp crack of Schwarz's M-21 blasted through
the 9 mm autofire.
Lyons was dimly aware of the balcony gunner being
driven over the side of the railing by the heavy 7.62 mm
round. Then the front door opened, and three men raced
out, armed with assault weapons.
A spray of rounds sizzled through melting snow clinging
to a pine-tree branch near Lyons's face. Reacting instantly,
coiling with the motion of a trained athlete, the Able Team
commando dived behind the shelter provided by the thick
bole of the tree.
More autofire clipped branches from the tree.
Lyons's headset crackled. "Sir?" the pilot called. "I've
got line of sight."
"Do it," Lyons snapped. He swiveled his head around
the tree and listened to the whoosh of the helicopter's
rocket launcher.
The warhead hit the ground almost at the feet of the three
men. Their bloody corpses twisted and flew, one of them
landing on the sloped roof jutting out from the second story.
"Way to fire," Lyons commented. He shoved himself
out away from the tree and streaked for the house.
Before he reached the house, a man fired at him from
the doorway.

Lyons loosed a double-aught blast from the Atchisson
that cleared the door, but he wasn't sure if it put his target
down. A plate-glass window overlooked the slope from be-
side the door. Knowing the people inside would expect him
to cross the threshold, he fired three rounds into the win-
dow.
Glass imploded, fragmenting into deadly, spinning
chunks. The lacy curtains jumped off their rods and twisted
away like holey ghosts.
Lyons leaped from only a couple yards out, vaulting
through the emptied window. Inside, he tucked and rolled,
managing himself on his legs and one hand.
"Get the son of a bitch!" a man in a sheepskin jacket
and handlebar mustache ordered. He leveled the Glock in
his hand.
Coming up on one knee, Lyons triggered the 12-gange
and rode out the recoil one-handed. The double-aught buck-
shot impacted against the guy's chest and blew him back
over a color television. Sparks jumped from the dead set,
biting into the unfeeling corpse.
A machine pistol spit 9 mm rounds that chewed through
the oak paneling above Lyons's head.
The Able Team commando fired again and cut the sec-
ond man down. As he stood, he noticed a third dead man
behind the front door. He jogged toward the dining room,
glass crunching under his boots. Taking a position against
the doorway, he tapped the transmit button on the headset.
"Gadgets."
"Go," Schwarz called out.
"You see a satellite dish?" Lyons whirled around the
comer, the Atchisson up and probing. The dining room had
a hardwood floor and elegant candle sconces built into the
wall. No one was inside.
Gunfire crashed from the side door.




"Second floor," Schwarz answered. "Got what looks
like a bedroom in the southwest comer."
"Pol," Lyons called.
"Yeah?"
"Your location?"
"I'm inside, amigo."
"The stairs?" Lyons asked.
"No idea."
More gunfire ripped through the house. Lyons's cop in-
stincts, picked up on L.A.'s meanest streets while he was
still in uniform, warned him of the man who'd crept up
behind him.
Whirling, Lyons knocked the big man's gun hand away
with the Atchisson's barrel a heartbeat before the S&W .41
Magnum pistol thundered. He ripped a heavy-bladed com-
bat knife from his combat harness as the big man roared
and threw a meaty fist at his face.
Lyons slipped the blow and brought the combat knife
around in a hard, vicious arc. The point went into the man's
throat just below his Adam's apple, then grated along the
spinal column for a second before burying in the wall be-
hind him.
The light went out of the big man's eyes as he gurgled
bloody froth.
Lyons pressed on. He found the stairwell in a narrow
corridor between the dining room and kitchen. A moving
shadow at the top of the stairs warned him that the second
floor was still occupied.
He tapped the button on the headset. "Gadgets."
"Go." Schwarz had stayed outside the ranch house to
act as backup and spotter.
"Can you give me a head count?"
"That's negative, Ironman. I see walking shadows, but

I haven't got a confirmation on a number. Second fioor's
not without weight."
"Roger." Lyons pulled a canister of CS gas from his
grenade pouch. "Pol." "Yeah?"
Lyons popped the CS canister, then tossed it up the stairs
underhanded. White smoke started to spew at once. "I've
got gas going in." "Roger."
The Able Team leader, Lyons pulled out his gas mask
and slipped it on. The CS gas had spread enough that it
obscured visibility on the stairs.
At the top of the stairs, two men were doubled over,
retching uncontrollably, but both straggled to bring their
weapons up.
Stepping forward quickly, Lyons brought the heavy butt
of the shotgun down on one man's neck hard enough to
knock him unconscious. He spun on one foot, then deliv-
ered a roundhouse kick to the other man that flattened him
up against the wall. Before the hardman could recover, the
Able Team commando rolled him over, kicked his pistol
out of reach and cuffed his hands behind his back. The
retching went on, but Lyons knew it wasn't going to kill
the guy.
By the time he was ready to go on, Blancanales had
come up the stairs to join him, gas mask in place.
Lyons took the point while the other man backed him
up. Three of the four bedrooms were empty. The last one
held the computer they were looking for.
Evidently good money had been spent on the unit. The
desk was full of hardware, and a tower sat on the floor
nearby. A screen-saver image of a Penthouse Pet of the
Month occupied the monitor.




"Hard drive's working overtime," Biancahales com-
mented, glancing at the tower system.
"We'll let Aaron figure it out," Lyons answered. He
slipped a cellular phone out of his chest pack and glanced
at the CPU connections. With deft motions, he hooked up
the cellular phone to the PCMCIA jack and punched in the
number they were using for the Wansmission.
Akira Tokaido answered immediately. "Thrill me."
"Let's get on it, kid," Lyons said, then laid down the
phone. He stepped to the west window to check the perim-
e~rs.
The helicopter hovered like a dragonfly to the north, the
Plexiglas nose turned toward the ranch house.
"Gadgets?" Lyons transmitted.
"Go."
"Secure?"
"Battened down, buddy. You guys?"
"Working it." Lyons moved back from the window. He
knew the operation was related to the one Striker and Phoe-
nix were headlining in North Korea concerning the cap-
tured SEAL team.
Without warning, the screen saver disappeared from the
monitor, replaced with numbers: 15... 14... 13... "PoI," Lyons said.
"I see it." Blancanales was already in motion. "East
side. There's a drift that might cushion the fall, and an
incline that may offer some shelter." 11...10...
Lyons slammed out of the room, racing for the east win-
dow. Pol grabbed the handcuffed man and hustled him to
his feet, aiming him for the window.
Fisting the unconscious man's shirt, Lyons dragged the
guy to the window just as Blancanales shoved his prisoner
through. Glass and woodwork exploded. Off balance, the

prisoner fell onto the partially snow-covered roof and slid
along the steep tiles, B!ancanales almost on top of him.
"Gadgets," Blancanales radioed.
"Go."
"Pull back from the house." Repeating the orders for
the pilot, Blancanales disappeared over the edge of the roof.
Lyons was close behind, slipping and skidding across the
tricky surface. He kept his hand knotted in his prisoner's
clothing. Lunging over the edge, he fell and crashed
through a canopy of small trees. On his feet at once, he
found his prsoner and dragged him along, down the steep
incline, racing the clock, somewhere between a loping run
and a controlled fall. He hoped the line of trees behind him
would be enough to help blunt the concussion.
The house blew up in a roll of detonations. Fiery debris
railed through the sky and caught in the branches of the
trees. Even though they were below the line of the blasts,
Lyons was knocked from his feet by the force.
A couple minutes later, when it seemed the ground had
quit shaking, Lyons pushed himself to his feet.
Not much remained of the house on top of the hill. Part
of the foundation had been blown into the trees, and part
of the remains were on fire.
"You figure the North Koreans?" Lyons asked.
B!ancanales shook his head.
"Me, neither," the big ex-LAPD cop said, hoisting his
prisoner over one shoulder. "Let's get a move on. Barb can
let the state police have what's left over."




CHAPTER NINE

"Lock onto the transmission," Dixon Lynch ordered, lean-
ing over the console.
"I'm trying," Gutter Razor replied. He sounded frus-
trated. His fingers massaged the keyboard.
Feeling the tightness in his chest, Lynch watched Razor's
progress. He'd deliberately sacrificed the operation in New
York. Though it had cost millions to set up, though that
was offset by the profits it had turned in the past three
years, the transmission site had a chance of providing him
more information about the covert team he was hunting in
the United States.
Their reaction time had been quicker than he'd expected,
however. But the presence of the force at the ranch house
had confirmed his thoughts that the covert team had a do-
mestic arm, as well.
"They're into the computer," Razor stated.
Lynch glanced at the other monitors spread around the
desk. "Kalico?"
"They're definitely not on the West Coast, love," the
woman replied. "All the long-distance carriers there are
clear of any signature the New York computer makes."
Lynch clamped down on the anger rising inside him.
"These people are not intangible."
"I know, I know."

"Dammit, they're going to trip the self-destruct se-
quence." Unknown to the men who'd worked in the ranch
house in the Catskills, Lynch had ordered the area mined
in case he ,~xied to destroy the evidence quickly2
"It's done, mate," Razor advised. "I've got a partial
lock."
"Follow it," Lynch demanded. He watched the clock
face float to the surface of Razor's monitor. The second
hand swept toward zero, eleven seconds and counting
down.
"Got it." Razor reached for the mouse and pulled down
a menu. "I'm piggybacked on the transmission. Going for
the short load. No time for anything else."
Lynch checked the clock. Eight seconds remained. Even
the short load they'd prepared might not have time to make
it. "Do it."
Razor flicked the cursor over a file reading "Clonetlk"
and tagged the button. "It's done."
A ribbon opened up at the bottom of the screen: "Send-
ing file: Clonetlk...20% complete...50% complete..." The
numbers continued to fluctuate, gaining speed.
"The East Coast," Kalico called out. "South of the Ma-
son-Dixon line."
Abruptly the second hand on the clock face overlaid the
hour hand. "Transmission interrupt, drive error, reboot?"
flared across Razor's monitor.
"Lost it," the Australian said.
"What kind of feed did you get?" Lynch asked.
"Ninety-three percent."
"Is it enough?"
Razor shrugged. "That's one of the most viable com-
munications-capture programs I've ever written. It should
be enough to secure contact if we can get on-line with




them. We do, the rest of the program will feed automati-
cally and restructure itself."
"Good." Lynch smiled. He straightened and walked
back to Kalico. "Where's their base?"
"Somewhere in Virginia." The woman studied the
graphs and charts that flicked across her screen. "They
were using a weather satellite over the East Coast for the
transmission. When the house blew, they disappeared."
Lynch took off his suit jacket and loosened his tie.
"That's fine. We'll find them. Check through government
files starting with the Department of the Interior. Wherever
they're at, they're on land that's been ceded to them."
"Yes." Kalico accessed other areas open to her.
Lynch stepped back and took a deep breath. Things were
progressing satisfactorily, even though it had taken longer
to tag the covert team than he would have liked. He glanced
at his watch. It was hours until the meeting in Seoul. A lot
could happen.
"Dixon." Ion Cameron turned from his console. "The
general's package has arrived."
Lynch nodded and summoned Eric Hardcastle, his chief
security officer, from his position at the back of the build-
ing.
Hardcastle was a grizzly bear of a man, barrel-chested,
and possessed a face squared off like a trenching tool. He
moved with military precision he'd learned at officers'
school in Berlin a quarter century before. His jumpsuit was
black and armored, and held a multitude of deadly devices
in the many pockets.
"We're going to take the trip with the general now,"
Lynch said, snugging his tie again. He slipped into his suit
jacket and buttoned it.
"Yes, sir." Hardcastle's voice was heavy and carried a
Germanic accent. He gave quick hand signals, and five of

his men peeled away from the group of a dozen and flanked
them.
Lynch strode toward the front of the building, stopping
only long enough to pick up a notebook computer and a
cellular phone. "General," he said, waving at the man,
"are you prepared to accept delivery of your cargo?"
"Yes."
"Let's do it." Lynch led the way to the five-ton trucks
under the cover of trees and camou netting. He took a seat
in the first one while Hardcastle rode the running board on
the other side of the door. One of the mercenary's men
took the wheel.
General Sym clambered aboard his jeep. Without trying
to be subtle, the man riding the rear deck uncloaked the
mounted .50-caliber machine gun and took control of it.
"There's not a lot of trust here," Hardcastle observed
with a grim smile.
"Do you want to trust them?" Lynch asked.
The big merc shook his head. "No."
Lynch settled back in the seat as the driver pulled them
onto one of the two paths leading through the jungle away
from the camp. "Neither do I."
"The general doesn't know it," Hardcastle said, "but
he's sitting on enough C-4 to put him into orbit." He lifted
a flap on his vest and revealed the remote control.
"Eric," Lynch said, "I've always admired your fore-
sight."

A V22 OSPREY, ITS OUTSIZE tilt rotors pointing skyward,
sat outside a hangar at the U.S. Army base near the center
of Seoul. The USMC military markings had been removed,
and the whole convertiplane had been repainted a flat black
to blend in with the night.
The soldier left the chopper in a lithe jump while it hov-




ered less than three feet above the pavement. Before he'd
made half the distance to the Osprey, the rotors whined and
beat a wash down at him that became a fierce wind.
Hawkins and Encizo lowered the door just behind the
Osprey's nose.
"The gear?" Bolan asked as he climbed inside.
"Aboard and secure," Encizo replied, offering his hand.
Bolan took it for a brief moment. "I'd heard you had
some trouble."
"Appears to be the night for it," Hawkins said.
"Have we got a target?" Bolan asked, moving toward
the cabin.
"No." Encizo shook his head. "But we should have
something soon. Stony Man's standing by for a corn link
as soon as we lift off."
"Let's do it." Bolan went forward.
Seated behind the controls, Jack Grimaldi, Stony Man's
ace pilot, looked up. "Hey, Sarge, glad you could join us.
Provisions are in the back. Got a couple thermal carafes of
soup and some coffee." Expertly the pilot finished with the
controls, got clearance from the base command and leaned
into the engines.
The Osprey took to the air. Within seconds, the base was
a twenty-acre patch in the middle of Seoul, and the con-
vertiplane was streaking north, gaining speed. The city's
night lights fanned out around it, flashing pools of neon
rainbow.
"Has there been any other word on the hostages?" Bolan
asked.
"Another confirmed casualty," Grimaldi replied. "They
didn't say how. Could be from wounds, or the guy could
have bought it back on the Dragon's Gate and they're just
now telling us."
With Hawkins and Encizo seated almost comfortably be-

hind him, Bolan brought the notebook computer out of his
chest pack and set it up, plugging into one of the power
supplies provided in the convertiplane.
"Going to be a little rough for just a minute," Grimaldi
warned.
Bolan nodded, then glanced out his window as the pilot
pulled back on the yoke and triggered the swivel action
that moved the large propellers from helo action to their
forward position. Once they were locked in and the ride
became smooth again, Bolan turned his attention back to
the computer. He added the cellular phone, dialed and
waited.
The screen flickered, then offered instructions to allow
for full video and audio.
Bolan input the commands, and a heartbeat later the
monitor ghosted over, then showed the inside of the com-
puter room. Barbara Price and Aaron Kurtzman looked at
him.
"Hold on," Kurtzman said, "I'm patching Farmer
Brown and the Man into the link, too."
The screen split, then images of Brognola and the Pres-
ident formed on the right.
"Phoenix Force is supposed to be in the loop, too,"
Price advised. "Phoenix One, can you confirm?"
"Here, Barb," a British accent said.
Bolan recognized David McCarter's voice immediately.
"Where are you?" Price asked.
"An hour, hour and a half away from Kimpo Interna-
tional Airport."
"Affirmative," the mission controller said.
"A week ago," Brognola said, looking at the monitor,
"a covert team from Seal Team Six was put on alert re-
garding fissionable materials that were supposed to be
smuggled into the North Korean military."




"Where did the fissionables come from?" Hawkins
asked.
"Background Intel on the operation suggested China, or
possibly Russia," the head Fed answered. "Neither has
been confirmed. But with the state of affairs in both those
countries at present, either is possible."
"Some of the guys who tried to whack Rare and me
were probably American," Hawkins said.
Price fielded the statement. "We're looking into that.
Korean Intelligence is being very generous with their find-
ings. As soon as they have something, we'll have it."
"The operation was called Knock-Knock," Brognola
said. "The SEALs' orders were to find the fissionables and
bring them back. Special-ops control had satellite lock on
the group when the action went down. Then they were cut
off."
"How were they cut off?." McCarter asked.
"I checked the satellite they were using," Kurtzman an-
swered. "It was nuked, total meltdown."
"Do we know if the fissionable materials are in the
hands of the North Korean military?" Bolan asked.
"At this point," the President replied, "I don't dare
think any other way."
In terse sentences, Brognola told him about the threat-
ening transmission Kurtzman had tracked back to the Cat-
skill Mountains.
"Do the South Koreans know?" Bolan locked eyes with
the President.
"At present, no," the Man said. "I feel that if they're
made aware of the situation, it'll make your job all that
much harder. If we have any chance of cleaning this up
and getting those boys home, it's with a deliberate surgical
strike."
Silently Bolan agreed. If the news broke, there would be

a lot of fingers in a very deadly pie. And there was no way
to evacuate a country. "With this much high tech," the
soldier said, "it doesn't sound like the North Korean mil-
italy"
"No," Kurtzman replied. "And it gets better. You
haven't seen the film that got sent to a number of interna-
tional media shortly after contact was lost with the SEAL
team."
Abruptly the monitor screen wrinkled in a eolorful blitz
and the SEAL attack footage was played.
"That can't be what happened," Encizo said quietly.
"We don't believe it is," Brognola said.
"When you put the footage in slo-mo," Kurtzman ex-
plained, "my friends tell me the motion on part of the
fishermen seem to be a trifle too smooth. The SEALs jerk
as they shift and change position. The fishermen flow from
one position to the next. I looked at it, and maybe I saw
what they're talking about, but I'm not sure. To cut it this
fine, whoever spliced the real footage with the computer-
generated enhancements would have to be a real pro."
"That doesn't sound like the North Korean military, ei-
ther," Hawkins growled.
"No," Brognola said. "We think they've hired an out-
side party to manage the frame. Someone with a computer
background and sources within the military. The picture
they released of the last SEAL acknowledged as deceased
looked like a photograph from home. The NIS checked into
it and came up positive on that assumption. The picture
that was given to the media had come from the SEAL's
personal quarters at Coronado. The original was still
there.' '
"No idea of who got it to these people?" Encizo asked.
"No. We're looking into it. Able took down a transfer
point for a transmission that came into the Oval Office that




plainly stated the North Koreans did have the fissionable
materials." Brognola paused. "There's no sanction on this
mission, gentlemen, and no backup in case things go awry.
You're on your own."
"Is there any idea where the SEALs are being held?"
David McCarter asked.
"Nothing confirmed," the head Fed answered. "But you
can bet those boys didn't surrender to a handful of fisher-
men, or even a few North Korean troops. This was a total
blackout mission, not even supposed to have a profile. They
knew that."
"What about Nampo?" Bolan asked. "It's on the coast-
line, giving it both sea and air routes, and only a short jump
from the air bases in Pyongyang for a defensive posture."
"It's where we're betting," Brognola told him. The
monitor blinked and returned to the split screen showing
Stony Man Farm and the Oval Office. "Yakov had a meet-
ing scheduled that he hoped would shed some light on the
situation. Unfortunately we haven't heard from him yet,
and from what we're getting from reporters on the scene at
the Capitol building, there's been a disturbance involving
the Chinese trade representatives."
"Katz was meeting with them?" Bolan asked.
"One of them anyway." The head Fed glanced to one
side, and the soldier assumed Brognola was watching
breaking news coverage. 'TI1 let you know more when I
can. Until then, good hunting."
Bolan acknowledged and broke the computer connection.
"How long until we get to Nampo?" he asked Grimaldi.
"About thirty-five more minutes," the pilot said. The
broken terrain had given away to the flat, dark planes of
the sea.
"Are they going to know we're coming?"
"Not if Aaron can spoof the satellites," Grimaldi an-

swered. "We're making a tight loop up the coastline, then
double back in from the sea. If everything goes right, we're
going to be invisible to everything but radar." He tapped
his flight book. "And Barb got me hard copy on most of
those sites. We should be in good shape."
Bolan nodded and pushed himself up out of the seat. He
wanted to get fresh clothes and take time to familiarize
himself with the terrain around Nampo. A lot of lives were
on the line, and he had the feeling a lot more were going
to be in the balance.




CHAPTER TEN

Washington, D.C.

Boiling heat surged over the limousine. Inside, Yakov
Katzenelenbogen fought for his breath and fed the remain-
ing magazine into the S&W. His lungs felt as if they were
searing.
Out of control, the bulletproof windshield a myriad of
spiderwebbed cracks, the limousine rocked up over the curb
and came to a halt. Fire clung to the wrecked front end of
the luxury car, and the heat warped the Israeli's vision.
The driver had died in the initial blast, either from the
glass chunks that had been blown free of the windshield or
from the concussive force that had been unleashed.
"You are well?" Chunae Hwan asked as she pushed
herself up in the seat. Her face was slightly ashen, and a
dark bruise was already taking shape on her right cheek.
She hefted the MAC-10 into position.
"Yes." Katz found the door latch and tried it. Surpris-
ingly the door opened rather easily, creaking in protest. A
hollow pop sounded, then the glass crystallized, occluding
the view.
Rikki stirred, blood leaking down her forehead from con-
tact with the glass partition separating the rear of the lim-

ousine from the front. Her eyes were already starting to
deepen with black circles.
Knowing that at least a half-dozen guns were closing in
on them, Katz shoved through the door and raised the .40-
caliber pistol. His first pair of rounds smashed into the face
of the man who'd fired the LAW, driving the corpse back-
ward in a stumbling dance of death.
Sirens screamed around them, echoing over the confu-
sion coveting the street. From the sound of them, they were
closing in fast. Behind them, the Chevy van struggled to
get past the burning length of the bus. The flames had
spread quickly, twisting through the interior of the vehicle.
A motorcyclist roared toward the Israeli, the black hel-
met and darkened face shield masking the biker's features.
"Get out of the car," Katz commanded. With the burst
he'd fired at the federal cops to get them down and out of
harm's way, he knew they were listed among the enemy.
The diplomatic plates on the limousine wouldn't give them
a moment's pause.
The van wrenched free of the burning bus, losing its
bumper and most of the grille in the process.
Katz lifted the pistol, targeted the motorcycle's front tire
and squeezed the trigger.
Immediately in response, the motorcycle tire deflated,
one of the bullets shearing through the tim and warping it.
The cyclist tumbled free and crashed against a stalled
phone-repair truck.
"Yakov, over here!" The voice was familiar, and in He-
brew.
Katz glanced across the street and saw a Yellow Cab
with its off-duty sign in place backing along the sidewalk
toward the wrecked limousine. The driver was a gray-
bearded man with a checked beret.
"This way, my friend." The cabbie waved enthusiasti-




cally, then brought out a full-size Uzi and hosed the front
of the Chevy van. Already weakened by the collision with
the bus, the van's windshield caved in under the fresh as-
sault. The 9 mm parabellum rounds skated around the edges
of the bulletproof glass and into the two men in the bucket
seats.
Katz helped Rikki out of the limousine and urged her
toward the cab.
"He is with you.9" Hwan asked.
The Israeli gave her a grim nod. "You weren't the only
one with a backup plan." He covered the two women's
retreat toward the cab, then took the shotgun seat.
The cabbie jerked the transmission into gear and burned
robber leaving the scene. The second motorcyclist gave
pursuit, riding double once more. The passenger worked
with a LAW, popping it open to full extension.
Katz twisted in the seat and struggled to bring the pistol
to bear. "Tobias."
"I see him, my friend." The driver cut across the street
sharply, cutting in close behind a milk truck. Under his
breath, he said an unending prayer but maintained a death
grip on the steering wheel.
Unable to fire without fear of hitting innocents, Katz
swore quietly. Behind the motorcycle, two prowl cars made
their way through the hellground. With a surge of power,
the bike closed the gap to twenty yards. It would be an
almost point-blank shot with the LAW.
"Look out!" Rikki screamed from the backseat.
"I see them," Tobias said, then cut the wheel hard right,
causing the tires to shriek with renewed intensity.
Three police cruisers slammed into position as a barri-
cade that covered most of Independence Avenue where it
intersected with Third Street. Police officers jumped out of

the rocking cars and took up defensive positions on the
other side.
Tobias didn't hesitate, his foot heavy on the accelerator.
He aimed the taxi at the space between the third car and
the street comer.
Katz braced himself, riding out the shock as the taxi
grazed the police cat's front bumper, then sped on. At least
two bursts of shotgun pellets slammed against the side of
the cab as it passed.
The motorcyclist wasn't so lucky. Evidently he'd seen
the blockade late and made a futile effort to turn. The
wheels lost traction, and man and machine went over the
car in a confused tangle of flesh and metal. Triggered by
the impact against the pavement, the LAW spit out its
deadly warhead. White smoke trailed the charge until it
slammed into the second story of a building on the comer
and exploded.
Brick, glass and mortar showered on the street, thudding
across the speeding taxi. Rubble under the tires made the
vehicle slew out of control for a moment. Tobias clung
steadfastly to the wheel and brought it once more under
control. He accelerated again, streaking down Indepen-
dence Avenue.
Katz turned in his seat and looked at Hwan. "I thought
those people were after me. I was wrong."
"If they'd known who you were, they would have
wanted you, as well." Hwan put the MAC-10 between her
feet, then reached into her purse for a cigarette, paying no
heed to the traffic fleeing from the taxi's approach. "Are
we going to dump this car?"
"No." Katz lighted her cigarette, then fired up one of
his own.
"The police will have a helicopter in the air," Hwan
argued. "They can spot us at any moment."




"True, but they will be unable to stop us before we get
where we're going."
"And where is that?"
"The Israeli embassy. Diplomatic immunity will be ex-
ercised for us."
Raising arched eyebrows, Hwan said, "They know about
me? Who I am?" "Yes."
"And they're going to let me enter?"
Katz nodded.
"How amusing."
"You won't, of course, be allowed free run of the build-
ing."
"Naturally."
Tobias handed back a handkerchiefi "For the girl." He
didn't take his eyes from the street.
Katz passed the cloth back to Rikki, who pressed it to
her head to staunch the blood flow.
"There'll also be medical help on hand, Ms. Hwan,"
Tobias said, "should you want it."
"Am I and my associates guaranteed our freedom?" the
woman asked.
Tobias looked into the rearview mirror. "Without ques-
tion, Ms. Hwan."
"And you are?"
"Someone who can make that promise, I assure you."
She looked at Katz.
The Stony Man tactical adviser nodded. Tobias was very
near the top of the Israeli Intelligence operation based in
Washington.
"What do you want to know?" Hwan asked.
"The people I work with feel that the North Korean gov-
ernment has contracted a cybernetics specialist to manage
some of the current crisis," Katz said.

"It's true."
"Do you know who?"
"No."
Katz studied the woman. He'd known her off and on for
the past thirteen years. Chunae Hwan was notorious in in-
telligence circles, clever, inventive and never surrendering
a morsel of information without getting something in
exchange. She also lied extremely well, but without any-
thing to go on, he couldn't challenge her. "What do you
know about this person?"
"He's very good," she replied without hesitation. "And
I understand he owns his own companies. He didn't nec-
essarily take the job for the North Korean government for
the money."
"Then why?"
"My people aren't certain."
Katz nodded, turning events around in his mind. Usually
Hwan stayed in the field, playing her part near the heat of
the action. For her to be in the United States meant that
someone figured some of the important action was here,
not in North Korea. He decided to play an ace. "My people
discovered the base in the Catskill Mountains." "Then you're moving very quickly on this."
"Is that what you're here for?" Katz asked. "The net-
work this man has in place here?" "To a degree."
Katz felt that was as honest as the answer was going to
get. "Is this man an American?"
"We don't think so," the Chinese agent replied. "My
sources indicate he's from somewhere in Southeast Asia."
"Japanese?"
"Possibly," Hwan admitted. "Given the computer an-
gle, that seems like a natural assumption. But what Japa-




nese would intentionally place so much destructive power
into the hands of an enemy?"
For the moment, Katz let that line of questioning go.
Other matters were pressing. By now Bolan, Hawkins and
Encizo should have been in the air with Grimaldi, looking
for their target.
"Do you know where the SEALs are being held?" he
asked.
"Perhaps. Do you have a map?"
From the inside pocket of his jacket, Katz took the one
he'd brought with him.
Hwan unfolded it and studied it briefly. "There's a small
town, part fishing village and part military base, called
Nampo."
"I'm familiar with it," Katz said. Price had already men-
tioned it as a possibility.
"They have a portable base there," Hwan said. "It went
up only a few days ago. We managed to get pictures of it
with one of our satellites after hearing rumors about its
existence. Unfortunately the satellite soon after became
dysfunctional, and we were unable to verify what it was or
if it remained in place. A small ground team was sent in
two days ago. They were never heard from again."
"How did you know about the existence of the network
in America?"
"We have spent some time developing other leads."
"And no mention of the man responsible?"
"Not yet."
For the moment, Katz chose to believe her. "You know
what the SEAL team was there to discover?" "Yes."
Katz didn't ask her how she knew, whether it was from
spies that had been watching American Intelligence circles,

or from a more domestic angle. "Do the North Koreans
have access to fissionable materials?"
"That," Hwan said, "I can't discuss with you."
Katz nodded, then looked at Tobias. The car was rock-
eting over the curving Buffalo Bridge at Q Street. A police
helicopter was visible in the sky now, and at least two
police cars were strung out in traffic behind them, strug-
gling valiantly to close the distance. "Do you have a phone
I can use?"
The driver gestured toward the mobile phone as he made
the hard left onto Twenty-third Street.
Katz placed his call, using one of the cutout numbers he
had for Stony Man Farm. He looked at Hwan. "I'll need
exact coordinates on that portable base."

BARBARA PRICE STUDIED the wall at the other end of the
computer room. News reports were still circulating about
the captured SEALs and their possible fates. There wasn't
much in the way of information, only sensationalism and
the blood lust of media personalities seeking to improve
their careers or ratings.
Personally the mission controller had never liked the
limelight. She glanced at Kurtzman's desk. Bolan and his
team were twenty minutes out from Nampo, circling in
from Korea Bay. As yet, the North Koreans hadn't reacted
with any hostile moves, though satellite scans revealed that
the air base in Pyongyang was scrambling for possible
launch.
Kurtzman was managing the computer spoofing of the
North Korean satellites himself. Price could tell the big man
was stressed by the operation by the set of his shoulders.
"Problems?" ~he asked, stepping closer.
"No. As far as th~ North Koreans know, they're looking
at empty space out there." Kurtzman tapped the keyboard,




bringing up other information on the trio of screens. "But
I can't help wondering if the guy running the show over
there is tied into other satellites I don't know about."
"It's a risk we have to take."
One of the phones on the desk rang and Price picked it
up.
"I have coordinates," Yakov Katzenelenbogen said
without preamble.
"Where?" Price asked, reaching down to activate the
speakerphone.
The Israeli gave the location in degrees and minutes.
"Nampo," Kurtzman confirmed. "A little to the south-
west, just off the coast." The area exploded into view on
one of the computer monitors.
"How definite is this?" Price asked.
"My friend is with Chinese Intelligence. They've made
discreet inquiries into the matter. They turned up a portable
base in that area."
"Why didn't American Intelligence?"
"Perhaps," Katz said, "we weren't looking for the same
things they were."
Price considered that. "Do they know if the North Ko-
reans have the fissionable materials?"
"That can't be confirmed. One other thing," Katz con-
tinued. "There's a chance we can get a message in to the
SEALs. Do you want to try?"
"Yes," Price said. "Can you do it in the next twenty
minutes?"
Muffled conversation sounded for a moment, mixed in
with the scream of police sirens, then the Israeli came back
on the line. "I'm told that we can."
"Let's go for it," Price said. When Katz said goodbye,
she broke the connection.
"The Chinese," Kurtzman said. "We receive word that

they've lost a shipment of nuclear material, but the diplo-
matic channels take a pass on coming clean about the mat-
ter. However, they've evidently fielded some kind of team
into the area to recover or destroy them."
"Raise Mack," the mission controller said, "and inform
him. I'll call Hal."
Before she could make the call, Carmen Delahunt called
for her attention. "I've tracked down the Graceful Mu
Lag/."
"What is it?" Price asked.
"A merchant mariner based in Singapore," Delahunt an-
swered, referencing the information she had on her com-
puter screen. "I broke into the maritime-records office in
the capital city and found the man Hal noticed in the stills."
Price crossed over to Delahunt. "Show me."
"His name is Eliot Thompldns," Delahunt said as she
tapped her keyboard. "He's forty-six years old. Once an
American citizen, but he revoked that and became a citizen
of Singapore in the late eighties. He was fleeing arrest in
relation to a second-degree-murder investigation in Mobile,
Alabama."
"What was the disposition of the case?"
Delahunt opened another window and quickly scanned
the information. "A witness turned up twenty-one months
later and gave a deposition that Thompkins acted only in
self-defense."
"Who gave the testimony?" Price was intrigued, but she
couldn't have said why, except that the way the matter was
closed was too neat and bothered her on a subliminal plane.
"Another seaman. Brian Compton. Said he was on a
long haul and didn*t make it back to the States for months.
The night the man was stabbed by Thompkins, the last he
heard the man was going to make it. His story corroborates
the evidence."




Price didn't want to let it go. "Is Compton somewhere
in your records?"
After a few seconds of checking, Delahunt confirmed the
man's employment. "He's listed as being part of the crew
aboard the Southern Star, also owned by the Orang Laut
Corporation."
"Orang Laut Corporation?" Hunt Wethers asked from
across the room. "While looking for blueprints and build-
ing permits, I turned up that name in the list of holding
companies on the piece of real estate in the Catskills. Ac-
cording to the documentation I've been able to trace, Orang
Laut Corporation had the last clear title to the place. They
were using it as a place of rest and recreation for corporate
guests before selling it to Circus Hats."
Price followed the slender thread she'd been given. "Dig
up whatever you can on Orang Laut Corporation. Primarily
investors in the past five or ten years."
Wethers adjusted his pipe and nodded. "Are you think-
ing maybe the Catskills acquisition was pieced off on pa-
per, but never really changed hands?" "I'd like to know."
"I'm on it." Wethers tumed back to his console.
Price glanced back up at Kurtzman. "Mack?"
The big cybernetics expert frowned. "Not yet. I'm hav-
ing problems getting the com link on-line."
Checking her watch, Price found the window of oppor-
tunity to contact the team closing quickly now. She
addressed Delahunt. "Run the rest of the pictures we have
from the assassination teams who tried to take down Mack,
T.J. and Rafael."
"I will." Delahunt turned to the task.
"Barb." The pitch in Akira Tokaido's voice was pure
excitement. "Those files we swiped during Able Team's
raid? I'm in." His hands darted over his keyboard.

"What have you got?" Price asked.
"Telemetry, linkups on-line, a piggyback I'm sure the
guy who put that transmission together didn't know about
and a back door into this system by someone who really
knew what he or she was doing." On the screen, streams
of data chains sped by.
"Is there anything useful?"
"As far as getting a copy of the transmission?" Tokaido
asked, his attention squarely on the computer interface.
"I'm not sure. I may be able to reconstruct part of it. But
this may interest you a little more." "Tell me."
"When that transmission was sent, someone was listen-
ing in. And I found him." "Where?"
"Marine recruiting office down in San Juan, Puerto
Rico." Tokaido glanced at her. "Interesting, no?"
"Yes," Price said. "Follow up on it. Get me an ID if
you can, or at least narrow down the field." "Can do."
Returning to Kurtzman's side, Price said, "You heard?"
The big man nodded. "Man, whoever this guy is that's
pulling the strings for the North Korean government, he's
tied in tight as a tick to the intelligence community. If he's
covered his tracks well, he's going to be hard to find."
"I know. What about the call to Mack?"
"I think I've got the bugs worked out. Either they're
experiencing some kind of electrical disturbance where they
are, or someone's trying to jam us."
"Then play it close to the vest."
"I am."
"I'm sending Able into Puerto Rico to follow up on what
Akira turned up. When you get the chance, we're going to
need dossiers and covers for them. Something out of the


Justice Department regarding theft of federal property. Get
Lyons an NIS cover, in case we have to go through military
channels to get whoever's responsible." "No problem."
Price put her call through to Brognola and the President,
quickly bringing them up-to-date on everything they'd
worked out, including the coordinates forwarded by Katz.
"Have you worked out the exfiltration?" Brognola asked
when she'd fnished.
"If everything goes as planned and they're able to get
the SEALs out damn quick," Price replied, "Jack will be
standing by to pick them up. Any proof of the fissionables,
Mack and Phoenix will decide whether they can stay in-
country to pursue, then let us know."
"What about McCarter and his group?"
"As soon as they touch down in Seoul, I'm routing them
up to the Nampo region. They can assist in the search-and-
destroy leg of the mission, or aid in the exfiltration if things
get balled up."
"Let me know."
After agreeing, Price broke the connection, listening to
Kurtzman tell her that he had Bolan on-line. "We have a
possible target for you," she said. "Katz got some Intel we
didn't have access to." She explained about the Chinese
involvement, and the possibility that there was a unit on
the ground in the vicinity.
"Sounds like we could have a conflict of interest," Bo~
lan said. His words were broken up by static, making them
hard to understand.
"Even so," Price replied, "our mission remains the
same. We're working on getting a satellite connection in
that area. Once we have it, we can patch more information
to you, as well as keeping the communications link going
between your team, Jack and Stony Base."

Whatever comment Bolan might have made was lost in
a sudden blast of static. Working frantically, Kurtzman
tried to bring the frequency back.
Price checked her watch. The Osprey would be within
striking distance within minutes. She watched the tracking
beacon on one of the computer monitors as the converti-
plane swooped back in toward the coastline, near to vio-
lating North Korean airspace.
It was nothing short of an act of war.
"I can't get them back," Kurtzman said, but he contin-
ued to try.
A cold feeling spread inside Price's stomach. The oper-
ation still revolved around the abilities of the men who'd
been put into the play, but they hadn't counted on them
being cut off from Intel support. She was deaf, dumb and
blind to whatever they might be facing, with no way to
help them.
"Wait," Kurtzman said, "I've got something coming
from Mack's board."
A ripple passed through the central monitor, then the
picture jumped. When it settled, iridescent green letters
shaped out of tiny skulls scrambled into order and formed
words across the ebony background: "They're about to be-
come history."
"Danunit." Price turned her attention to the monitor car-
rying the Osprey's tracking beacon. Without warning, the
signal faded from view, followed by the background.
"I'm cut out," Kurtzman said in a stunned voice. "They
took the whole loop away."




CHAPTER ELEVEN

North Korean Airspace

"We're about a heartbeat away from a hell of a lot of
trouble," Jack Grimaidi said. "Any farther and we become
the start of another international incident. Do we go, or do
we break it off?."
"We go," Mack Bolan answered, closing up the dead
computer. Since the loss of communication with Stony Man
Farm, there'd been no activity on the screen or the cellular
phone line. "Whatever element of surprise we have left,
that's what we'll go with." He stood up and shoved the
notebook PC into his pack.
Hawkins and Encizo were already back by the Osprey's
door, ready to deploy. Like Bolan, they were dressed in
skintight nightsuits and had used black camou greasepaint
to tiger-stripe their features. Black watchcaps covered their
heads. They carded heavy armament, and a large bundle
was between them, outfitted with a cargo parachute.
"Shift over to the local frequency we're going to use for
ground operations," Bolan instructed. He slipped on his
parachute. "For the moment, we've lost Stony Base.
Jack?"
"Yeah?"
"You're on radio silence standing by."

"You got it." Grimaldi made an adjustment to the Os-
prey's heading.
Bolan felt the sudden lightness in the pit of his stomach
that told him they were going down at a sharper descent.
He nodded to Hawkins, then helped roll the door open. The
wind blasted into the transport area. The Executioner pulled
on a pair of bubble goggles to protect his eyes.
"Company," Grimaldi warned. "Radar's picking up two
bogeys streaking toward us. I figure them to be MiG-29s
from Pyongyang. We're gonna be cutting this close."
Bolan gazed out across the night sky, peering down into
the jungle below. They were running out of water, putting
Korea Bay behind them, the coastline closing fast, lined
with trees and craggy rock. "When we make the jump, you
turn and bum, get back to safe airspace as quick as you
can."
A trio of F/A-18A Hornets from the USS Thomas Paine
aircraft cartier anchored off the coast of Seoul had been
deployed on a "routine" flyby at the same time the Osprey
crossed over into North Korean territory. The Joint Chiefs
of Staff had advised the President that they didn't believe
the Communist forces would be ready to go on the offen-
sive at the time.
Grimaldi dropped more altitude. "You guys are going in
at five hundred feet. No time for any fancy moves. One
minute coming up, and--mark."
Bolan grabbed one side of the bundle. With their cover
blown, and no hope of a covert entry into the country, the
gear might not make it into the hands of the men it was
intended for, but the soldier couldn't pass up the chance.
"Automatic chute release is set for 350 feet," Hawkins
said. "It'll come down hard, but it should be in one piece
when it gets there."




"Thirty seconds," Grimaldi called out. "Fifteen. Ten.
Go, go, go!"
Muscles straining, Bolan shoved the bundle out the door.
It dropped immediately, seeming to fall through the black
sky surrounding them. Encizo followed it, spreading into a
starfish pattern immediately.
Bolan jumped next, not more than a heartbeat behind,
with Hawkins in his wake. He smoothed back his sleeve to
better see the altimeter on his wrist. Twisting in the air, he
put the black planes of Korea Bay at his feet, then scanned
the terrain coming up at him so rapidly. The wind numbed
his face. He tapped the transmit button on his headset.
"Rafe?"
"Yes."
"You've got the package. T.J. and I will establish perim-
eters once we're on the ground." "Roger."
At 350 feet, the chute billowed up from the cargo bundle,
spreading out a huge black mushroom topped by a smaller
one that eclipsed a large part of the terrain.
Bolan glanced up at the Osprey, only to find Grimaldi
still holding the same heading. He tapped the transmit but-
ton. "G-Force."
"I know what you're going to say, buddy," the pilot's
grim voice came back. "But I can't zip out of here and
leave you guys with your asses hanging out. Could be I'll
just get the bum's rush out of here, no harm done. I do a
little screaming about instrument malfunction, maybe
they'll buy it."
"It's too late," Hawkins commented quietly. "Look
northeast."
Bolan did, and saw the fiery contrails of the approaching
MiG-29s scarring the sky. Operating at five times the speed

of the Osprey, there was nowhere to run, and no time to
do it in.
Set to wam of the three-hundred-foot ceiling on the
jump, the altimeter on Bolan's wrist vibrated. He pulled the
rip cord, and the trapped echo of the chute cracking open
blotted out the noise of the jet engines shooting through
the sound barrier.
Then there was no time to think about anything other
than personal survival, Low-altitude, low-opening jumps
were often hazardous, before the factors of night and thick
jungle terrain were added in. The Executioner's landing
was a flurry of whipping branches, painful thuds and the
final slamming impact of hitting the uneven ground.
He keyed the headset. "Rare, T.J."
"Standing," Hawkins called out.
"Bruised," Encizo said, "but intact."
"Get the gear stored," Bolan ordered. "T.J., you've got
the north. I'll cover the east." He set out at an easy jog
despite the heavy load of equipment he carried. In seconds
a fine sheen of perspiration covered him under the armor
and combat harness.
The staccato bangs of 23 mm cannon fire overhead told
him that Grimaldi was being given no quarter. Slinging his
AK-47, he climbed the largest tree he could find, working
his boot soles deep into the bark to gain purchase. His
gloves protected his hands.
Twenty feet up, he hunkered down beside the bole of
the tree so it would camouflage his presence. Branches
thrust up at different angles, but he had a field of view that
showed the Osprey.
The MiG-29s easily outraced the Osprey, blowing by it
in a crisscross of cannon fire that poked orange-white bursts
of color against the black velvet sky. They were only warn-




ing shots, though. At that range, Bolan knew they'd missed
on purpose.
"Jack," he said into the throat mike.
"Busy," Grimaldi called back. "You guys stay hard
down there, get those boys home. Me, I got some business
here that's not finished. Those MiGs are geared for a run-
ning prey, not me."
As Bolan watched, Grimaldi brought the Osprey around,
as if heading for the coastline. More cannon fire blasted the
air in front of him, cutting off his retreat. The Osprey pulled
up sharply, climbing toward the thin silver of moon.
For a moment, it looked as if Grimaldi were surrender-
ing. However, when the plane reached the apex of its climb,
the propellers rotated into helicopter position again, freez-
ing it in place.
Overconfident, the MiGs flew in, but it was apparent that
their need for speed to stay aloft wasn't going to permit
them to remain with the Osprey. Without warning, Gri-
maldi opened up the convertiplane's M-61 A-1 Vulcan ro-
tary-barrel 20 mm cannon. His aim was dead-on, and the
explosive rounds slapped the closest MiG out of the air in
a tangle of flaming metal. Armament aboard made two
more explosions before the wreck hit the ground nearly five
hundred yards from Bolan's position.
The second MiG had already committed to a flyby and
couldn't heel around fast enough to target the stationary
Osprey. The air-to-air heat-seekers carried by the North Ko-
rean fighter jet would prove almost useless if fired away
from the Osprey. The missile's sensors were designed to
pick up the heat from jet engines and vector in on them.
The Osprey didn't give off enough of a heat signature to
bring the missiles back around in a 180-degree turn.
Bolan knew that Grimaldi had banked on the MiG still
being in range for a few seconds before it could renegotiate

the attack. The Osprey came around, hardly losing any of
its altitude as it hovered.
The MiG twisted in a vicious arc as the pilot realized the
trouble he was in. Cannon fire from Grimaldi's 20 mm
cannon chopped into the contrail behind it, then quickly
closed the distance and hammered the fighter jet to fiery
pieces.
"Son of a bitch," Hawkins said with quiet enthusiasm
over the frequency. "That is one nervy, wily bastard."
Movement about thirty yards out alerted Bolan. The Ex-
ecutioner drew back into the tree to drape the shadows
more tightly about him. He shrugged the AK-47 off his
shoulder. With the incursion into North Korean territory,
they'd chosen Communist weapons commonly used on that
side of the DMZ, but they'd outfitted the rifles with flash-
hiders and good-quality nightscopes that shouldn't be too
closely questioned if found.
He stripped off the bubble goggles and peered through
the AK's nightscope. Two seconds clicked by, and he was
aware of Grimaldi's attempt to get back onto an escape
course into Korea Bay.
The movement drew his eye, and he identified the North
Korean soldier stealthily approaching the drop site. The
warrior's finger tightened on the assault rifle's trigger.
Abruptly the night flared with renewed destruction that
washed away the dark and stabbed down the nightscope,
blinding the Executioner. He backed off, blinking, trying
to restore his night vision.
Antiaircraft fire from at least three pieces of field artillery
dotted the airspace around the Osprey in orange bursts
"They had us pegged from the git-go," Hawkins rasped.
"We've got ground company on the move, too."
Gunfire broke out, sporadic at first, then quickly gathered
intensity.




"Rafe," Bolan called over the headset.
"I'm done," Encizo said. "Gear's secured."
"Good. Let's see if we can get some distance in here."
Lifting the AK-47, the Executioner looked through the
scope while the thunder of the antiaircraft fire continued to
rumble in a deadly drumbeat. He'd lost Grimaldi and didn't
know if the pilot had made it out.
Dropping the crosshairs of the nightscope over his target,
Bolan stroked the trigger twice. The heavy 7.62 mm rounds
cored through the North Korean soldier's head and drove
him down.
Before Bolan could lock onto the second soldier he'd
spotted, a barrage of autofire ripped into the tree, severing
branches and driving him back. As splinters ripped into his
face, he knew his position had been compromised. He slung
the rifle over his shoulder, barrel down, and leaped for a
lower branch that looked thick enough to support the com-
bined weight of his body and the equipment.
His gloves shredded the bark and almost slipped. Then
he tightened his grip and got control over his fall. High-
intensity lights raked the tree above him, illuminating the
area he'd just left. Bullets ricocheted haphazardly around
him. At least two of them thudded against his body armor.
A soldier with a flashlight taped to his assault rifle darted
out of hiding at the foot of the tree and yelled a warning
to the others, letting them know he was there. The flashlight
beam arced across Bolan's eyes as he found temporary
footing.
He slipped the 9 mm Makarov pistol from the counter-
terrorist drop holster on his right thigh and fired from the
point. His first round took the man in the throat, knocking
him off balance. Fired immediately afterward, taking the
resulting rise into consideration, the second round blasted
through the North Korean's skull just above his right eye.

The flashlight beam dropped into the foliage and formed
an elongated bubble of light trapped in the brush.
A bullet struck the branch Bolan held, causing it to vi-
brate in his grip. He stepped off the branch and dropped
the remaining eight feet, going to ground immediately.
More autofire cut the grass over his head.
The Executioner moved, staying low. The operation had
gone from rescue attempt to a fight for survival.

THE CAGE WAS primarily made out of aged bamboo that
hadn't given under any amount of pushing, prying or
pounding. Commander James Conrad had discovered that
during his hours-long incarceration. It was further fortified
by steel hardware that had been put together with no play.
Conrad sat because there wasn't room to stand. The cage
topped out at five feet. His elbows rested on his knees, and
his vision had been blurry for the past hour from fatigue
and lack of sleep. When he saw the shadow slip to the side
of the cage, at first he thought he was hallucinafing.
Then Dwayne Sculnik twitched slightly, moving from
sleep to a ready position in the space of a drawn breath.
And Conrad knew he hadn't imagined the movement.
In the handful of hours since their capture and delivery
to the campsite at Nampo, the SEAL commander had seen
six different guards covering the bamboo prison. The North
Koreans had been enthusiastic about ridiculing the Ameri-
cans, going so far as to poke sharpened sticks between the
bars and draw blood. That had ended, though, when Sculnik
had taken a stick away from a soldier who'd gotten too
brave, then rammed it into the guy's eye. It hadn't killed
the soldier, but respect had been earned.
The North Korean general had appeared almost instantly,
ordering his men not to fire, threatening the first man who




did with his life. Conrad understood Korean a bit, but
hadn't let on.
The shadow moved again, drawing nearer, staying close
to the ground.
Conrad remained in his slumped position. Years of work-
ing with the men in his team and others like them let him
know all of them except Thayler were alert. Seven men
remained from his ten-man team. Two had died in the fire-
fight, and Ensign Hamilton had been killed following an
earlier attempt to escape. The North Koreans had overcome
the SEALs by sheer numbers, losing men in the process,
but had fought to keep them alive. Hamilton had been cho-
sen for execution to break their spirit.
All it did was leave six very determined men behind in
a bamboo cage. Thayler was out of it, in shock now with
the loss of blood. Conrad didn't think he'd make it until
dawn.
"One man," Sculnik said in a hoarse whisper that didn't
carry outside the cage.
The shadow stopped moving ten feet out. "Americans,"
the accented voice said in English. "You are awake?"
"Chinese," Kennedy said. Part of his specialty was lan-
guages, and recognizing accents was an acquired talent.
Conrad's interest was piqued. He knew for a fact that
Americans were working with the North Koreans, and one
of the ramors his team had been told was that the fission-
able materials had come from China.
He raised his head and whispered, "What do you want?"
"I carry a message," the shadow whispered back.
"There will be a rescue attempt by your people tonight.
Stay ready to move." Without another word, the man with-
drew.
"Dwayne," Conrad said.
"Guy's history," Sculnik said in a normal tone. He sat

up and looked at Conrad. The rest of the team sat up, as
well, except for Thayler, who was shaking from fever de-
spite the fact Conrad and the others had covered him with
their shirts to keep him warm. "So what do we do?"
Conrad looked around at the jungle.
"Could be a setup," Winters said in his Texas drawl.
"Bastards seem to like teasing a man as much as a fan
dancer working a convention of out-of-state Baptist preach-
ers."
Suddenly the scream of jet engines rent the air overhead.
Conrad barely scanned the afterburners on the MiGs before
they were gone. He shifted, moving to get the circulation
going again.
"We get ready," he said. "Then we see what happens."
It seemed like minutes, but only seconds passed before
the first of the explosions pierced the night.
A quartet of North Korean soldiers sprinted out to cover
the bamboo cage. One of the pock-faced corporals shone a
flashlight through the bars and made a quick head count
while the explosions continued.
"I notice they didn't send One-Eye out here to do the
count," Sculnik said.
A look of pure hatred crossed the corporal's face, but he
wisely stayed out of reach of the cage. "You expecting
rescue, you can forget it. All the men who come for you,
they die."
As Conrad scanned the sky, he saw one of the MiGs
shatter into a thousand pieces. "Not without paying in
blood," he replied.
The corporal backed his men off and spoke rapidly into
his walkie-talkie.
"Confirming that we're still all here," Kennedy said.
Conrad nodded; he'd understood that much. He glanced




around. The team was awake and alert. They'd wait, then
if an opportunity presented itself, they'd make the most of
it.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Working the controls of the Osprey through a combined
effort of instinct and skill, Jack Grimaldi knew when time
had run out on his play. The convertiplane shuddered like
someone stricken with palsy when the antiaircraft shell took
it in the tail section.
Control went to hell in the same flash of light and thun-
der that shot up from the rear of the Osprey.
"Come on, baby," Grimaldi coaxed, working the yoke,
"you may be dying, but you ain't dead yet. Not by a long
shot."
The altimeter needle whirled as he lost altitude. The sav-
ing grace was that the drop took him out of range for the
antiaircraft gunners. The downside, though, was the terrain
that rushed up at him.
He wasn't long on options. Dropping into Korea Bay,
supposing he survived the impact against the water and the
subsequent undertow as the Osprey went down, was going
to make him an easy target.
Working the controls as the convertiplane whirled like a
dervish, he somehow managed to keep fight side up. He
cut the power to the twin props and hoped their continued
gyrations would keep the fall from being too disastrous. In
theory, with the props cut, they should have slowed his fall
the same way the main rotor did on a helicopter.




But there were two of them not working well together,
and the tail section had been shot to hell.
Instead of dropping straight down the way a helicopter
did, the Osprey went sideways. The stubby right wing
dipped into a wall of trees first. On impact, the prop shat-
tered into deadly shards that pierced the convertiplane's
body and Plexiglas windows.
Grimaldi felt an instant kiss of hot metal against his right
temple, then the warm glow of blood spreading down the
side of his face. Realizing there was absolutely no control
left, he took shelter as best as he could. His seat-belt straps
bit into him as the Osprey crashed through the trees and
came to a sudden jerking stop.
For a moment, the pilot was stunned, the breath driven
from his body. The odor of fuel flooded through the cabin
and pushed the panic buttons on his survival instinct despite
his dazed state.
When he tried to get out of the seat harness, he discov-
ered the locks had been jammed. Reaching into his pocket,
he unfolded a Leatherman Multi-Tool and raked the sharp
knife blade across the straps, which parted easily.
Grimaldi stood uncertainly, pain throbbing across the
side of his head. He put the tool away and drew the Colt
.45 Government Model pistol from the military holster on
his right hip. His armament hadn't been converted to Soviet
standards. He hadn't been planning on getting shot down,
but even if he had, there was no denying the Osprey as an
American craft.
Deniability was still a factor, though. The mission
couldn't be compromised.
Gfimaldi stumbled toward the back of the convertiplane
and found the side door had buckled from the impact and
was ajar. The last quarter of the Osprey had been sheared
away unevenly by antiaircraft fire.

Pushing himself through the door, he went down hard,
landing on his face as a wave of dizziness and nausea swept
over him, drowning his senses. He wasn't sure how long
he lay there, but as soon as a semblance of consciousness
returned to him, he shoved himself to his feet and managed
a determined stagger. The jungle was only a few yards
away, and he knew how to lose himself in it.
Twin shadows darted in front of him and spoke in what
he assumed was Korean, since it was a foreign language
and he was in that country. The words sounded command-
ing, coming from both shadows.
Grimaldi drew the .45 and leveled it before him. Before
he could squeeze the trigger, though, something exploded
at the back of his head, and his faltering senses faded en-
tirely.

A BURST OF AUTOFIRE rattled the branches over Bolan's
head and stripped bark from the trunk. He moved instantly,
throwing himself in a headlong dive for cover behind a
loose arrangement of boulders. Bullets whined off the flat
planes of the rocks.
Hunkered down behind the boulders, Bolan knew he'd
be overrun in seconds if he tried to hold the position. Pluck-
ing a rocket grenade from his combat harness, he shoved
it into the BG-15 launcher clipped underneath the AK-47.
The quadrant sights were on the side, and he brought them
to bear as he pulled the assault rifle into his cheek.
Aiming at the cluster of gunners firing at him, he stroked
the trigger.
The explosive struck the trees just above the North Ko-
rean soldiers' heads. Fragments from the antipersonnel gre-
nade riddied the men, killing most of them instantly.
Corpses flew outward from the blast site and remained un-
moving.




Two other soldiers tried to pull back to safety.
Giving no quarter, the Executioner snugged the assault
rifle's buttstock into his shoulder and fired a pair of rounds
into each man. Both of them dropped.
In motion again, moving easily through the jungle de-
spite the terrain, the Executioner tagged the headset. "T.J.
Rare."
"Here, Striker," Hawkins answered. The brief din of
AK-47 fire echoed over the frequency. "Go," Encizo said.
Bolan's feet crunched against the brush and dead
branches that littered the ground. Evidently the noise was
enough to alert a North Korean soldier taking cover behind
a tree. The guy spun, trying to come up from the ground,
raking his bayonet toward the Executioner's face.
Raising his assault rifle, Bolan blocked the thrust with
his weapon, then lifted his foot and kicked the man back.
He fired three times in quick succession, the heavy
7.62 mm rounds pinning the dead man to the ground.
"Go around to the east," Bolan called out over the fre-
quency. Grimaldi had gone down almost a thousand yards
away. "If they get us shoved over to the west of their
position, they'll force us out into the water."
"Roger," Encizo responded.
"Copy," Hawkins said.
Bolan veered more to the right, running hard. Perspira-
tion streaked him and soaked his clothing. The extra weight
of his equipment and body armor was grueling, and if it
had been daylight, he knew his pursuers could have trailed
him by the depressions his boots made in the soft ground.
From the way the convertiplane had gone down, the sol-
dier felt chances were good that Grimaldi was still alive.
Keeping him that way would be another matter.
Gradually the terrain started a gentle incline, then be-

came a hill. Bolan remembered it from the topographical
maps he'd studied of the target area. At first he'd planned
to stay away from the hill because it afforded a view over
the coastal area. Any attempt at ascending it could have
been spotted easily.
However, the ground pursuit was actively sweeping, not
staying in one area.
To the left, someone touched off a flare. The crimson
star flew into the night and hit its apex, then floated to the
ground slowly on a small parachute.
Crouching, eluding the red streamers of light, the Exe-
cutioner took a moment to scan the rest of the incline on
the hill. Less than forty yards away, just below the crest of
the ridge, three North Korean soldiers were finishing setting
up a .50-caliber machine gun.
As the dying embers of the flare faded away, Bolan lifted
the AK-47 and sighted his targets, working left to right. He
squeezed the trigger rapidly, the sound of his shots setting
off new patterns of autofire as the soldiers cut loose at
shadows.
The first two soldiers in the machine-gun nest went down
in rapid order. Diving behind the gun's tripod and the rocks
acting as a barrier, the third man swept the .50-cal around,
hammering rounds out across the foliage just down from
the hill.
Coolly the Executioner waited, listening to the death
song being woven around him, waiting for his shot. The
machine gun protected the man's head and shoulders at the
moment. Fifty-caliber rounds slammed into the tree trunk,
sending long, ragged white splinters flying.
Bolan looked through the nightscope as the soldlet's face
came into view. He squeezed. As he rode out the assault
rifle's recoil, he saw his target go down and backward, a
dark flower blossoming between the dead man's eyes.




Only a few of the nearest soldiers had figured out what
was going on. They fired at Bolan, charging up the hill.
Aware that he'd literally put himself between a hard
place and a rock, the Executioner pushed free of the tree
and sprinted for the machine-gun nest. Bullets dogged his
heels, tearing chunks of earth and blasting rocks into frag-
ments in his wake.
Diving into the protected area, Bolan yanked the corpses
out of the way and reached for the machine gun. As he
faced the oncoming wave of muzzle-flashes sprouting from
dark silhouettes, he tagged the headset transmitter. "Take
cover now!"
"Down!" Encizo called out, Hawkins echoing immedi-
ately.
Bolan unleashed the .50-caliber's full destructive power
at the charging silhouettes, brass casings flying in gleaming
trajectories all around him. He managed the ammunition
belts with his free hand as they fed out of the metal ammo
box.
The .50-caliber rounds chopped into the advancing wave
of soldiers from right to left. Gray smoke from the old
powder used in the ammunition curled in the still air at the
hillside. The line broke, made only a brief attempt at rees-
tablishing itself, then the soldiers dug themselves in.
Bolan managed to pick off two men who tried to fire at
him. Bullets thudded into the hill over his head and against
the rock in front of him. He ripped a pair of grenades from
his combat harness and armed them, then tossed the bombs
into knots of men he'd spotted. The grenades went off in
quick succession, briefly quieting the gunfire yammering in
response to his attack as dirt, foliage and bodies flew
through the air.
Seventy yards away and closing rapidly, the twin head-
lights of a jeep knifed across the battlezone. The engine

growled loudly, and the transmission whined as the four-
wheel drive struggled with the loose terrain. "Striker," Encizo called.
"I see it." Bolan reached for the machine gun and swung
it around, bringing it to bear on the vehicle.
"Seems to me," Hawkins said, "we could use that jeep
about now."
"Then get it done." Bolan aimed the machine gun de-
liberately, placing the sight blade into the center of the
driver's chest. He squeezed off a single round with exper-
tise.
Sixty yards out, the slug burst through the driver's chest
and tore his lungs to pieces. He was dead before he could
slump over the steering wheel. Out of control, the jeep
pulled hard left and bumped into a thick spruce tree, then
died. The two men aboard scrambled to take over the
wheel.
A renewed assault came from the North Korean soldiers
facing the hill. Evidently they'd made the mistake of be-
lieving Bolan had ran out of ammunition. With a long,
sweeping burst that put at least four men down, the Exe-
cutioner corrected that assumption.
Farther down the coastal plain, Encizo and Hawkins
made short work of the two soldiers who'd remained with
the jeep.
A warhead from a grenade launcher impacted the hillside
only a few feet over Bolan's head. A small avalanche of
dirt, grass, rock and brush rained over him, creating a cloud
of dust that choked him.
A quick glance into the metal ammo box beside the ma-
chine gun told him he was down to less than a hundred
rounds. He made the count, spacing them at targets. A brief
fusillade of bullets clawed a soldier from a tree forty yards




out, blasting the body free of the branches and dropping it
into plain sight.
"Striker," Hawkins called.
"Go."
"Cavalry's coming. So are reinforcements for the North
Koreans."
Bolan looked down the hill and spotted the jeep in mo-
tion. Hawkins manned the machine gun in back while En-
cizo took the wheel. "Don't approach the hill," the Exe-
cutioner advised. "I'm just about to leave. Make for the
Osprey and I'll see if i can catch up on a tangent over the
hill."
"You sure?" Encizo asked.
It would be a hard hump, and Bolan knew it. But he also
knew it was possible. "If I don't, we'll meet somewhere
else. Find out what you can about Jack."
The jeep broke off the approach and took a circular route
around the hill. Brief flare-ups occurred on either side of
them, but Hawkins more than met the challenge with the
deck-mounted machine gun.
Bolan fired through the last of the ammo belt in a solid
roll of thunder. Scooping up his assault rifle, and mapping
the terrain in his mind, he ran hard toward the probable
intersection point he had in mind.
He saw the jeep's headlights only seconds before the
grinding roar of the manual transmission reached his ears.
At a glance, he confirmed that he was ahead of Encizo and
Hawkins. His lungs bumed from the sustained effort, but
he held to the grueling pace. Without pause, he tagged the
headset. "I'm coming in."
"Come on," Encizo replied.
"Right side."
Hawkins wielded the deck-mounted machine gun with
grim efficiency, burning down a pair of snipers who'd

climbed trees. The tracers hammered the bodies from the
branches.
Stretching out hisstride, Bolan came out into the clearing
that probably passed as a road on most days: He leaned
forward and grabbed the jeep's windshield, then hauled
himself into the passenger seat.
"Keeping the jeep's not going to be an option," Bolan
said as he readied the AK-47.
Encizo nodded. The vehicle was hard to handle, the
wheels fighting every rut that had scarred the baked land.
"Company," Hawkins yelled. He threw out an arm to
point out the jeep that was rapidly taking up a flanking
action to their left.
Bolan slipped another rocket from his combat harness
and thrust it into the BG-15. Machine-gun fire from the
other vehicle ricocheted from the trees around them, and
dug divots from the ground in the twin pools of the jeep's
headlights.
Lining up his shot, waiting for a break in the treeline,
Bolan compensated for the jeep's rough ride, then fired the
rocket launcher. The warhead inscribed a slight arc that
bent to gravity only a little, then detonated just behind the
right front wheel.
The impact staggered the other vehicle, almost stopping
it in its tracks. Fiery fingers clawed out from under the
engine hood and quickly started licking at the windshield.
"They're out of it," Hawkins growled. "Engine's
tanked whether they know it or not."
Wisps of gray smoke trailed the jeep as it fell farther and
farther behind. Before it disappeared completely, Bolan saw
two soldiers get out of it and start running alongside, pass-
ing it easily.
In less than a minute, the Stony Man team was at the
Osprey's crash site. Encizo kept the headlights on full beam




while Hawkins swept the mounted searchlight over the im-
mediate vicinity. Spreading flames further lit up the area,
consuming brush and foliage now, as well as fuel and com-
bustibles from the convertiplane.
Bolan dismounted and moved ahead with the AK-47 at
the ready. Blistering heat blew over him as the wind
changed, warming the wet clothing pasted to him. The clos-
est he could get to the Osprey's cabin was inches less than
ten feet, but it was enough that he could confirm Grimaldi
wasn't inside.
Knowing Grimaldi would have carried one of the radio
headsets with him, the Executioner tried to buzz him over
the open frequency. There was no response. Aware that
pursuit was closing in, he returned to the jeep. Encizo and
Hawkins got back into the vehicle, as well. "Gone?" Hawkins asked.
"One way or the other," Bolan agreed. "Let's go,
Rafe."
Encizo put the jeep into gear and drove back into the
jungle, following a scarred trail that barely stood out
against the heavy foliage. They went north, toward Nampo
and the coordinates Stony Man Farm had given them for
the portable base.
With less than two miles behind them and no encounters
with ground troops, Hawkins pointed into the air. "Helo."
Three bright spots in the dark sky burned in a triangular
pattern that defined the aircraft. Slowly it approached their
heading.
"Stop the jeep," Bolan ordered. "We're on foot the rest
of the way." He leaped out of the vehicle, took out his
compass and found his bearings. Taking a straight course
to Nampo wouldn't be advisable, so he plotted a trek that
would bring them to the camp from the east, giving them
plenty of room to maneuver if things didn't work out.

Hawkins lifted the hood on the jeep for a moment and
worked industriously. Less than a minute later, he pulled
back, then slammed down the hood. A grin twisted his lips.
"C-4. A little surprise for the soldiers who don't want to
walk anymore. Should confuse things for a while, too."
Bolan nodded and they moved out, grimly aware of how
the odds had shifted against them. Shutting out the com-
puter link from the Farm hadn't been an easy piece of work.
Whoever was doing the counterintelligence work for the
North Koreans was good, and had an impressive array of
resources.
The Executioner couldn't help feeling that there was a
hidden agenda in the works, as well. ff the counterintelli-
gence person had access to as much as was evident, there
was no reason to work exclusively for the North Koreans.
At least, not on the surface. The real stakes in the deadly
game weren't showing. Bolan was pretty convinced of that.
A double-cross was in the works, and when it was discov-
ered, all hell was going to break loose.
He and the two Phoenix Force commandos moved out
at a distance-eating jog. Jack Grimaldi had joined the list
of lives hanging in the balance, and the soldier was grimly
aware the rescue effort was running on borrowed time
against an unknown deadline.




CHAPTER THIRTEEN

San Juan, Puerto Rico

Seated in the copilot's seat in the North American Rockwell
Sabreliner, Carl Lyons watched the designated runway at
San Juan International Airport come rushing toward him.
Charlie Mott glided the jet to the ground, made a turn
and headed back to the jet-debarkation area. He glanced
out the window as he stripped off his headgear. "Looks
like you're being picked up at the door, guy."
Lyons leaned across and looked out the window, as well.
Standing near the gate entrance were two men in light-
weight suits that wore the indistinguishable, impeccably
creased stamp of career military. "Yeah. You got your cell
phone?"
Mott unclipped the phone from his belt and showed it.
"If I'm not with the plane, I'll be around the airport."
In the passenger cabin, B!ancanales and Schwarz waited,
peering through one of the triangular-shaped windows as
Lyons opened the door and unfolded the stairs, then led the
way off the jet. When he met up with the two men, he
flashed the credentials Price had arranged that identified
him as Naval Intelligence officer Captain Clark Lance.
Florid and balding, Major George Howland waved to-

ward the airport. "Got a table inside at the Ionosphere
Club. We can get out of the heat."
"Sure." Lyons followed the man into the building and
the club. That early in the afternoon, the club didn't have
much in the way of clientele. They took a table near the
door. Lyons sat on one side with Schwarz while Blanca-
nales went to arrange transportation. The Marines occupied
the other side.
The waitress arrived in record time and took orders for
two coffees and two iced teas.
"Your people didn't have much to say as to why we're
supposed to provide you with these records," Howland
said. Beside him, Gunnery Sergeant Mitch Kendall sat quiet
and straight, his receding hairline touched by silver.
"No," Lyons said, "they didn't."
The major took out a pack of cigarettes and shook one
out. "I'd like to know what's going on."
"I'm sure you would," Lyons replied, "but due to the
sensitive nature of this operation, I'm not at liberty to tell
you."
During the silent standoff, the waitress brought the drinks
and departed.
Lyons tapped his watch. "Clock's ticking, Major. I'd
hate like hell to report that I couldn't get the full cooper-
ation of the Marines."
"Gunney," Howland growled, "give him the file."
Kendall did, but didn't look pleased about it.
Lyons flipped open the file, revealing it to Schwarz.
The top picture was in color, obviously from a Marine
Corps graduation. The young soldier in the photograph was
outfitted in Marine parade dress, his black skin contrasting
sharply with the white hat. Soft brown eyes were set close
together over a blade of a nose.
His name was Corporal Eddie Trask. He was twenty-six




years old, six foot two, 210 pounds and had been in the
corps for five years, specializing in communications and
computer programming. According to his file, he'd only
gotten a high-school education, but was a genius when it
came to computers. He'd been assigned to duty in San Juan
since serving with the peace effort in Bosnia two years
earlier.
Lyons closed the file and looked at Howland. "What can
you tell me about him that this can't?"
"What exactly are you looking for?" the major coun-
tered.
"Conduct unbecoming a member of the corps would be
a good start," Lyons answered.
For a moment, Howland remained tight-lipped, meeting
Lyons's gaze full measure. Then he settled back in the
booth. "Gunney."
"Yes, sir." Kendall laced his fingers together on the ta-
bletop. "I've checked with Corporal Trask's immediate
CO. There's been some concern over the corporal's in-
volvement with the unsavory elements on this island."
"Such as?" Schwarz asked.
"We know he's been organizing some of the gambling
that's gone on around the base."
"You want to give me a reason why he hasn't been
suspended?" Lyons asked.
"We've been lacking proof," Kendall replied. "Five
months ago, our investigators thought we had a witness
willing to step forward and name Trask as part of an on-
base bookmaking operation."
"Why didn't you?" Schwarz asked.
"The witness turned up dead," Kendall said, "and a
private came forward and took the heat for the bookmaking
operation."
"Was he the one who was organizing it?" Lyons asked.

"No," l~endall said. "However, he was involved."
"The wireess?" Schwarz asked.
"Her killers were never found. The island PD has kept
the case open, but I don't think we're going to discover
anything."
Lyons didn't, either, but he remained silent. "With the
sacrificial lamb offered, Trask stayed in place?"
"Exactly."
"Why didn't you ship Trask out?" Schwarz asked.
"The man's been in the military for five years," How-
land growled. "There's certain options an officer has open
to him. The corps isn't like it was back in my day, when
a soldier was sent wherever he was sent whenever he was
told."
Lyons nodded. "Trask worked it so he could hang on to
this post." "Yes."
"In more recent--discreet--inquiries," Kendall added,
"we've discovered that Trask had a juvenile record back
in Los Angeles. He was part of a gang that was related to
the Bloods. When I talked to one of the detectives, I was
told that Trask joined the corps after possibly killing two
men in a rival gang during a tuff war."
Lyons knew from personal experience that getting the
juvie records hadn't been easy. "You must have carried
some heavy weight at the PD."
"Actually," Kendall replied, "we found out through a
contact in the sheriff's office."
"Once a man's been in the corps and given blood for
it," Howland said reverently, "he never really walks away
from it."
Lyons closed Trask's file. There was one other thing he
needed to ask. "Where can I find the corporal?"




Tm~ B~ WAS CALLED Pifia Colada Blues and sat nestled
in the bottom of the RedStone Motel, one of the recent
additions in the series of renovations along the docks. The
entrance to the motel was sedate, but the glittering sign
above it announced the club's presence.
Lyons got out of the Chevy sedan Biancahales had
driven from the airport. He clamped the panama on his
head, then slid on a pair of dark shades from his shirt
pocket.
"Any way you want to handle this, Ironman?" Bianca-
nales asked as he got out on the driver's side.
"Sure," Lyons replied easily. "We go in and we place
Trask's ass in custody. Get him somewhere we can ask
questions."
"That's what I've always admired about you, Ironman,"
Schwarz said. "Your uncanny knack for finesse."
"You see any finesse available to you along the way,"
Lyons said, "feel free to trot it on out." He led the way
into the motel.
The entrance to the bar was on the right, under a small
green canopy festooned with bright parrots. Brass support
rods were flanked by small palm trees in brass buckets that
gleamed like molten gold.
A pair of bulky bouncers, one white and one black,
lounged on either side of the doorway, wearing black
T-shirts with the club's logo on them. Through the door,
Lyons could see the familiar darkness gathered inside tho
bar, but the music was some kind of Spanish variation on
rap.
The white guy peeled himself free and stopped in front
of Lyons, one hand stretched out authoritatively. "There's
a cover charge."
"Sure." Lyons reached for the folded twenties he'd

stuffed in his shirt pocket so he wouldn't have to go for
his wallet and risk exposing the .45.
"Watch it, Earl," the other man said. "Son of a bitch
has a gun."
"Gadgets," Lyons snarled.
"I'm on it." Schwarz stepped forward and slid his Ber-
etta free, showing it to the black bouncer. His voice was
cold and lifeless. "Don't."
The black bouncer stopped dead in his tracks.
However, the white bouncer had to have figured he had
the edge. He reached for Lyons's shirtfront, obviously in-
tending to manhandle him and take the weapon away.
Lyons let the guy step forward, then seized the offered
hand, turned, twisted and convertedthe effort into a come-
along grip. He kept the pressure just short of the breaking
point, but he knew from experience that it was incredibly
painful.
The bouncer struggled to bring his other arm into play.
"I don't think so, Binky," Lyons gritted. He applied
more pressure, drawing a grunt of pain from the man.
"Keep it up, and you won't be going to the gym for weeks,
and you know what a few missed days can do to your
schedule."
"All right. You're breaking my arm."
Quietly Blancanales entered the club and stood just in-
side the door, assuming a defensive position.
"I'm looking for a guy," Lyons said. "Eddie Trask. A
jarhead. Do you know him?"
"Yeah."
"He inside?"
The bouncer nodded.
Holding the man with one hand, Lyons produced his ID
with the other. "Captain Lance, Naval Intelligence. If I




have any more trouble with you or your friend, you're go-
ing to be flexing in federal lockup. Okay?"
"Okay. Just let me go. You're killing my arm."
Keeping the Beretta hidden from hotel guests who'd no-
ticed the activity at the bar's entrance, Schwarz stepped
back from his prisoner, following Lyons into the club. The
bar was long and polished, running out into the crowd on
the other side of the room. Two bartenders worked the three
sides, filling orders for the scantily clad waitresses, as well
as keeping the curbside clientele serviced. Speakers located
all around the room boomed out the hot Latino sound in-
terlaced with screamed rap lyrics.
"Looks like the place has been furnished from disco
hell," Blancana!es shouted just loud enough to be heard
over the noise.
"You seen Trask?" Lyons asked.
Blancanales pointed.
Squinting through the dark and the smoky haze, Lyons
spotted their quarry to the left, hanging on to the edge of
the low wall separating the tables from the sunken dance
floor where a half-dozen couples gyrated wildly to the rap
music. Trask looked to be holding court at the table. Four
other men were with him, and none looked like regulation
government issue.
"There's no way to do this quiet, Carl," Schwarz said
as they started forward.
"Then let's get it done damn quick," Lyons said. He
reached under his Hawaiian shirt and fisted the .45's butt,
flicking off the safety. His finger rode the trigger guard with
light pressure.
Trask spotted them when they were still fifteen feet
away. He'd been laughing and joking with the other men,
and he still continued. But Lyons had noted the dawning

chill in his eyes as he swept his gaze over the approaching
men. He excused himself and stood up from the table.
"Trask," Lyons called.
The response from the four men at the table was im-
mediate and deadly. Weapons filled their hands in the blink
of an eye.
Lyons whipped up the .45 and fired two rounds into the
nearest man's chest as the guy pushed himself to his feet.
The hollowpoint bullets threw the corpse back across the
table while the thunder of the detonations drowned out the
rap music.
Not wasting any time, Trask threw himself into full
flight, catching Lyons slightly off guard. Even if Trask had
recognized the big Able Team commando as some kind of
federal officer, Lyons hadn't thought he would run so fast.
The Marine corporal'sprinted for the back of the club, bull-
ing his way through patrons.
Lyons launched himself into immediate pursuit, cutting
more deeply across the tables to gain a footstep or two on
the younger man. Behind him he heard the hammer of
weapons.
Still in full stride, Trask threw himself over the low wall
separating the tables from the dance floor. When he landed,
he knocked down two women and a man who'd been so
involved in their own dancing that they hadn't seen him
coming or heard the sharp barks of the gunshots. Trask
ended up in a tangle of arms and legs.
Lyons jumped to the top of the low wall, losing the pan-
ama, then vaulted into the crowd, bringing Trask down just
as he got to his feet.
"Ironman!" Schwarz yelled. "Look out!"
A moving shadow coming up at Lyons from the rear was
all the warning the ex-LAPD cop received after the shout.




He had an impression of a big, burly man just as he rolled
to the side, the breath knocked from his lungs.
The guy who'd attacked him was nearly seven feet tall,
and built like a sumo wrestler.
"Kill that bastard, Maximo," Trask ordered, getting to
his feet with effort.
Maximo's shaved head gleamed under the dance lights
as he drew up a foot. He bayed like an animal scenting
blood, stomping his foot at Lyons's face while the Stony
Man commando lay on his back.
Letting go of the .45, Lyons grabbed the giant's foot in
both hands. Muscles in his arms and chest burned with the
effort of keeping the boot out of his face. He stopped it
with less than an inch of breathing room.
The surprised expression on Maximo's face became one
of distress.
"Bad move, Porky," Lyons growled. He twisted the foot
as hard as he could.
Something snapped in the giant's leg and he fell away,
remaining on his feet with effort.
Unable to find the .45 immediately, Lyons stood and set
himself in a martial-arts ready stance, hands open and low
at his sides.
Maximo threw himself at Lyons with no warning, lung-
ing at the man like a flesh-and-blood avalanche.
Lyons shifted, then ducked beneath the giant's out-
stretched arms. He grabbed Maximo by the throat and the
belt and lifted the giant off his feet. Managing the four
hundred pounds of weight with brute strength, Lyons
growled inarticulately, then brought the bigger man crash-
ing down against the dance floor on his back.
The meaty smack of impact reverberated across the club,
punctuating the rapid rap beat.
Lyons spotted his pistol less than a yard away and

snatched it up. He was breathing hard from the effort, and
black comets sizzled across his vision. Maximo struggled to get up.
Without a word, Lyons stepped forward and swung a
boot into the giant's temple, rendering him unconscious.
He turned and found Trask poised for flight. Lifting the
.45, he said, "Your choice, guy. I'm too tired to chase you
anymore, so you can give yourself up, or--" he eared the
hammer back on the pistol "--I can shoot you in the ass
when you try to run. I need you to talk, and I don't care if
you can sit at the time."
Trask glared at him. "You're not here to kill me?"
"If I was," Lyons replied, "the deed would already be
done."
"Maybe. And maybe you'd just like a quieter place to
do it."
"I guess we could stop dicking around here," Lyons
said, shifting his aim lower. "I'll just bust a cap in your
ass here to show you I don't really mean you no harm."
"Who are you with?" Trask demanded.
"NIS."
"Bullshit."
"I need to know about that transmission that went down
in New York earlier today," Lyons said.
"You need to know?" Trask looked more hopeful, and
larceny glinted in his eyes.
"Yeah."
"Cut a deal?"
"If you've got the goods."
"How much trouble can you get me out of?." Trask
asked. "Seems like maybe I'm caught here with my ass
hanging out all over the place."
"That," Lyons said, "depends on you." He was aware




of Blancanales and Schwarz flanking him as San Juan cops
flooded the club, giving orders in Spanish and English.
"Yeah, well, first thing we need to make sure of is that
I don't end up in the local crime crib. The man I've been
working for, he'll flat-ass take me out if he thinks I'm going
to talk."
"Pol," Lyons said, "you want to handle the PD?"
"Sure." Blancanales moved off slowly, calling out to
the uniformed officers in Spanish.
Lyons took a pair of handcuffs from his jeans pocket and
shook them out.
"Hey, man," Trask objected, "I don't want to wear
cuffs."
"No," Lyons said, "what you don't want to do is end
up in the local jail." He twisted the Marine's arms behind
his back and put the cuffs on. "Let's go while I'm still
feeling generous."

DIXON LYNCH STOOD in the lead of the group of men on
the long stone finger that pointed out into Korea Bay. Gen-
eral Sym was only a short distance away, looking irritable.
His soldiers formed a solid line behind him beside the half-
dozen jeeps they'd brought for the venture.
Wind whipped spray from the waves that crashed into
the cay almost thirty feet below. Broken rock, worn smooth
by the passage of time and fide, then cracked open again
during storms, lined the brief stretch of beach area.
"We've about exhausted what little trust we had here,"
Eric Hardcastle said.
Lynch glanced at his watch but said nothing. With the
night and the dark clouds roiling overhead, visibility was
limited to a few score feet. To him, it was like looking at
the black glass in a computer monitor. It didn't matter what
appeared to be there or not there, only what he knew he

could make happen. And this was simplicity, although the
general and his people would believe it was magic.
"The guy knows there's no way a boat can land at that
beach," Hardcastle continued. "Even on a good day. And
there's no runway for a plane, even if it could make it
across the bay."
"The North Korean government needs me," Lynch said.
"No one else can get them what they want. But they have
to be reminded of that."
His cell phone vibrated in his pocket, and he answered
it. "It's me, love," Kalico said. With the satellite link man-
aged by the computers at Nampo, the communication was
static free.
"Yes," Lynch said.
"It appears that the insertion team has escaped the North
Korean troops at the drop site."
"How?" Lynch pulled his trench coat a little tighter,
trying to stave off the chill grip of the hungry wind.
"By killing a number of the general's troops," Kalico
answered.
Lynch gazed across the distance separating him from
Sym. The general had received several radio updates from
his own troops but hadn't bothered to share any of them.
"How many men?" "Three."
"They're all free?"
"Yes. One bright note is that the team you had on hand
managed to get the pilot from some of Sym's soldiers."
"I take it Sym lost a few more soldiers."
"You take it correctly, love. But things went smoothly.
Sym's people think he was rescued by the Americans."
"So we have the pilot?"
"Indeed we do. Chances are, he'll be safely tucked away
here by the time you arrive."




"Good." Lynch smiled in satisfaction. Events were com-
ing together more quickly than he'd anticipated, but they
were coming together right. "What about the program Ra-
zor insinuated into the covert team's computers?"
"We were unable to lock onto the frequency at the time
of the transmissions," Kalico said. "So we settled for
blacking out their communications and cutting them off."
"Was there a computer aboard the transport plane?"
"Yes, but it was purely navigational and weapons sys-
tems. The unit they were using to send and receive is still
out there."
"Field as many teams as you can," Lynch ordered,
"without getting the general's people suspicious." "It's already been taken care of."
"Fine. Make sure they understand I want that PC located
as soon as possible." Lynch turned over scenarios in his
head. Finding the PC would make everything easier. In-
stead of trying to capture the signal from the covert agency
later, his cybernetics team would be able to force the link
and finish sending the program Razor had worked out.
Whoever he was dealing with had to be under a great deal
of stress at the moment, because they couldn't have ever
been cut off from their computer systems as much as they
were now.
"I've already taken care of that," Katico said. "But
we've discovered a problem we hadn't counted on."
Lynch waited, watching the dark swirl of clouds.
"When we sent the Realdeal file to the White House,
one of the operatives we've been using down in Puerto
Rico had evidently piggybacked in. Cameron found out
about it shortly after you left."
"Has it been confirmed?" Lynch demanded.
"About ten minutes ago, a trio of Naval Intelligence men
arrested Eddie Trask. Pictures I received from Cardoza

match the descriptions of the men who attacked the Cat-
skills site."
"They found out about the piggyback and tracked it back
to Trask."
"I'd think that was a safe guess."
"Dammir, I should have had Trask killed the first time
I caught him fucking around with the Caribbean program-
ming."
"You said it yourself, love--the man was too valuable
to lose unless he stepped over the line."
"Well, the son of a bitch has stepped over it now." Far
off in the distance, Lynch heard the drumming sound of
helicopter rotors. "Can Cardoza take care of it?"
"He told me yes. According to his sources, the NIS peo-
ple are taking Trask back to the mainland within the half
hour.' '
"Let me know how it tums out. Trask knows enough to
hurt us, perhaps, but not enough to let them stop us. We've
come too far." Lynch punched the cell phone off.
Sym started to move forward, followed closely by his
troops. They kept their weapons at the ready.
Lynch lifted the cell phone again, then punched in a two-
digit speed-dial number. When the phone was answered on
the other end, he said, "You're late."
"We ran into some bad weather, and the takeoff was
rough."
"I don't want to listen to excuses. Can you get that chop-
per down here?" "Yes, sir."
"Then do it." Lynch put the cell phone back in his coat
pocket.
The helicopter broke the cloud cover overhead and
dropped toward the rocky outcrop. Rotor wash stirred up
grit and small pellets, turning them into painful missiles.




With misleading ease, the Russian Mil Mi-17 Hip-H
touched down on three wheels. Ten armed men in the ad-
vanced SIPE gear spilled from the cargo area, causing the
North Korean soldiers to move back defensively. There
were no lights; the helicopter crew had descended using
infrared sensors and the landing lights Hardcastle's group
had spaced around the site without being noticed.
All in all, Lynch thought the production was suitably awe
inspiring. He walked toward the Hip-H and waved at the
assault team in the SIPE armor.
In response, four of the men turned to the cargo bay,
slung their weapons and reached inside. Lights came on a
second later, revealing the packing crates on the pallet in-
side. Lynch had ordered them left in their original contain-
ers with the Chinese markings for effect.
The effect wasn't lost on Sym as he joined Lynch at the
helicopter's side.
Lynch grinned broadly. "There you go, General. You've
got enough nuclear materials to rearrange most of South
Korea across the DMZ, take out Seoul and shut down any
attempts by the Chinese or the Americans to stop you.
Never say I don't deliver what I promise."
Sym gave him a grudging nod. "We'll see." He ordered
his specialist on tactical nukes to the front.
In minutes the man had verified the delivery.
"But how did you get this here?" Sym asked. "Our
Intelligence would have known if a helicopter had landed
on our coast."
"Like they knew the Americans were coming?" Lynch
reminded. Then he withdrew the comment before it had
time to sting. "We're in my theater of operations, General.
This is what I was hired for." He smiled. "But I don't plan
on giving my secrets away. I'll see you back at the camp-
site."

Lynch walked back to his jeep, accompanied by Hard-
castle and the personal bodyguard team the merc had as-
sembled. There were sthll some problems to solve, Lynch
knew, but mainly they were logistical ones. All the ele-
ments had been successfully put into the play.
The covert agency he'd targeted held some of the most
dangerous men he'd over gone up against. But he was a
silent juggernaut rolling into their midst, and they hadn't a
clue that he was among them.




CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Garbed in black, wearing a black rain duster over jeans and
a sweatshirt, David McCarter sat atop the pedestrian over-
pass in downtown Seoul and watched his quarry through
night glasses. A chill had settled over him, but he credited
it to fatigue more than the weather.
"I don't know about you," Gary Manning said over the
headset radio, "but I'm getting damn tired of pussyfooting
around here while Mack, T.J. and Rafe are stranded some-
where with the North Korean army breathing down their
necks."
"Patience, lad," the Briton urged. "As of this moment,
they're still out of touch with Stony Base even more so
than we." Phoenix Force's own computer had crashed ear-
lier, but the telephone lines were still open through the
cutout system. "If we go mucking about up there without
knowing where to find them, it would be like looking for
a needle in a haystack." He refocused the glasses as Isas
Kirosawa moved around in his hotel room across the street.
Barbara Price had made the ID after seeing the pictures
Calvin James had sent in.
"If we make enough noise," Manning said, "they'd
know where to find us."
"They also serve who stand and wait," McCarter re-
minded. They'd left the Japanese economic envoy at the

Hyatt Regency near Namsan Park. With the bodyguards in
place there, the Briton didn't figure there would be any
further problems.
"Standing would be better than sitting," the Canadian
growled. "My ass feels like it died an hour ago."
In the motel suite, the Yakuza chief switched on the large
TV and scanned the news channels, obviously interested in
the events taking place in North Korea. McCarter didn't
know if the interest was simply because the Yakuza ap-
peared to be near the eye of the storm, or if the reasons ran
deeper. The dossier Kurtzman had commandeered hadn't
ruled out any possibilities. According to the info, Kirosawa
was definitely a money mover for one of the largest Yakuza
clans.
Cars continued in both directions two stories below the
overpass, and occasional late-night carousers walked
through the overpass itselfi The rowdiest groups had been
the media representatives, pushing the adrenaline levels to
keep themselves alert for the stories breaking around them.
"Calvin," McCarter whispered.
"Yeah." The ex-SEAL shifted in the shadows behind
the Phoenix Force leader.
"Ever think of running away and joining the circus,
mate?"
"Not in a long time."
"Did the high-wire act ever catch your fancy?"
"I take it this means we're not going to be sitting on our
butts much longer."
"No, I don't think so." McCarter put the night glasses
in a pocket of his duster and snugged up the fingerless black
gloves he wore. "I think we'll cross over and ask Mr. Kiro-
sawa a few rather pointed questions."
"I'm down for that," James replied.




"Gary," McCarter said as he pushed himself up into a
crouching position, "you'll keep a sharp eye about, eh?"
"Two of them," the Canadian said. "Kirosawa isn't
known for taking chances."
"He appears to be alone in that hotel suite at the mo-
ment," McCarter stated, moving along the overpass with
surefooter steps in spite of the heavy dew that had accu-
mulated with the approach of morning.
"Year, but you can bet that little entourage he keeps
around for the heavy work has got to be there somewhere."
'TI1 keep it in mind."
The overpass butted into the hotel where Kirosawa was
lodged. A small balcony outfitted with a wrought-iron table,
four chairs and a furled umbrella stuck out from the sliding
patio doors. The maroon curtains let out a slice of light that
draped over the patio furniture.
Even stretching with James bracing him, McCarter
couldn't reach the balcony. The brick wall ahead of him
provided no purchase.
"Guess this is where we separate the men from the
lads," the Briton whispered. He drew in a deep breath as
he stepped back from the wall, then took two quick, run-
ning strides and hurled himself at the patio. He tried not to
remember that two stories of empty space led to the un-
forgiving pavement below him.
One hand slid over the top of the balcony, and he man-
aged an awkward grip. His right hand skated along the wet
surface without securing purchase. Off balance, he twisted
awkwardly, maintaining a fingertip hold on the balcony,
then got his other hand over the balcony.
Breath burning in his lungs, he hauled himself lithely
over the low wall. He nodded to James, then grabbed the
ex-SEAL's jacket when he fell against the balcony's side.

McCarter felt the vibration shiver through the balcony, but
didn't think it would have been noticed inside the suite.
In seconds James had joined him on the balcony.
"Door's locked," McCarter advised after trying it.
"Think you can handle it quietly?"
James grinned and produced a set of lock picks. After a
brief struggle with the mechanism's tumblers, the lock
clicked open.
McCarter reached inside his jacket and took out his
Browning Hi-Power pistol. Another pocket held a sound
suppressor, and he threaded it into place while James did
the same to a Beretta 92-S.
Carefully McCarter eased open the door, aware that a
gust of wind could blow the curtains and alert Kirosawa
that the room was being invaded, or simply drop the tem-
perature with the same result. He went ahead without hes-
itation, following the pistol.
Price had okayed physical confrontation with Kirosawa
if necessary. The man was high in crime echelons that had
an international reach, which was enough to warrant Stony
Man Farm's attention without all the variables that had sud-
denly been thrown into the economic-summit meeting.
With Bolan, Grimaldi and two of his teammates missing,
McCarter had decided to rattle a cage and see what popped
out. Things definitely couldn't be any worse for the rescue
operation.
The Phoenix Force commander went into the room
quickly, and as quiet as a ghost. He held the Browning in
a tight two-handed grip. He knew without looking that
James was at his heels.
A sixth sense had to have warned Kirosawa, because
McCarter knew he hadn't made a sound. The Yakuza
leaned forward, his back to the approaching Phoenix Force
commandos, and acted as if he were reaching for the cig-




arette pack in his shirt pocket. Then his hand flashed for
the stainless-steel Detonics .45 pistol resting near the lamp
base at his side.
Firing from the point, McCarter shifted targets and
squeezed the trigger.
The subsonic round smashed against the bulk of the De-
tonics and sent it spinning. Almost spent, the bullet buried
itself in the wall, leaving a thumb-sized hole because it had
flattened out.
Kirosawa shoved himself out of the chair, going after the
Detonics.
McCarter lunged after him, grabbed the back of his
jacket and manhandled him away from the pistol.
The Yakuza mobster spun, bringing up a martial-arts
kick that would have taken the Briton's head off if he'd
been standing there when it arrived. Instead, McCarter
dropped below it, then slammed the Browning's barrel into
Kirosawa's crotch.
A gasp of stunned pain leaked through Kirosawa's lips.
There wasn't even enough strength left to scream. He
dropped to his knees, then fell over on his side.
McCarter moved in without remorse. Kirosawa had a lot
of blood on his hands, and from his files, he hadn't paid
an honest price for any of it. The Briton grabbed a fistful
of the Yakuza's hair and forced his face into the carpet. He
screwed the muzzle of his weapon into the man's neck, at
the juncture of spine and skull.
"You do anything other than What I say, mate," Mc-
Carter gritted, "and I shoot your spinal cord through the
other side of your throat."
"Fuck you," the Yakuza said. He straggled to get his
hands under him.
Without hesitation, McCarter kicked him three times in
the side, hard enough to feel a couple ribs go. "Stop muck-

ing about. You move too much, you're going to send one
of those broken ribs through a lung. Then we'll be forced
to sit here until you drown in your own blood." He twisted
Kirosawa's head until he could look the man in the eyes.
"I must admit, though, that prospect isn't without certain
allure."'
"You're a dead man," Kirosawa said.
"I am, eh? Looks like I'll draw my last breath after you
do."
James bent and secured Kirosawa's hands behind his
back with a pair of plastic riot cuffs. Another pair was
slipped around his ankles, and, with the electrical cord from
one of the lamps in the room to join the sets of cuffs, there
was no chance of the man's escaping.
"I'm just after some information," McCarter said. He
took a chair from the dinette just inside the patio doors,
turned it and sat so he could look down on his prisoner.
"You cooperate, you get to live."
"And I Should trust you on this?" Kirosawa snarled.
"It's the only deal on the table, mate," McCarter said
in a cold voice.
"Who are you working for? Greco? Frost? Kandinsky?
Or one of the other Yakuza clans wanting to break inw our
territory?"
McCarter smiled and mentally filed the names away.
"You tell me."
"You'd better kill me," Kirosawa said, blood leaking
down his mouth from his broken nose, "because if you
don't, I'll kill you."
For a moment, McCarter was silent. Then he moved the
pistol to within inches of the Yakuza's forehead. Sweat
beaded out on the man's head and his eyes crossed as he
unconsciously focused on the pistol.
"Bloody hell, mate, you've just convinced me. I can't




let you live." McCarter let the man see him take up the
slight trigger slack. "Bang!"
In spite of his iron grip on his composure, the Yakuza
flinched, blinked and turned slightly pallid.
"Tough guy," McCarter said to James.
"Probably eats nails for breakfast."
McCafret shifted the pistol. "Here's the deal. I ask you
a question and you answer with the truth. If you don't an-
swer, or if you tell me a lie, I shoot you through the right
kneecap. You'll walk with a limp the rest of your life--if
I let you live."
Kirosawa shook his head.
There was a knock at the door.
Just as the Yakuza opened his mouth to yell, McCarter
shoved the pistol between his lips. Hacking noises fol-
lowed. Easing up on the weapon, McCarter kept it in the
man's mouth.
"See who it is," the Briton ordered. From his vantage
point, he could clearly see the main door to the hallway.
James peered through the peephole. "It's a woman."
"Maid?"
"No. And she's a nice-looking woman. She's carrying
an overnight bag."
"Accompanied?"
James leaned into the peephole. "Not by anyone I can
See."
"Show her in." McCarter readied himself for action, al-
ready planning on a quick retreat down the side of the
building by way of the patios if necessary.
Keeping the Beretta out of sight behind his body, James
opened the door.
The woman didn't seem to notice James as she walked
into the room. She was tall and brunette, certainly not out

of her late twenties, McCarter thought. Arched brows and
high cheekbones framed her light hazel eyes.
When she saw McCarter holding the gun in Kirosawa's
mouth, a bewildered look spread across her features. Au-
tomatically she stepped back toward the door and spun,
getting set to flee for her life.
"No," James said, moving in front of her and shutting
the door. "Have a seat."
"You're American?" she asked in a French accent. She
held the overnight bag protectively before her. "Some of us," McCarter answered.
James took her by the arm and seated her on the couch.
"Are you going to kill him?" she asked, looking at Kiro-
sawa.
McCarter thought the look held bloody few compassion-
ate feelings. "We're thinking it over."
"And me?" She looked at him.
"That depends."
"I haven't done anything."
"Apparently you're associated with Kirosawa here."
'Tve never seen him before in my life."
McCarter glanced at James. "Her purse."
James took the purse, dumped it onto the coffee table
and rummaged through the contents.
James held documents and papers and quickly scanned
them. "Her name's Blanche Delacroix. Says she's a French
citizen, but her passport and visa show she's been living in
Tokyo for the past five months."
Giving the woman a thin grin, McCarter said, "Fancy
that. Kirosawa lives in Tokyo, too. Maybe it's all coming
back to you now."
"Can I smoke?" the woman asked.
Sorting through the belongings on the table, James
handed her a cigarette, then lit it.




She released twin streams of smoke through her nostrils.
She looked at McCarter, some of the hard look gone,
burned away by the fear that took its place. "I don't want
to die."
McCarter nodded. "I can appreciate that."
Tears leaked from her eyes and ran down her face. Her
hand shook as she took another puff on the cigarette. "So
what do we do now?"
McCarter looked into her wet eyes. "What's your as-
sociation with Kirosawa?"
Her reply was blunt. "He owns me."
McCarter remained silent.
"I'm a dancer," she explained. "I worked a lot of clubs
in Paris. Exotic dancing. There was some trouble, and I had
to get out of France for a while. A friend got me set up in
Tokyo. After I was there a few weeks, Kirosawa came into
the club and arranged for me to go with him. I tried to
disagree with him, but I soon found out I didn't have a say
in the matter. I don't think things could have been much
worse if I'd stayed in Parris."
"What are you doing here now?" James asked.
"He told me to be here. Some of his men brought me
on a commercial flight out of Tokyo." Her voice hardened
as she gazed at the man. "I'm his property. He doesn't
want to be seen in public with me, like I'm a real person."
"You know," McCarter said, "you sound like a woman
who could use a fresh start somewhere else."
She looked deep into the Briton's eyes. "You think you
can arrange that?"
McCarter nodded. "Yeah. Just as soon as we get some
information from Kirosawa."
"He won't talk. He'd let you kill him first. It would be
a lot easier than what his boss would do if he talked."
McCarter had come to the same conclusion. Getting in-

formation out of the Yakuza chief, if possible at all, would
be a long, drawn-out and bloody affair. They didn't have
time.
"What's he doing here?" McCarter asked.
"I don't know much, but I do know there's a deal in the
air that his clan is very interested in." "With the economic summit?"
"I'm not sure. But I know the SEALs getting captured
by the North Koreans was no surprise to him. There were
some phone calls yesterday that I overheard. He's been
dead set against involvement with the Colombians and the
Russians from the very beginning." Delacroix gazed at the
Japanese man. "I've found that he's very prejudiced."
"What kind of business?"
The woman looked at McCarter. "Do you know any-
thing about his clan?"
"They're heavy into politics and business, controlling
labor, black marketing, and run a large chunk of the opium
business."
"Yes. From what I gathered, the business he came here
to discuss would affect all those areas. I've heard him say
several times that he was afraid they would lose more than
they would gain."
"Do you understand Japanese, Ms. Delacroix?" James
asked.
The woman gave a sad smile and shook her head. "Un-
derstand some of it, yes. Am I able to speak it fluently?
No. But being immersed in it as I've been these past few
months, I've learned enough to know that what I'm telling
you is the truth."
"Why was he interested in the SEAL team being cap-
tured?" McCarter asked.
"They were supposed to be evidence. The guy he's sup-


posed to meet set it up to show everyone what he could
do."
McCarter nodded. Turning back to Kirosawa, he pulled
the Browning from the man's mouth. "Anything you'd care
to add to that, mate?"
"She's dead, too," Kirosawa barked out through bloody
lips.
"Kind of hits a note and hangs with it, doesn't he?"
James asked.
"Noticed that, as well." Before Kirosawa could move,
McCarter swung the Browning against his temple and
knocked him out. "Let's get the lady out of here."
James used an arm to rake all the woman's belongings
back into her purse.
"Do you know any of the other people Kirosawa was
meeting here?" McCarter asked the woman.
She shook her head. "All I know for sure is that they
were all connected with crime families and organizations.
I heard some names, but I never met any of those people."
McCarter took her arm and guided her to the door.
"Let's work up a list of names, then, shall we?" James fell
into step behind him, bringing up the rear as they walked
down the hall toward the elevators.
"He usually has guards with him," Delacroix said.
"They're next door."
"Then let's go quietly and quickly," McCarter said. He
kept the Browning out of sight in the folds of the rain
duster. His free hand held the woman's elbow.
"You're really going to get me away from him?" she
asked.
"Yes."
Unexpectedly she turned to him and kissed him on the
cheek.
"Thank you," she said.

McCarter squeezed her arm reassuringly, wishing it was
as easy to get Bolan and the others home safely. But the
further they got into the mess stemming from North Korea,
the more snarled it seemed to get. He had a chill premo-
nition that the operation was going to cost more blood than
the warriors had at first thought. He hoped he was wrong,
but he knew better than to plan on it.

Near Nampo, North Korea

THE SECOND SLAP stung Jack Grimaldi into wakefulness.
He'd been aware of the first one, but only in a detached
way, though the pain from that was starting to penetrate his
consciousness, as well.
He blinked, narrowing his eyes against the searing nee-
dles of pain that emanated from the harsh light beaming
straight into his face. He was seated in an uncomfortable
metal chair, his feet tied to the back legs and his hands
cuffed behind him. Though he couldn't see much, he got
the impression that he was in a small metal building.
"He's awake," a broad silhouette said, then stepped
back out of the light.
"What's your name?" another voice asked, this one car-
rying a Southeast Asian lilt. "Steve," Grimaldi said.
"Steve what?" The voice sounded patient, as if the
speaker had all the time in the world.
"Steve Canyon. Maybe you've heard of me." Grimaldi
concentrated. His vision was useless, lrmt his other senses
seemed to be working fine. Outside the building, he heard
a steady stream of voices and noises.
"He's lying," the first voice grated. "'Steve Canyon'
was a comic strip about a military pilot."
"You thiak yoa'm fanny?" the second voice asked.




Grimaldi worked his jaw and tasted bloody phlegm. He
spit at the speakers.
The hand that came out of the light was so fast it didn't
register until it was gone. His head snapped back, and he
almost lost consciousness again. Fresh blood coated his
lips.
"I know who you are," the second voice said. "You
work for the covert agency based in Virginia."
Grimaldi worked hard not to display any reaction. A cold
chill shot through his heart.
"We can do this the easy way or the hard way."
"I get a choice?" the pilot asked.
Silhouettes, barely discernible through the haze of bright
light, shifted. "Drug him. Let's see what he has to say
then."
A thin man with thick glasses stepped into the small
circle of light, a hypodermic glinted in his hand.
Grimaldi struggled in the chair, fighting to get away. But
it was no use. The needle slid painfully into his arm and
searched out a vein. He felt its hot release burn into his
bicep, then the drug snared his senses. As he started to fade
out, he willed himself to forget everything he knew about
Stony Man Farm.

"WE ACCESSED the security videos at Kimpo International
through the CIA," Kurtzman said.
Barbara Price nodded, scanning the images in fast motion
on the wall screen at the other end of the room. She felt
bone tired and edgy at the same time, always a confusing
state. There'd still been no word from Bolan and his team,
and Kurtzman wasn't sure if they'd be able to put the com-
munications satellites back on-line. McCarter had placed
phone call after the session with Kirosawa.
"Did you come up with anything?" Price aslle0, 8he

stepped back to the wall behind them and poured a fresh
mug of coffee. She usually liked to stick with juices, but
now she felt the need for the caffeine. "Eight hits so far," Kurtzman said.
"Why the hell didn't we know about this?"
� "We weren't looking for it," Kurtzman said. "We feed
off information other agencies take in, without developing
info of our own unless we've targeted an objective. Patterns
like this one can be there, but unless we've been alerted to
look for them, they slip right through."
"I know." Price reeled in her anger. It was more directed
at herself than at Kurtzman or his people, but none of it
was productive. Professionalism demanded as clear a mind
as she could maintain. "Give me the rundown."
At the other end of the room, the images on the wall
screen suddenly went into reverse. People filed back
through the gate entrances at the airport in Seoul, returning
hugs and kisses to greeters, and moving back to reboard
flights.
"I've got it programmed to show you the highlights
we've picked up so far," Kurtzman said.
Price sipped the coffee and watched. A glance at her
watch and some quick mental gymnastics with time zones
told her dawn was less than an hour away in North Korea:
Bolan and Phoenix Force were about to lose even that de-
fense.
"First up," Kurtzman said, tapping the keyboard,
"Dado Rojas."
"From the cartels," Price said.
"Right."
The face at the other end of the room was aquiline, but
cold and reserved. The man's black hair was swept back,
but the left temple was marred by a line of silver hair that
seemed to be the result of a knife-blade scar. He looked to




be in his early thirties, but the biographical information on
one of the computers on Kurtzman's desk gave his age as
forty-eight.
"Came to his current position quickly," Kurtzman said,
"and stepped on every corpse he had to along the way.
Holds on to his little empire through a steady increase in
the body count."
On the wall screen, Price watched the man arrive at
Kimpo, flanked by a half-dozen bodyguards who looked
the part.
"No one noticed him?" the mission controller asked.
Kurtzman shook his head. "With the economic summit
going on, strangers arriving in Seoul is even more com-
monplace than before. Hell, a circus gets there every day.
International economists, media, politicians. Phoenix did
good when they spotted Kirosawa. It was just the tip of the
iceberg."
Rojas continued on his walk, then the picture fuzzed over
and footage of another arrival took his place. This man was
blond and blue eyed. Ilis haircut was vaguely military, but
the horn-rimmed glasses lent him a softness that would
have made most people never give him a second glance.
"Filya Sakharov," Kurtzman said. "Ex-KGB. Took to
capitalism in a big way after the fall of Soviet communism.
The CIA reports I've accessed suggest that he was already
dabbling in the black market before leaving the spy busi-
ness. He's a networker now, responsible for banding to-
gether several smaller groups who're been moving money
and munitions through Eastern Europe. He's bringing big-
ger profits to the bottom line."
The scene shifted again, revealing a thin young man in
an Italian-cut suit and what looked like a permanent five-
o'clock shadow staining his prominent chin. He was light-

ing up a cigarette as he walked out of the boarding tunnel,
brushing by the uniformed stewardesses.
"Johnny d'Arezzo," Price said. "This one I know from
a mission package I've been putting together for McCarter
and Phoenix. His father is actually the head of the Family
in Sicily."
Kurtzman nodded.
"The d'Arezzos are involved with drug trafficking, too,"
the mission controller said. "Designer drugs and the heroin
trade."
"Right," Kurtzman confirmed. "I didn't know it, but
the DEA in New York and Boston had been keeping tabs
on young d'Arezzo because he's been trying to make in-
roads into those cities. He and some of the Rastafarian pos-
ses have been having a running gun battle for the past six-
teen weeks. You might want to have Able Team take a
look into that when things cool back down."
"I will." Price stepped closer and watched the names
and faces continue to fall as the computer program quickly
sorted through hours of videotape.
They formed a who's who in an international rogues'
gallery. Red haired and effeminate, Cornell Frost was there
from a major Triad in Hong Kong. Tuan Dai, pushing sixty
now and leaned out to a skeletal wreck of himself, was
there from the Vietnamese Mafia scattered across the West
Coast. Bias Greco, head of a Sicilian affiliate in Spain,
joined the party, as did Nicolo "the Panther" Pansa from
Las Vegas, who was obviously representing the interests of
the old Family heads there, and also present was Seiji Wa-
tanabe of the Yamaguchi-Gama, the strongest Yakuza
group currently operating in Japan.
"Dammir," Price said as she glanced over the faces.
"Are they connected with the economic summit or to the
incident in North Korea?"




"Hard to imagine these guys being interested in whether
the North Korean government has tactical-nuke capabili-
ties," Kurtzman replied. "Except for Sakharov. He'd have
been glad to close the deal." "But he didn't."
"Not according to the transmission that Hal and the Man
received in the White House."
Price studied the moving images at the other end of the
room. Watanabe walked down the carpeted corridor of the
airport, four men flanking him, invisible to the rush of re-
porters swarming to get pictures of the arrival of the latest
summit representative. "Get me patched through to Mc-
Carter."
Kurtzman slipped on a headset, then worked the key-
board.
Price flipped the various scenarios through her mind.
None of them was pleasant. She truly doubted that the peo-
ple she'd seen were there for the economic summit. Some
of them would have a vested interest in what happened to
the Asian economies involved, but for the most part, ev-
erything that was on the table to be worked out wouldn't
affect their business. A flagging economy generally gave
organized crime stronger footholds through corruption in
political office and less resistance when government spend-
ing on law-enforcement agencies was cut back.
"I've got McCarter," the big cybernetics expert said a
couple minutes later.
Price took up her own headset. "David, you turned up
more than we could have expected."
"I didn't think we'd happened onto a new vacation spot
for international thugs," the Briton said. "So what do we
have?"
"I'm not sure, but I want you to stay with it for the time
being."

"What about Striker, Jack, T.J. and Rare?"
Price sensed the frustration in the Phoenix Force leader's
voice. "We're working on it. So far, we've been unable to
resecure a corn link. Until we know where they are and
what kind of shape they're in, we can't help much."
"And if it comes down to these blokes or our lads?"
McCarter asked.
"The integrity of the mission into Noah Korea comes
first," Price said. "You have my word on it."
"That's good enough for me. Now, what exactly do you
want us to do with Kirosawa and company?"
"It's more than Kirosawa. We'll be sending you dossiers
on others we've identified so far. There'll probably be
more, and we'll send those along when we get them."
Quickly Price brought McCarter up-to-date on Kurtzman's
latest investigation.
"So for the moment, we're to keep an eye peeled?"
McCarter asked when she'd finished.
"Yes. There's a connection to what's going on in North
Korea, and we need to know what it is."
"How physical should we get with these chaps?"
"Keep your distance for now," Price advised. "When
the time comes that we need to rock the boat, we can do
it faster and harder if we know more about what's going
on."
"Agreed. Keep me posted on the other developments."
"Of course. You do the same." Price broke the connec-
tion. She watched the footage at Kimpo International Air-
port start over.
"I've got Hunt working on identifying other possibles,"
Kurtzman said. "He's put together a multimedia sort pro-
gram from CIA and Interpol files." He leaned back in the
wheelchair and stretched.
"I've got a bad feeling about this," Price admitted.




"How so?"
"Checking the angles, it's not too hard to see that the
North Koreans might have chosen this time to get a ship-
ment of fissionable materials into the country and pose an
even larger threat to the economic summit in Seoul."
"There was a lot going on in that comer of the country."
Price nodded. "They could have used all the additional
security being focused on the economic summit as a smoke
screen. ' '
"It scans."
"Yeah, but what doesn't is how they were able to spoof
our systems, much less even know how they were them."
She looked at the cybernetics expert. "We're invisible,
Aaron. To succeed, we have to be. But what are the chances
that someone could stumble onto the frequencies we were
using over there?"
"Slim, but it's possible."
She stared at the screen and shook her head. "I don't
want to play it like that."
"The only other choice is to accept the fact that someone
came looking for us. That's scary."
"What we could be looking at is a double smoke screen.
Whoever's working with the North Koreans is following
their own agenda."
"Yeah, but someone from outside North Korea is some-
thing we conjectured from the start. They definitely don't
have the technology to alter the video footage onthe Dra-
goh's Gate. If it's more than just for the money, maybe the
computer team took on the job as a means to get baCk at
the American government."
"And where do the crime families we've been looking
at come in?"

Kurtzman shrugged. "I'm playing devil's advocate here,
Barb. I don't have all the answers."
"Neither do I. But I've got the feeling that we've played
the part of the hunted more than we have the hunter."




.......... :: : ~;;ary

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Seated on the edge of the folding table to one side of the
small prefab building where the American pilot was being
held, Dixon Lynch watched the man as the drag took hold.
Perspiration filmed the man's brow, and despite the in-
tense light shining on him, his pupils shrank even more.
His head rolled groggily from side to side as he strained
against his bonds.
"He's fighting it," Mendleson said. He was a medical
doctor who'd worked for intelligence groups in South Af-
rica a few years before---only he'd worked for both sides,
getting wealthy in the process of hosting interrogation pro-
ceedings and mixing deadly little concoctions that were al-
most untraceable after being ingested or injected. Unfor-
tunately, when it was discovered that he was working both
sides of the street in the intelligence community, both sides
had wanted to kill him. Lynch had saved him from that.
After a few minutes, the pilot's struggles ceased and his
head lolled forward on his chest.
Lynch walked over to him, then squatted to look the pilot
in the face. "Who are you?"
The eyes were unfocused, moving in spasmodic jerks.
"Jack."
"Jack who?"
The pilot didn't answer.

Lynch repeated the question several times, then changed
the pattern by asking who he worked for and what he was
doing in North Korea.
The answers, when there were any, didn't make any
sense or were obvious lies.
In fifteen minutes, Lynch had exhausted his patience.
"Give him more truth serum," he instructed Mendleson.
The slight man shrugged. "I can, but you're taking a
chance on cardiac arrest. I've given him about as much as
I dare, considering his body weight and age."
"He's not answering the questions." Lynch got a grip
on his anger. The man didn't pose a threat to his operation
anymore. Neither did the three men out in the jungle.
"These drugs," the doctor said, "they are not foolproof.
We're dealing with a strong mind here. Perhaps over a
longer time period we could wear him down. Give me two
days, and I could almost guarantee he'd answer any ques-
tion you'd care to ask."
"I don't have two days here," Lynch said. "We're down
to a matter of hours."
"This is the best I can do."
Lynch nodded. There were other things to attend to. He
shifted his attention to Hardcastle, who stood in a comer
of the room. "Get him to the general's people. Tell them
our scouts found him out in the jungle."
"Sym will know that's a lie," the big merc replied.
"I don't think it'll matter," Lynch said. "He's happy
with his nuclear materials." The phone in his pocket
buzzed, and he answered it.
"We may have some trouble," Kalico said. "I just found
out from our sources in Seoul that Kirosawa was captured
and questioned regarding his presence in the city." "By whom?"
"We're still trying to figure that out. I'm told one of




them sounded British while the other was probably a black
American."
"They could be part of the group we're searching for,"
Lynch said. "Some of the descriptions we've managed to
ferret out have indicated two men like that."
"I know. But you have to ask yourself how they got
onto Kirosawa so fast."
Lynch smiled, relieved to a degree. "If they questioned
Kirosawa, they don't have a clue about the big picture. It's
possible the Yakuza was just noticed coming into the coun-
try and interrogated about the fissionable materials. His clan
handles a fair amount of munitions. Besides, Kirosawa
doesn't know my name yet. We have nothing to worry
about." He started out of the building.
The camp was in the process of being moved. North
Korean soldiers labored under orders yelled from com-
manding officers, scurrying like worker ants. Jeeps rolled
back and forth, hooking up to trailers loaded down with
equipment. The sky was turning pale gold and lavender in
the east, fighting against wispy blue clouds.
"What about Trask in Puerto Rico?" Lynch asked.
"The agents who have him under wraps are getting ready
to take him off the island. They've had to work everything
through the red tape the military has thrown up." "They definitely aren't with the military?"
"According to the information I've gotten, they are. But
they're handling Trask themselves."
"Get a message to Cardoza," Lynch said. "Make sure
he knows that I want those three agents dead, as well." He
punched the End button and turned his steps toward the
main building.
Engine roaring, a jeep came to a rocking stop in front of
Lynch, cutting him off from the main building. General

Sym remained in the passenger seat. "I'm told you'll be
leaving us."
Lynch nodded. He didn't glance over his shoulder; he
knew that Hardcastle and his team would be there. Tensions
between him and the North Korean general hadn't died
away with the delivery of the nuclear materials. "My work
here is done, and I think things will be less tense if I
leave."
"So where will you go now?"
"To the next job."
Sym scratched his chin. "My superiors gave me explicit
instructions that you were not to be bothered during your
departure."
"I asked them if they would," Lynch said, "and pointed
out they didn't have the launch codes to those Scuds yet."
He smiled. "It wouldn't do them much good to blow them
up here."
Sym nodded. "So I'd been told. However, I wanted to
make something very clear to you--if by chance there is
some betrayal you've committed that we have yet to dis-
cover, I will look for you myself."
Raising his right arm, Lynch snapped his fingers.
Immediately a trio of laser sights came into being on
Sym's face. Two others flamed in the center of his chest.
The general looked down at the ruby dots.
"I'11 look forward to it, General," Lynch said. "Why
don't you come looking anyway at some point?" Without
another word, Lynch walked behind the jeep. The laser
sights dotting the North Korean general disappeared an in-
stant before he waved the driver into motion.
Lynch entered the main building and found Gutter Razor
lounging against a wall just inside the entrance. "That," Razor said, "is one tense bastard."
Lynch chuckled. "He hates being out of control of a




situation almost as much as I do. I can appreciate that.
However, the only person going to call the tune around here
is me. How are things progressing?"
The Australian waved a beefy arm at the command cen-
ter. "Total meltdown. Won't be enough left here to work
addition or subtraction."
Hundreds of thousands of dollars of equipment was be-
ing jettisoned on the operation. But there was no way to
make the jump back to the Shadow Scythe, their submarine,
with all of it. Lynch felt the losses were acceptable in view
of what he stood to net on the operation. All the pertinent
files had been sent on to his computers in Singapore, and
to the Shadow Scythe. Information was the valuable com-
modity here, not the equipment.
"When do we pull out?" Razor asked.
"In minutes." Lynch spotted Kalico laboring industri-
ously over a computer she'd pulled out of the main swath
of destruction. He walked over to her. "What are you do-
ing?"
"Getting Shatterstop on-line."
"Where are they?" Lynch leaned in and scanned the
computer screen. Shatterstop was the code name he'd cre-
ated for the eighteen-wheeler outfitted with a portable mis-
sile launcher in its trailer. Either way things went with the
covert agency he'd targeted, Shatterstop was on hand to
take the operation down.
"Rolling north out of Charlotte, North Carolina."
A map scrolled onto the screen and displayed the slow
progression of an amber ellipse moving along a gridded
area.
Lynch glanced at the legend in the lower corner of the
map, then quickly estimated the distance to northern Vir-
ginia. "Even if our target is at its most extreme point," he

said, "they're already within the four-hundred-mile radius
the missile can reach."
"That's right, love." Smiling brightly, Kalico looked up
at him. "I want to give them a few more miles and a de-
fensible position. I'm thinking Roanoke." Her fingers
flashed across the keyboard.
As the screen shifted, the view of the state enlarged, until
it focused on the central area. "Roanoke," Lynch repeated.
"Isn't that where the British colony disappeared during the
settlement years?"
"Disappeared and were never heard from again," Kalico
agreed. "You'll forgive me the drama of the poetic license,
but I found it fitting. And the city is now the industrial,
trade and transportation center of the southwestern portion
of the state. Our truck should be able to blend in easily."
"How soon can they be there?"
Kalico consulted her watch. "Three, four hours proba-
bly. No more than six. I'm routing them around the major
traffic areas so they'll make the best time."
"Fine. Do it." The estimate easily fit into the time frame
Lynch had allowed for the operation, even with the pace
picking up because the covert agency was tracking him
sooner than he'd expected.
"It's done." Kalico stood up and waved to a man wear-
ing protective clothing and carrying a tank of hydrochloric
acid.
The man nodded and came over with the sprayer. With
the first drenching of acid, the computer hissed and shot
out a shower of blue-white electrical sparks. The keys
melted in on themselves like falling soufflrs.
"Let's go, love," Kalico said, taking Lynch by the arm.
"It's getting positively beastly in here."
Lynch led the way out of the building, breathing shal-




lowly because the smoke was burning the back of his
throat.
The thunder of whirling helicopter rotors drummed into
the cacophony of noise covering the camp. Overhead, the
dark, unmarked silhouette of the helicopter dropped from
the sky, ready to ferry Lynch and his team to the next phase
of their operation.

"Boss MAN!"
Bleary-eyed, Kurtzman glanced up from his computer
screen and tried to focus on Akira Tokaido at the other end
of the room. Above the young hacker, the wall screen
showed footage presently being broadcast on CNN con-
cerning the economic summit meeting in Seoul. Since no
more news had been released in regard to the SEALs, the
media had gone back to beating its original drum, adding
the occasional accent by having various government offi-
cials asked if the capture of the special-ops team had some-
thing to do with the summit meeting.
Personally Kurtzman was growing to grudgingly em-
brace Price's theory that the summit meeting and the failed
SEALs mission were all part of another, multifaceted dan-
ger. It was scary because the cybernetics expert didn't have
a clue as to what the focus of such a Machiavellian enter-
prise might be.
"What?" he asked Tokaido.
"I think I've patched together a satellite corn line we can
use for Bolan and McCarter."
The satellite frequencies had been granted with some
trepidation by the Chinese, through Yakov Katzenelenbo-
gen's contact. Whatever programming had knocked out the
American telephone satellites linking that part of the world
with the United States had never released its hold. Kurtz-
man had proposed using the Chinese systems instead. Nei-

ther the President nor the Chinese premier had been happy
about the situation, but the Man had waded into the fray
with the information about the hijacking of Chinese fis-
sionable materials that had gone unreported.
The result was that Stony Man personnel would have
access to select Chinese satellites for a six-hour window to
get their people out of North Korea. Kurtzman only hoped
it would be enough.
"How compatible are we?" the cybernetics expert
asked.
"Eighty-eight percent," Tokaido replied. "I've got some
filter and merge programs running. I may be able to sift out
another five to seven percent, but we're going to be pushing
our window by then."
Kurtzman pulled up the program. "It'll have to do. You
did a good job, kid." "Thanks."
"What about our built-in safeties?" Kurtzman was cyn-
ical enough to realize that the Chinese might use the op-
portunity to put a virus into their own machines that could
show up months after the fact.
"They're in place," Tokaido said. "Someone tries to hit
us with a virus, we'll know."
"Okay, then," Kurtzman said, "let's see what we
have." He brought the satellites on-line first, then opened
a camera feed to his left monitor. Opening a window in the
lower-left comer, he used the trackball to increase and aim
the magnification.
In seconds, he was peering down at the hidden base near
Nampo. The spy satellite only had infrared capabilities, and
those weren't the caliber Kurtzman was used to dealing
with. He strained to see what was on the screen as he
picked up the phone and punched Price's extension num-
ber.




"Yes," she answered crisply.
"We've got video." Kurtzman moved the focus around
slightly, finding it moved more jerkily and with a wider
pitch than he was accustomed. It would take some getting
used to.
"I'm on my way."
The heat radiation picked up by the spy camera was
barely enough to distinguish the buildings from each other.
An oblong blob skated west, away from the campsite.
"What am I looking at?" Price asked. She had come up
at his side without a sound.
"A helicopter, I think." Kurtzman tracked the movement
for a moment, then the arc swung too much and he lost it.
He swore beneath his breath, cursing whoever had deprived
him of his usual cybemetic arsenal. "Who was on it?"
"No idea. We just picked up the video feed."
"I'11 check with the Chinese."
"You can try that," Kurtzman said, "but with this
equipment, I really doubt they're going to be able to tell
you."
"Can you call Mack?"
"We can try." Kurtzman punched the cell phone's num-
ber in. "In theory, it should work. Akira's patched the Chi-
nese long-distance carrier into the ones we usually use."
"Will the scrambler still work?"
Kurtzman nodded. "I added an extra kicker into the
transmission and reception programs, as well. The Chinese
won't be able to monitor or record our conversations in any
way without setting off alarms and sucking up one of the
nastiest little viruses Akira's ever cooked up. I put a warn-
ing in there to that effect that will trip if they start prowling
around. Whatever they do after that point, we'll know, and
they'll lose a whole hell of a lot of hardware."

The phone rang five times, then six, seven, eight and
nine. Silently Kurtzman prayed that someone was alive to
hear it.

IGNORING THE VIBRATION cell phone, Mack Bolan stepped
out of the shadows and seized the North Korean sentry he'd
targeted. He clapped a hand over the man's mouth, pre-
venting an outcry, and drove the short, double-bladed fight-
ing knife through the soldier's neck from the back, slicing
deep into the spinal cord.
All motor coordination left the soldier, and he was a
corpse by the time the Executioner hauled him back into
the jungle. While he cleaned the knife on the dead man's
clothes, Bolan slipped the cell phone from its pouch and
said, "Go."
"Striker," Price said, "we're back on-line."
"Glad to have you." Bolan moved stealthily, circling the
campsite. The recon he and Phoenix Force had been able
to do had been sporadic and not overly informative. Time
was working against them; full dawn was only minutes
away and would strip whatever shadows still remained that
would shelter them. They still hadn't found the SEALs or
Grimaldi, but they'd witnessed the helicopter taking off
only moments earlier. The only avenue left open to them
had been penetration, leaving the odds against them. How-
ever, if Stony Man Farm was hardwired into the battlezone,
those odds could be shaved. "How far back are you?"
"Equipment's not as good as it could be," Price admit-
ted. "We had to get in through the back door with the
Chinese. But we're in a position to offer full tactical sup-
port."
"Can you see the camp?"
"Yes."




"Give me a minute," Bolan said, "and let'a wire you
into the corn link here."
"We'll be standing by."
Crouching under the branches of a broad pine tree, Bolan
tapped the headset. "Phoenix Three."
"Go," Encizo called.
"Get the dish in place."
' 'Roger."
Encizo had been carrying the twelve-pound LST 5C sat-
ellite radio that could interact with the headsets and tie the
whole band into the Stony Man frequency.
Bolan kept moving. The soldiers in the camp were mov-
ing at double-time, breaking camp and stowing gear, giving
the Stony Man warriors their best opportunity to break into
the site. Reaching down to his side, Bolan unleathered the
Spetsnaz-styled Stechkin 9 mm automatic pistol from the
counterterrorist drop holster. He carried the Makarov in
shoulder rigging now.
The Stechkin was a deadly little piece of hardware,
tooled solely for destruction and requiring the hands of a
master to bring out the best in it.
"Do you know where the SEALs are?" Bolan asked.
"We believe they're northeast of your present position,"
Price answered. "We're showing eight men stationary,
which makes them stand out among all the movement in
the camp. It's the best guess we have."
"Okay." Bolan relayed the information to Phoenix
Force, then stepped up his pace. From the recon, they'd
figured as much, as well, but hadn't wanted to circle around
that way until they'd exhausted the other possibilities. Go-
ing around that way put the camp between them and their
escape route.
"I've got the point," Hawkins radioed back.
"On your heels," Bolan said. He stared through the fo-

liage but couldn't make out the Phoenix Force commando.
Staying low, he hurried to make up the distance, the Stech-
kin resting easily in his hand.
"We're green," Encizo called out.
Bolan gave the information to Price, then told his team-
mates to make the shift to the satellite channel.
"Stony Base to Stony teams," Price said. "Give me an
affirmative."
"You've got Stony One," Bolan replied.
"Phoenix Three hears you," Encizo said.
"And Phoenix Five," Hawkins chimed in.
"Okay, gentlemen," the mission controller said, "the
show is yours, but I'll be calling out additional Intel as we
have it. Your current situation has the three of you up
against at least forty or fifty of the enemy. We have no
status reports on the SEALs' condition. However, we do
know that three of them are dead, so it's possible that one
of the figures we're reading could be a guard."
"Or G-Force," Bolan suggested. "We lost him during
the initial scramble."
"What kind of shape is he in?" Price asked.
"I don't know." Bolan saw Hawkins for just a moment
as the man went to ground to avoid being seen by a passing
guard. "How are we fixed for exfiltration?"
"I'm running it down," the mission controller replied.
"Best I can offer is a coastline pickup on a hit-and-git
strike. And I still haven't confirmed that."
"Things here are going to go ragged," the Executioner
said.
"I know. As soon as I put something together, you'll
know." Price dropped out of the loop.
Bolan settled in behind a line of brush and scanned the
campsite. A half-dozen soldiers were stripping camou can-
vas from stacks of fifty-five-gallon drums that he assumed




were filled with fuel. Mentally filing away the location, he
took out a pair of small field glasses and studied the camp-
site.
The bamboo cage was barely visible, and it took real
effort to spot the human figures inside.
A five-ton truck ground its gears, then started away from
the camp, following a trail through the jungle. A canvas
tarp covered small artillery pieces. Besides the two men
inside the cab, a third man rode shotgun on the passenger-
side running board.
Bolan tagged the headset transmit button. "Phoenix
Five?"
"Yeah," Hawkins responded.
"You see the heavy-five?"
' 'Affirmative."
"We could use it."
"I'm on my way." Hawkins dropped out of sight just
as the truck disappeared around a bend in the trail.
"Phoenix Three," Bolan transmitted.
"Go."
"Ready some shaped charges. We're going to take ad-
vantage of that fuel dump."
"Which way do you want it headed?"
"Back toward the camp. I'm going to try for the cage."
"Roger."
Bolan shrugged out of his combat harness, but kept the
Stechkin and three antipersonnel grenades. Then he circled
through the brush, closing on one of the prefab structures
that was close to the jungle. There was a sliding glass win-
dow in the wall at the rear.
Peering through the dusty glass, he saw a small room
filled with bags of rice, beans and other foodstuffs. Evi-
dently the operation had been set up to survive on its own
for a couple weeks or more if it had to. Two soldiers were

inside the room taking inventory. The front end of a jeep
could be seen outside.
Bolan slipped the blade of his fighting knife under the
window and yanked upward, snapping the flail lock. The
ping of the metal giving way was covered by the roar of
engines and whine of gearboxes. Throwing a leg over the
narrow ledge, he followed it inside.
One of the men turned, working with the notepad. He
saw Bolan and reached for his side arm.
The Executioner flipped up the Stechkin and fired a
short, silenced burst that caught the North Korean soldier
in the chest and drove him backward into wire racks hold-
ing packages and boxes of food.
The other man grabbed for the assault rifle leaning
against the wall. Before he could get it, Bolan was on him.
Wrapping his gun hand under the soldier's chin, the Exe-
cutioner placed his other hand behind the guy's head and
twisted viciously.
Bone crunched as vertebrae splintered.
Lowering the dead man to the floor, Bolan quickly
stripped the jacket and matching uniform cap from him. Ho
added the four extra magazines for the AK-47 the man
carried, then scooped up the assault rifle, as well.
At the door, he pulled the cap low over his face, then
stepped out into the campsite. The jacket and cap blended
him in with the rest of the activity, and he kept in motion,
not letting anyone get within fifteen feet of him. If the camp
hadn't been so distracted, chances of being found out would
have been even greater. But he'd figured the small disguise
would have a good shot at being successful.
He skirted other soldiers, staying close to buildings. The
bamboo cage was less than forty feet away, guarded by two
men. The Executioner let the Stechkin drop into his hand
and kept walking.




HAWKINS HAD ALREADY noted the way the trail switch-
backed on itself after leaving the campsite. The first hun-
dred yards was the hardest, running through soft ground
and thick vegetation with all the gear strapped about his
body. Vines and creepers pulled at him, tried to trip him,
but he kept up the pace.
A glance to his right showed him the truck was just top-
ping the rise about fifty yards out. Hawkins was already
streaking along the downgrade. His lungs burned with the
sustained effort, but he didn't break off the pace.
Twenty yards ahead of the laboring truck, he fell into
position behind a tree at the side of the trail, masked by
the jungle. He gripped the Stechkin, checking to make sure
the sound suppressor was still screwed tightly into place.
As the vehicle passed, he threw himself into motion, pac-
ing it at first, then dropping behind for an instant and racing
around to the passenger side.
The guard riding shotgun on the outside was talking to
the men inside the truck. He kept his assault rifle canted
on his hip. His position also blocked the view from the
outside mirror.
Hawkins redoubled his efforts, knowing the thud of his
boots would be covered by the truck noises. When he was
almost within arm's reach of the soldier on the running
board, the man took out a cigarette, then turned back to
light it in his cupped hands.
The North Korean's eyes went wide, and he dropped his
cigarette and lighter as he tried to raise his assault rifle.
Lifting the Stechkin, Hawkins put a 3-round burst
through the man's head. For a moment, the corpse clung
stubbornly to the truck, then it tumbled free.
The Phoenix Force fighter had to vault the dead man and
lost a step on the truck. He forced himself to go faster, not
knowing if the men inside the truck knew what had hap-

pened. He leaped and landed on the running board, grab-
bing for the side mirror, seeing the faces of the two men
inside the truck reflected, knowing they saw him, too. He
brought the Stechkin around in his left hand, maintaining
his hold on the mirror.
The truck jerked as the driver pinned the accelerator to
the floor, while the soldier in the passenger seat flipped his
cigarette at Hawkins's face.
Ignoring the cigarette, Hawkins brought the Stechkin to
bear on the track driver. He squeezed the trigger, firing
through the passenger-side window.
The truck driver jerked with the half-dozen impacts that
sprayed him, the 9 mm rounds coring into the door and
leaving metal scars behind. Weaving dangerously, the truck
went out of control, charging through the trees and brush
like a behemoth gone berserk.
The remaining soldier shoved the door open, trying to
knock Hawkins from the running board. But the Phoenix
Force warrior held on with one hand even as the truck came
to a sudden stop against a small copse of pine trees. The
last guard was fumbling at his feet for his assault rifle, and
Hawkins seized the chance to drop him with a head shot.
Pulling the two bodies out of the cab, Hawkins then
hopped up behind the steering wheel. He started the vehicle
and headed to the campsite. Tagging the headset's transmit
button, he said, "This is Phoenix Five. Coming your way."
"Come on, Five," Bolan said. "Put the truck behind the
fuel dump, on the southwest side as close as you can.
You'll be drawing attention, but other things should be hap-
pening by then. Three."
"Go," Encizo responded.
"Get those charges in place."
"On my way."
The clearing came into sight. Dawn was a solid presence




now, catching the world in that instant of twilight just be-
fore everything became clear again. Tension knotted in
Hawkins's stomach as he drove for the fuel dump.
When the first ragged burst of auto fire sounded, he
thought he'd been discovered. Then he realized the firing
was coming from the area where they thought the prisoners
were being held.
The North Korean soldiers acted confused for a lost mo-
ment, milling around until their commanders urged them
into action.
Hawkins cursed fluidly and pressed harder on the accel-
erator. Whatever had screwed up in Bolan's play, he needed
to be in position. When and if they managed the exfiltration
out of the campsite, it was going to be a hell-for-leather
ride.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Mack Bolan dodged to the right, away from the line of
bullets tracking him. His cover had been blown when the
officer trying to gun him down had called out orders to him
and the Executioner hadn't responded.
He dropped to the ground and rolled, aware that three
other North Korean soldiers were joining the fray. Bringing
up the Stechkin, he zipped a haif-dozen rounds across the
officer's chest, knocking the man down and back.
Taking deliberate aim, the Executioner put a 9 mm siz-
zler into the center of the soldier's forehead. Dirt kicked
into the warfior's eyes as the dead man's last rounds tore
into the packed ruts in the earth only a couple feet in front
of him.
As he got to his feet, he drew the Makarov with his other
hand. Glancing at the bamboo cage holding the SEALs, he
growled, "Get down!"
Immediately the special-ops team dropped.
Taking aim on the lock holding the door closed, Bolan
spotted Grimaidi among them, looking worse for the wear
but functional. The Executioner squeezed the Marakov's
trigger, and the pistol jerked in his hand.
On the door, the lock jumped like a bass hitting the end
of a shallow run. Another round cored into the lock and
left it in pieces.




Turning his attention back to the North Korean soldiers,
Bolan fired three rounds from the Makarov that blasted a
gunner from the roof of the building adjacent to the bamboo
cage.
Two rounds ripped through the North Korean uniform
jacket Bolan wore and slammed against the body armor
underneath. The SEALs flooded through the open door. Bo-
lan recognized the lead figure as Commander James Con-
rad.
Conrad scooped up the AK-47 from the dead guard on
the run, then turned and fired a blistering figure eight that
took out two new arrivals. He glanced back at Bolan.
"Have you got a plan, or are we just winging this?"
"A plan," Bolan replied. "Keep your group together
and follow me."
"We've got dead in the building next door. I'm not leav-
ing without them." Beneath the mud-stained blond hair,
Conrad's face was bleached and hard.
Bolan nodded. The request was understandable, and he
didn't intend to leave any dead behind, either. Bullets drove
him into cover beside the small portable building across
from Conrad and the SEALs. He pulled out a grenade.
"Can your team handle them?"
Conrad nodded.
"Get it done."
The SEAL commander fired off a quick salute and
pointed out members among his team to accompany him.
Two of the SEALs had already scavenged other weapons
from the fallen North Korean soldiers. One of them stayed
with a man obviously too wounded to move under his own
power.
Popping the pin on the grenade, Bolan lobbed the bomb
toward the three gunners taking cover behind a trailer filled

with boxes. The explosion overturned the wailer and blew
the soldiers away. "Sarge."
Bolan spun wward Grimaldi and wssed him the Maka-
roy. Another burst from the Stechkin put down a North
Korean soldier who'd had the pilot in his sights.
The two SEALs who'd remained to hold their positions
continued to add to their firepower and provided a with-
ering cover to Conrad and the two men who'd accompanied
him to get the dead. Grimaldi added to the count with the
Makarov, punching a bullet through the head of a man
peering around a building farther down.
Conrad reappeared in the doorway of the building he'd
charged into. He carried the corpse of an American ser-
viceman over his shoulder.
"Stay here and hold this position," Bolan ordered. "We
need wheels."
Conrad nodded. "For a while. I don't think they're going
to give us much choice."
Bolan waved over Grimaldi, then jogged to the end of
the next building. Beside an adjacent building, Bolan spot-
ted a ten-wheeler with a canvas-covered back. The driver's-
side door was open, revealing no one in the cabin.
Bolan tapped the headset transmitter. "Three."
"Go, Stony One."
"Your surprise package?"
"Ready."
"Five?" Bolan said.
"Go?'
"Your truck?"
"Ready, Stony One. Should we attempt a rendezvous?"
"Negative, Five. Copy that, Three. We'll be headed your
way in just a moment. Be prepared to take the heat off."
"Roger, Stony One."




Bolan set himself, ilsting an extra magazine for the
Stechkin. "Jack."
"I'm ready, Sarge, but that's a lot of open space."
Without another word, the Executioner broke cover and
ran for the truck with everything he had. His boots thudded
solidly against the packed, broken earth.
Halfway across the forty-yard distance, his peripheral vi-
sion picked up the jeep approaching on an interception
course too fast for him to completely dodge. The soldier
manning the .50-caliber machine gun mounted on the deck
cut loose, overriding the other noises with fresh thunder.
A pair of bullets from Grimaldi's covering fire ripped
into the passenger's face.
Guided by his instinct for survival, the Executioner
leaped, skidding across the hood of the jeep. He impacted
for one dizzying second against the windshield and cracked
the glass on the driver's side. Then he was across, off bal-
ance, but figuring the moves.
He brought up the Stechkin as he rolled to his feet. The
pistol jumped in his fist, and the subsonic rounds cycled
through in coughing noises that were lost in the carnage.
The blistering web of 9 mm manglers warped into the ma-
chine gunner and tipped him away from the big weapon as
he tried to bring it to bear on Bolan.
The warrior turned and sprinted for the ten-wheeler
again.
The jeep driver turned sharply, aiming for Bolan. Then
his windshield starred again and his head came apart, let-
ting the warrior know Grimaidi's marksmanship was hold-
ing up.
Bolan pulled himself into the ten-wheeler and searched
for the starter with his foot, bullets ripping into the truck
cab from the side. Ducking, hearing the engine turn over,
Bolan slipped the transmission into gear and popped the

clutch. The driving wheels churned and threw the ten-
wheeler forward.
A pair of North Korean soldiers had sprinted into posi-
tion at the front of the advancing truck in an attempt to
stop it. Their bullets scattered across the grille, then they
realized it was coming straight at them. They didn't have
a chance to completely escape, and Bolan heard one of
them splat against the truck's nose, then the wheels
bounced along the right side as they ran over the man.
Bolan tagged the transmitter button on the headset.
"Stony Base, this is Stony One."
"Go, Stony One, you have Stony Base."
"I've got dead and I've got wounded. How are you com-
ing on that transport?" Handling the unassisted steering
with brute strength, Bolan took the corner around the build-
ing near where Conrad and the SEAL team were waiting.
A rampaging jeep with a three-man team was attempting
to strafe them with the machine gun.
"It'll be there when you get to the coast, Stony One."
Bolan shifted gears, gaining speed, and put the acceler-
ator down harder. The jeep driver was intent on the SEALs,
not paying too much attention to what was in front of him.
He didn't see the approaching truck until it was too late.
Cutting the wheels hard, he tried in vain to avoid a colli-
sion.
Using the ten-wheeler's greater weight and momentum
as a weapon, Bolan ran the jeep down. Even higher up and
protected by the bigger vehicle, he was jarred into the steer-
ing wheel.
The ten-wheeler drove the jeep before it like a bulldozer,
shoving it into the burning wreckage of the trailer that the
warrior had grenaded earlier.
Bolan dropped from the truck cab as Conrad came hus-
fling up with his men.




"We're aboard," Conrad called out, jogging forward.
Bolan nodded and slid in behind the steering wheel. The
SEAL team leader jumped up on the running board and
hung on. Grimaidi took up a position on the other side. As
the Executioner took off, he handed Conrad the remaining
two grenades. "Final party favors," the warrior said grim-
ly. "Make the most of them."
Conrad grinned crookedly. "Always loved making an
exit people talked about."
Since the wreck with the jeep, the ten-wheeler pulled
slightly to the left, but Bolan noticed with satisfaction that
none of the cooling system appeared to have suffered any
damage. The headset crackled in his ear.
Price said, "Stony One, you're about to encounter an
APC. Break off your course."
Bolan didn't have time to acknowledge before the
tracked BMP-I armored personnel carrier turned sharply
around a portable building less than sixty yards away. Eas-
ily thirty years old, the Russian APC remained rugged and
threatening. The right-side tracks tore up hunks of the earth
as it maneuvered. The turret holding the 73 mm cannon
rotated, coming to bear on the ten-wheeler. "Shit," Grimaldi said.
A gunner on the APC deck fired a constant stream of
7.62 mm rounds that rattled against the front of the ten-
wheeler and burst through the windshield on the passenger
side.
"Hold on," Bolan said, cutting hard left. He double-
clutched and powered toward the largest portable building
at the site.
The 73 mm cannon roared, then a louder explosion
sounded a heartbeat later, almost lost in the crash that
sounded as the ten-wheeler smashed through the building's
side. Two steel wall struts were tom out of their temporary

moorings, and whole panels of metal siding were tipped
free.
Knowing the APC would give pursuit, Bolan kept the
accelerator down, gaining speed again as he raced for the
other side. The windshield looked like a jigsaw puzzle with
a few of the pieces gone. Vision was occluded by the criss-
crossed cracks.
A brief impression of wrecked computer equipment
strewed across the room was all Bolan got before the ten-
wheeler smashed through the other side. He turned the
wheels back to the fight, catching sight of the portable
building just as it collapsed.
The BMP-1 rolled after them, the tracks cutting deep into
the earth and tipping the rest of the building to shreds.
Tapping the headset's transmit button, he said, "Stony
Base, this is Stony One. Do you confirm the fissionable
materials?"
"Affirmative, Stony One. But they're not at your loca-
tion."
"Where are they?"
"Opposite direction. Headed for Pyongyang."
"How are they being transported? The helicopter we
spotted earlier?" Autofire from the rear of the ten-wheeler
let Bolan know the SEAL team wasn't content to get out
of the battle without leaving its mark.
"No. It's a truck convoy that evidently left a little before
the helicopter."
"Do they have radio communications with this camp?"
Bolan steered around an overturned jeep and headed for the
fuel dump. He spotted Encizo at the edge of the jungle,
carrying the combat harness and gear he'd left behind.
"Yes," Price replied.
Hawkins was in a tree overhead. A grenade leaped from




his BG-15 and streaked past the ten-wheeler, exploding
somewhere behind them.
"How far away are they?" Bolan asked. He glanced in
the only surviving rearview mirror and saw the North Ko-
rean forces in a staggered line behind them. A handful of
jeeps flanked the BMP-1.
"Five, maybe six miles," Price replied.
"Rafe," Bolan called out as the ten-wheeler passed the
parked truck behind the fuel dump.
"I've got it," the Cuban answered.
"Can you get air transport for us, Stony Base?" Bolan
asked.
"Negative, Stony One. There's an interception crew
coming from Pyongyang now that will probably overtake
your group before you reach the coast. Anything we put in
the air, they'll be able to track on radar. It would only be
a flying target in-country."
At their present rate of speed, Bolan knew the coast was
maybe ten or twelve minutes away. He glanced in the mar_
view mirror and saw the APC and the jeeps come abreast
of the fuel dump in a sweep to continue the pursuit.
"Now," Encizo growled.
The destruction caused by the shaped charges, the direc-
tion of their force aided by the truck parked behind them,
was immediate. The series of explosions ruptured the fuel
drums and set the contents on fire, unleashing not only the
concussion and antipersonnel fragments, but a rolling wave
of flames that stuck to their targets like napalm.
The BMP-1 rolled through the blast, but came out flam-
ing. The soldier operating the 7.62 mm machine gun on
deck turned into a fiery scarecrow that staggered, then
dropped to the ground. The crews aboard the jeeps were
wiped out at once, and the vehicles coasted to jerking stops
� on burning tires.

A cheer broke out among the SEALs in the back.
"That's something," Conrad yelled over the noise, "that
I'm going to work on remembering."
Bolan slowed just for a moment so Bncizo could swing
aboard and Hawkins could drop out of the tree. His mind
was racing, trying to figure the logistics necessary to secure
the fissionable materials, as well. He wasn't going to settle
for half a win, not when so much was at stake.
"What heading is the convoy taking?" Bolan pulled a
compass from his pocket as the truck roared up over a ridge
that allowed him to see the water of Korea Bay in the
distance. He took a bearing, found a landmark he could
focus on and put the accelerator down harder. "North."
"Along the coastline?"
"Affirmative, Stony One. From maps we have of the
area, that appears to be the best route to get to Pyongyang."
"The aircraft carrier has a Chinook transport chopper
and a Marine hovercraft, doesn't it?" The play came to-
gether in Bolan's head as he wound along the trail.
"Yes." Price sounded thoughtful.
"How far out are they?"
"The Thomas Paine is fifteen miles out."
"Can they get the hovercraft ready to ship in the next
few minutes?"
"I'll check and get back to you," the mission controller
answered.
Bolan drove the big ten-wheeler to the extent of its ca-
pabilities and the surrounding terrain. Pursuit would be
quick and relentless when it came.
"You're going after the fissionable materials," Conrad
said.
Bolan glanced at the SEAL team commander. "Yeah."
"Seems to me, my team and I left a job undone. If you'll




take us, I don't think you'll find anyone who can walk
who'll turn you down."
The Executioner nodded. Conrad wasn't asking for ven-
geance. That would have been unprofessional. He was just
asking for a chance to finish what he'd started, and Bolan
respected that.
Thirteen harried minutes later, the ten-wheeler arrived at
the coastline, and Bolan spotted the tight trio of helicopters
speeding toward the small harbor. Fishermen spread out
around the water quickly retreated, pulling their boats into
the safety of shore covered by trees and brush.
"Stony One, Thomas Paine's Black Hawk Leader con-
firms visual," Price said.
"We see him." Bolan stepped out of the cab and glanced
back down the trail.
Hawkins stood at the back of the ten-wheeler with a pair
of field glasses. "They're there," he said grimly. "Going
to be a hell of a horse race whether the choppers get here
first, or the North Korean military."
Bolan took the AK-47 and the combat harness Encizo
handed him and quickly strapped into it. "Then we're go-
ing to have to hold them, because they need time to make
the pickup." He told Conrad to get his wounded and dead
into cover away from the truck. The equipment crate they'd
dropped a few hours ago from the Osprey had four
RPG-7 rocket launchers, but it was too far from their pres-
ent position to do any good.
The Executioner jogged toward a small rise on the left
that would provide a defensible position. Throwing himself
on the ground, he readied tbe assault rifle, spreading out
his last three rockets and four spare magazines. Hawkins
and Encizo found positions, as well.
"Stony One," Price called, "we're patching you in to

Black Hawk Leader. Also, the Chinook is en route with the
hovercraft."
"Good," Bolan said. "Have the Chinook standing out-
side the twelve-mile limit, under radar if it can."
"No problem, but what good is it going to do there?"
"When we find the truck convoy," Bolan said, adjusting
the AK's scope for the three-hundred-yard distance he'd be
working at, "it's going to be our way home."
"We're not going to be able to hold support for you for
long," Price warned.
"There's no choice, Stony Base. Letting them get away
with the fissionable materials will be like a knife at the
throats of the South Koreans."
"I agree. Let me know if you need anything else." Price
dropped out of the loop.
Two jeeps raced for the shoreline almost side by side,
followed by another half-dozen vehicles. Machine-gun fire
from the deck-mounted .50-caliber guns chopped into the
canvas back of the ten-wheeler, shredding it.
"Stony One, this is Black Hawk Leader," a fiat Boston
voice said.
"Glad to have you, Black Hawk Leader. You're going
to be making a partial pickup---three dead and one
wounded." Bolan squeezed the BG-15's trigger.
The tinned warhead jumped from the grenade launcher's
mouth and streaked straight and true, slamming into the
lead jeep's left front fender. The explosion rocked the jeep
and turned it over, killing or seriously injuring the crew.
"Understood, Stony One. And we've got some firepower
headed your way, too."
"A matched pair of Sikorsky H-76 Eagles," Grimaldi
said as he fell in beside Bolan. He'd strapped into the gear
he'd scavenged, as well as one of the spare headset units
Hawkins had carried.




"Acknowledged, Black Hawk Leader, but we need at
least two of those jeeps intact," Bolan said.
"Black Hawk reads you. We'll discourage them and
leave a couple intact. Trust the hands that you're in,
friend."
Bolan did. Peering through the AK's scope, he relayed
the orders to the Phoenix Force warriors and Grimaldi. The
crosshairs fell over the driver's heart in the second jeep.
He fired a double tap, seeing the man's shirt jump as the
bullets took him.
The jeep slewed out of control and flipped onto its side.
Staying with the targets he'd chosen, Bolan fired method-
ically, hammering down the two men who'd survived the
wreck. "That's one," he said.
The remaining six jeeps zipped around the remains of
the first two. Abruptly the rearmost jeep pulled hard to the
side and slammed into a tree. Only one of the men got up,
but a single round from Hawkins's rifle knocked him to the
ground.
"That's two," Hawkins said.
At the top of the hill behind the jeeps, the blackened
form of the BMP-1 came into view and set itselfi
Bolan estimated the range as being more than the four
hundred yards accessible to either the AK-47 or the
BG-15. Even if it wasn't, though, neither weapon would
have penetrated the APC.
Glancing over his shoulder, Bolan saw the Sikorsky
S-70/UH-60A Black Hawk thump down into the sandy rock
of the harbor only a few yards from the SEALs, the rotors
raking up dust clouds. The H-76 Eagles thundered over-
head, heading for the line of jeeps.
The North Korean troops broke ranks as they realized
the danger they were in. The Eagles never gave them a
chance. A fusillade of 2.75-inch rockets erupted from the

pods underneath the stubby wings, delivering hell on earth
for the jeeps. Metal, dirt, rock and trees crashed back to
ground as gravity usurped control from the concussive
force.
At the top of the hill, the BMP-1 belched a 73 mm round
that screamed through the air, then dropped into the waters
of the bay, yards off its target. Water rained over the Black
Hawk, drenching the beach.
A heartbeat later, a TOW missile dropped from the
stubby wings of the lead H-76, then shot forward. When it
hit and the smoke and pyrotechnics cleared, the burning
corpse of the APC sat awkwardly atop the scarred crest of
the hill.
Bolan pushed himself into motion at once, running for
the jeeps that had survived the attack. Hawkins, Encizo and
Grimaldi were at his heels, and the SEAL team only a short
distance behind them.
"Black Hawk leader," Price called coolly over the fre-
quency, "be advised that we are tracking six MiGs ap-
proaching your location at top speed. ETA is a minute and
a half."
"We read you, Stony Base. Black Hawk Leader is pull-
ing out. We've got the cargo."
Bolan slung his assault rifle when he reached the first
jeep. A brief glance over his shoulder showed the three
helicopters withdrawing from the battlezone. He put his
hands on the jeep, joined by Grimaldi, and managed to flip
it over after considerable effort. The vehicle landed roughly
on its tires, but seemed to be holding together. Hawkins and Encizo righted the other one.
Climbing behind the wheel, Bolan tried the ignition. The
engine turned sluggishly, but it started. He engaged the
transmission while the SEALs separated into two three-man
teams. Grimaldi took the passenger seat, then kicked the




warped folding windshield out of the way. Most of the glass
was already missing.
Bolan turned to make sure Hawkins had gotten the other
jeep started, spotting him just as the vehicle shot twin
rooster tails of dirt and rock out. The warrior tapped the
headset's transmit button. "Stony Base, this is Stony One."
Pushing the accelerator down, he shifted through the gears,
heading for the worn trail that knifed through the jungle.
"Go, Stony One, you have Stony Base."
"Do you still copy the truck convoy?"
"That's affirmative. They're nine miles from your pres-
ent heading."
"Holding to the trail?"
"Roger. With the dawn, we have full visual telemetry."
Bolan pulled onto the trail out Of the brush, mowing
down low branches and small trees. "Do the MiGs copy
the Chinook?"
"Not as far as we can tell, Stony One. But it's only a
matter of time until they get a plane in the area with SLAR
capabilities."
"Yeah, but SLAR requires a chopper or a fixed-wing
aircraft, neither of which is going to be able to get here as
quick as the MiGs."
"I'm counting on that, too," the mission controller re-
sponded. "A trio of F-18/A Hornets is going to stay just
outside the coast in international airspace and on radar to
run interference. The Chinook pilot's going to stick as long
as he can."
In the rearview mirror, Bolan noticed the SEALs field-
stripping and readying their captured Russian and Chinese-
made weapons. Farther back, Hawkins followed in the
other jeep. "Keep him matched up with the convoy, but
far enough out that he's out of sight."
"Done. We'll be standing by."

Bolan kept both hands on the wheel, pushing himself and
the vehicle to the limit.
Behind him, Conrad stuck a small flag of the United
States of America to the spring-loaded whip at the rear of
the jeep. Once it was secured, he popped it loose and it
sailed into the sky, unfurling the familiar red, white and
blue. "The colors are for us," Conrad said, sitting back
and pulling his AK-47 across his knees. "Since they know
who they're dealing with anyway."
Bolan understood. The warrior had fought numerous
covert skirmishes and major battles in his war everlasting.
In a land surrounded by enemies, with death at every turn,
that rectangle of colors was more than a symbol: it was a
reminder that other men had fought and shed blood to pro-
tect a way of life that was worth dying for.
However the present mission played out, the Executioner
knew he was in good company.

Off the Coast of North Korea

THE GREENISH GLOW of the computer monitors and the ra-
dar screens bathed Dixon Lynch and his people as they sat
in the small command module aboard the Shadow Scythe.
Captain Rurik Persikov, late of the Russian navy, was at
the helm of the submarine. A tall, lean man sporting a
short-clipped dark beard going to silver, he spoke English
for the benefit of his crew and Lynch. "They got them out," Kalico said.
Lynch gazed at the satellite-fed monitor showing the ear-
nage left by the covert force along the North Korean harbor.
"I didn't expect anything less." He turned to Cameron.
"You're getting this on tape?"
"Straight to CD," the man replied, manning his com-
puter console with authority.




"I want copies," Lynch said. "Here, and back in Sin-
gapore."
Cameron nodded and punched keys. "You got it."
"How are they getting their communications relayed?"
Kalico asked.
"Either the Russians or the Chinese," Lynch answered.
The presence of the aircraft carrier and the carefully or-
chestrated assault to rescue the SEALs had let him know
the covert force had tapped into another avenue for their
transmissions. "Given the information we turned up, I'd
bet on the Chinese."
"They're going to overtake Sym in a matter of min-
utes," Kalico warned.
"Yes." Lynch smiled, thinking about it.
"At this point, love, we do have the option of letting the
North Korean military know there is a threat to the fission-
able materials. They could intercept this covert team with
jet fighters if they knew where to look."
"True," Lynch replied. "We could reduce the number
of people we're up against, and severely hamstring the op-
eration against the North Koreans. However--" he leaned
in closer to the monitor "---the idea of Sym getting killed
or losing the respect of his superiors is more entertaining."
"Yes, but these people--"
"These people," Lynch insisted, "are no problem. You
take away their fancy gadgets and information-gathering
systems, and you're left with an enforcement arm without
direction." He turned back to gaze over the rest of the
submarine. "They're not even aware of us." "There is the problem of Eddie Trask."
"Trask is like the people in New York. They don't know
anything about me. I worked their employment through
other people, who can't be traced now. There's nothing but
a trail of dead ends. And, quite frankly, the idea of the

North Koreans dropping a nuclear warhead into the middle
of Seoul and the economic summit in retaliation is more
stressful to me than these people are. I've got business
down there in the next few hours. The covert agency can't
touch me, but I don't intend to get blown up while cutting
the biggest deal of my life."
"You could be underestimating their abilities," Kalico
cautioned.
Lynch looked at her. "No. I know these people. They
haven't got a clue about me. They never will until it's too
late. Shatterstop will be in place in a matter of hours, as
well. If I need to, I can eliminate them in seconds." He
smiled. "We've succeeded, fair lady, and it was even easier
than I'd expected."
The woman nodded noncommittally.
Lynch removed his jacket because it was too warm in
the Shadow Scythe. The sub represented five years of his
attention, several million of his dollars and corporate es-
pionage from deep inside the Skunk Works arm of Lock-
heed, the Navy and DARPA. The final bill came in at sev-
enty-two percent under what he could have expected to pay
if he'd worked from designs he'd developed himself.
She was powered by diesel-electric engines that could
push her along at almost thirty knots, driven by the single-
screw assembly. Given the circumstances, it was a reason-
able enough speed. The boat was also of stealth design,
capable of producing a radar and sonar cross section the
size of a gull or a fish. Even if she was slower than many
surface ships, first she had to be found.
From the beginning of his immersion in global criminal
activities, Lynch had known he'd need an operations base
that no one could find. For a time, he'd considered an island
somewhere in the South China Sea. When he'd discovered
the possibilities of a stealth submarine, he'd recognized the




need for maneuverability. Once he started taking aggressive
strides, his enemies would track him back eventually.
The Shadow Scythe made that all but impossible. She
couldn't be found unless he wanted her found. And even
so, she was armed with Mk48 torpedoes capable of wire-
guided strikes as far out as fifty kilometers. The sub also
had computers that were able to interface with the huge
Crays Lynch had set up in Singapore.
The next phase of his campaign lay in Seoul, and he
intended that nothing stand in his way. "Captain," he said to Persikov.
"Mr. Lynch." The Russian turned to him, hands folded
behind him at parade rest, spine stiff and straight.
"Your best guess at when I can expect to rendezvous
with my party in Seoul."
There was no hesitation, and Persikov didn't glance at
his watch or the clock at the conn. "Seven hours, at full
speed."
Lynch nodded in satisfaction. He had a few phone calls
to make to arrange the meeting. Once they were safely out
of the net the Americans had set up around the Nampo
coastline, he'd order a communications buoy released that
could access his satellite channels and get everything lined
out for the final pitch.
He surveyed the command center with pride. Though he
didn't know that much about submarine protocol, he took
pride in the fact that he controlled everything he saw, in-
cluding the ex-Russian submarine captain who'd once been
one of the most feared adversaries the U.S. Navy had faced.
"Razor," he called to the Australian.
"Yeah, mate?"
"Your program has been fed into their programming?"
Gutter Razor nodded. "The phone calls that we picked
up in Seoul confirmed the complete feed. I ran a couple

test patterns. We're in solid. They're ours the next time we
make contact."
Lynch turned to Kalico. "Give them their satellites back.
Let's let them have a sense of some security before we
strip it away entirely."




CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"Look, man, we either get off this island, or we all die."
In the backseat of the car, Eddie Trask flexed his arms
handcuffed behind his back.
Carl Lyons glanced at the red light holding him in check
at the intersection. They were in the Chevy rental, headed
for the nearest hotel out of the main drag of San Juan.
Blancanales sat beside him, turned to face their prisoner.
Schwarz was seated beside Trask. "Got a flair for the
dramatic, doesn't he?"
"Yeah," Blancanales said. "I noticed how quiet he was
while we were dealing with the federales. No sass then."
"I had to wait," Trask said. "I need to know how much
weight you guys can pull."
Lyons made his eyes hard in the mirror. "Enough weight
to drop you in the deep water somewhere with your shiny
new handcuffs and a big rock as your synchronized swim-
ming partner---unless you have some answers for us."
"Shit," Trask said. "You're some kind of cop."
"Not anymore."
Schwarz turned toward the Marine, his eyes hidden be-
hind mirror-lensed sunglasses. "Who are you working
for?"
"Don't I get a lawyer?" Trask asked.
"If you did," Schwarz said, "he'd be here now."

"You get a rock." Lyons made his voice cold and dis-
tant.
"Eddie," Biancahales said softly, "just talk to me.
Maybe I can help you. Who were you working for?"
"Man." Trask let out a long breath. "You got a ciga-
rette?"
Blancanales reached into his pocket and produced a
pack. He shook out two and lit them, placing one of them
between Trask's lips.
Trask let out a long, smoke-laced breath. "Thanks."
Blancanales waved it away, acting as if he were enjoying
his own cigarette.
Lyons had seen the Politician buy the pack of cigarettes
in the hotel lobby while all the jurisdictional questions were
being sorted out with the local PD. They were the same
brand as the ones that he'd taken from Trask while search-
ing him. Well versed in psychological warfare, the flip side
of Blancanales's talent lay in getting people to trust him.
"You're in a hell of a lot of trouble, Eddie," Blancanales
said sympathetically.
"You don't know the half of it."
"Maybe. But I can get you out of some of it. Tell me
who you're working with."
Trask took a deep breath. "You heard of a guy named
Ramon DeSilva?" he asked.
"Sure. He's connected with the Colombian cartels."
"Is he the guy behind the New York txansmissions?"
Lyons asked.
"No, man. This is my story. Let me tell it."
"Go ahead, Eddie," Blancanales said calmly.
"I'm putting my head in a noose here," Trask said bel-
ligerently, "and I don't think your partner appreciates what
I'm having to do."
"It's okay."




Lyons kept the car in motion, figuring if he stopped at
the hotel any time soon, Trask would shut up. Still, he kept
his eyes roving, working the streets in practiced sweeps that
would let him know if he was being tailed. Acting as if he
didn't believe Trask was one thing; ignoring the warning
in light of everything else was stupid.
"I got hooked up with DeSilva while I've been at San
Juan," Trask said. "He manages a lot of shipments into
Florida and needed someone who could figure out where
the DEA and Coast Guard was going to be, when the best
time was to try to get a shipment in. Then I started putting
together some small buys, rolled the money over and re-
invested it, found some guys willing to take a plane into
Florida and got some heavier action going on."
"You must have been living lucky," the Politician said,
"if DeSilva didn't step on you for invading his territory."
"Hey, fuck you. I know what I'm doing. DeSilva, he
was putting through mayhe seventy percent of his ship-
ments. You know what my average was?"
"You know computers," Blancanales commented. "You
had an edge on him."
"Damn straight." Trask leaned back in the seat and tried
to appear comfortable. "I'm strictly twenty-first century,
man, and DeSilva comes on like some feudal warlord. ff
something gets in his way, his first impulse is to knock the
shit out of it."
"So what was your average?" Lyons asked. He made a
lane change and checked the rearview mirror. Behind him,
a Chevy Suburban cut off a station wagon to follow the
lane change. Lyons's cop radar clicked on softly and locked
onto the Suburban. Mentally he prepared his next moves,
taking advantage of the traffic, buying time and looping
� back down into the heart of the city. He glanced in the

rearview mirror and caught Schwarz's gaze, then deliber-
ately tugged on his earlobe.
Schwarz nodded imperceptibly but didn't look back.
"Every shipment I sent," Trask said, "got through and
made money. DeSilva had a guy watching me. He knew it.
Took him three months to come offer me a job."
"And you took it?" Blancanales asked.
"For more money than I was making on my own hook,
better protection and enough weight that most of the locals
stayed away from me? In a heartbeat. He took his shipment
completion from seventy percent to ninety-two percent in
six weeks. I put him in contact with new clientele, too.
Man, I'm a god to DeSilva."
"So who are you afraid of?." Lyons asked.
Trask was quiet for a moment. Lyons watched the guy
lock eyes with Blancanales, who fired up a fresh cigarette
for him. "I don't know," Trask said.
Behind the rental car, the Suburban cut the distance
slightly. Lyons put his foot on the accelerator and beat out
a yellow light, leaving the big truck stranded behind a fiat-
bed hauling produce. He didn't intend to lose the tail, but
he'd gain some time.
"DeSilva comes to me maybe a month ago," Trask went
on, "and tells me about this guy who's making him an
offer to work out arrangements between himself and the
Sicilians and the Triads. Guy's thinking maybe DeSilva
would like to branch out, ship a little cocaine into Europe
and Asia and get some heroin to spice up what he had to
offer to Americans."
"That would make trouble with the Sicilian Mafia on the
East Coast and the Triads on the West Coast," Schwarz
said.
"No, man." Trask shook his head. "He was going to
act as go-between, iron out all the details and bring it to-


gether. He kept talking about maximizing profit. I could
tell because DeSilva suddenly had those words in his vo-
cabulary. Maximizing profit. DeSilva liked that." "So how did you get connected to him?"
"Part of the deal this guy was offering," Trask said,
"was that he was going to launder the money, too. All
those extra bucks, man, they had to be put back on the
books somewhere if the interested parties were going to
really maximize the profits."
"This guy was going to arrange that, too?" Biancahales
asked.
"You got it."
' 'Where?' '
"Russia."
Lyons eyed the Suburban in the rearview mirror. The
driver had come on slightly too fast, but had slowed, blend-
ing in with the traffic a hundred yards back, pacing.
"They're doing a lot of business in Russia these days,"
Biancahales commented.
"No shit, Sherlock. Got a guy down here in the islands,
on Aruba, by the name of Kandinsky who moves the drug
money around. This guy, he's supposed to fix DeSilva up
with Kandinsky as part of the deal." "Can he?" Schwarz asked.
Lyons noticed that Gadgets had shifted in his seat, ready-
ing the H&K MP-5 SD-3 between his feet. Trask was obliv-
ious to the move.
"That's what DeSilva wanted me to find out," Trask
said. "He knew I'm damn good with computers, and this
guy had broken into his computer network---the one off the
books--in Medellin and left the message. I monitored some
of the transmissions, developed a capture program and dug
into this guy. But hot damn, he's good! Closest I got was
somewhere in Singapore."

Lyons filed the information away. The update Price and
Kurtzman had sent along had mentioned the Singapore con-
nection.
"You don't know who this guy is?" Biancahales asked.
"No. Like I said, he's one of the best I've ever seen."
"But you found out about the transmission from New
York," Lyons inserted.
"Yeah, but it truly took some digging, brother. Weeks
full of long hours. I piggybacked in when he zoned the
White House."
"Did you copy it?"
"Couldn't. He had it gecked so that wasn't possible."
"What else can you tell us?" Blancanales asked.
"We cutting a deal?"
� 'Yeah," Lyons replied. "If your info's good, you lose
the stripes and the military pension, but you get to walk."
�'where?"
"Back to the States."
"No way." Trask shook his head. "Leave me here. I'll
take care of my own self."
The Suburban came closer, purring along like a big cat
ready to pounce.
"Done," Lyons said. "Tell us what you have."
Trask smiled. "I can tell you one thing--4his guy's all
over this North Korea thing with the SEALs like stink on
a damn skunk. Also, he's got a clandestine little ops around
in Virginia code-named Shatterstop. He's been playing
games with the telecommunications systems, but I tracked
him today and yesterday. A few hours ago, Shatterstop
went mobile. I tracked it through cell phone relays. It's
some kind of vehicle, but I don't know anything more than
that."
"This guy tagged you for the New York deal?" Lyons
asked.




Trask nodded. "I think so. I wanted to get off the island,
but being in the Marine Corps, that would have put me
AWOL and maybe made DeSilva suspicious enough to
send somebody to whack me. So I decided to keep my head
low and hope he missed me."
"You got anything on Shatterstop?" Lyons asked.
"Sure. Disk back at my crib. Kind of lean, but it's
there."
"And no idea who this guy is?"
"No."
"Or where?"
"Where he's from originally, no. But I'd guess that son
of a bitch is somewhere in North Korea right now. I saw
the tapes they been playing on TV. I can't prove it, but I
don't think we're looking at the real thing there. To have
that kind of equipment on hand and get that kind of quality,
he'd have to be there." Trask leaned forward and let Blan-
canales take the cigarette butt from his mouth. "If this
guy's a phreak like I think he is, he likes to work the gig
and see the results for himself. Proximity has got to be a
turn-on, and so is being in control."
Lyons had it figured the same way.
"So where's DeSilva?" Schwarz asked.
"Seoul," Trask answered.
"What's he doing there?" Blancanales asked.
"This guy, he's in town for his first big meeting between
the people interested in doing business with him," Trask
said.
�'Where?"
� 'Don't have a clue, man. I figure he's using the eco-
nomic summit as a smoke screen, but he's evidently wired
the North Koreans as a support group for him. Things get
kind of hot for him in Seoul, he makes the jump back across

the DMZ and he's home free for a while. Then he fades
back into whatever secret place he's made for himself."
Lyons made an abrupt left-hand turn and roared north
down a side street. The Suburban's driver, closing fast, sud-
denly realized he'd been made and was in danger of losing
his prey.
Skidding, the Suburban fishtailed out of control for a
moment. Its bumper kissed a parked Toyota and smashed
the little cat's whole left side. Horns blared as the Suburban
freed itself amid a flurry of metallic shrieks and cut across
the oncoming traffic from both directions, smashing
through a stalled panel truck and muscling an older Lincoln
out of its way.
"Take the wheel," Lyons told Blancanales.
The Politician reached across and seized the steering
wheel just as Lyons abandoned it.
"And the brake," Lyons said. "Hard left into the alley
and I'm going to drop out. You go halfway down and stop.
While they're deploying to come down on you, I'll sur-
round them."
"You're going to surround them?" Blancanales echoed.
"Sure. Me, myself and I." Lyons slipped the Mossberg
500 pump shotgun from under the seat and glanced at
Schwarz. "Bursts, pal, and mind where I'm at."
Schwarz gave him a tight nod.
Glancing over his shoulder, Lyons saw the Suburban
speeding after them, cutting their lead. The big ex-LAPD
cop turned the wheel hard, guiding the rental car into a
narrow alley. A handful of pedestrian shoppers scattered.
"Keep going," Lyons said, then opened his door and
leaped out. His momentum almost pushed him from his
feet, but he kept his balance and brought himself to a sud-
den stop against the brick wall beside an overflowing gar-
bage container. Shoving stacks of empty cardboard boxes




out of his way, he took up a position and heard the shrill
of tortured rubber cover the other street sounds coming
� from beyond the alley's mouth.
The Able Team warrior brought up the Mossberg shot-
gun as Biancanales braked the rental to a halt, effectively
bottling the alley. The reverse lights flared white as the
Politician shifted gears, further warning their pursuers they
weren't going anywhere.
The Suburban came around the comer shredding rubber.
A glimpse over the top of the garbage container showed
Lyons at least six heads inside the vehicle. Skidding, it
briefly slammed into the side of the alley, but lost only a
little speed. Paint flakes and brick dust swirled in its wake.
It passed Lyons's position and he could hear the men
aboard screaming out warnings about the car ahead of
them.
Even as the Suburban's brake lights flared, Lyons
launched himself into action. Holding the Mossberg across
his chest, he raced for the big truck's rear bumper. Two
faces in the rear windows looked surprised. The men spun
around in the seats, bringing up assault weapons and leav-
ing no doubt about their intent. Lyons brought up the shot-
gun and loosed a charge of double-aught buckshot that
crashed through the glass, blowing them back.
Without pause, locked onto the slewing back end of the
Suburban, Lyons grabbed on to the spare tire mounted on
the back hatch, then vaulted up onto the rear bumper. The
vehicle swayed under his weight. Still scrambling, he
climbed the back of the Suburban, putting a foot on the
spare tire and pushing himself to the top.
Ahead of the truck, Schwarz slid out of the rental car
with the H&K MP-5 and raked staggered bursts across the
front of the vehicle. One of the shooters got out on the
passenger side and tried to take up a position.

Lyons pumped the shotgun, bringing it to bear on the
guy as he spun, and loosed a blast that took him squarely
in the chest and knocked him to the pavement. Still on the
move, aware that he was in a potentially vulnerable posi-
tion, the big Able Team warrior racked the slide and aimed
at the roof slightly ahead of him where he figured the mid-
dle seats would be. He pulled the trigger, and a series of
gaping holes appeared in the sheet metal, followed by
men' s screams.
A man bolted out of the rear door behind the driver, but
a burst from Schwarz stretched out his corpse.
With a snare-drum roll, a line of bullets punched holes
through the Suburban's rooftop, searching for Lyons. Mov-
ing swiftly, Lyons fired four more times, racking the slide
and squeezing off the rounds as quickly as possible. The
Suburban lurched into motion as the driver rediscovered
reverse. Lyons saved the final two rounds for the driver's
side, firing them through one after the other.
A second before the Suburban slammed to a jarring stop
against the alley wall, Lyons leaped to the ground, well
away from the front bumper. Holding the shotgun in one
hand, he drew the Colt Government Model .45 from the
paddle holster at his belt with the other.
Schwarz and Blancanales closed in with their weapons
at the ready. No one remained alive inside the van. Five
out of the seven were of Asian lineage, and the other two
were European or American, judging from the tattoos on
both of them, which were nautical in nature but not nec-
essarily military.
Lyons yanked the corpse behind the steering wheel out
onto the ground with one big fist, then knelt to go through
the clothing. "May be a waste of time, but let's search them
anyway. Could be a chance that if they were using faked




ID, Barb or the Bear could trace them back and vector in
a search pattern for these people."
Schwarz took out a small camera and quickly snapped
off a roll of film.
They were finished in minutes. The only find of signifi-
cance was a 35 mm picture of a young, Ilssome woman
standing by the railing of what appeared to be a good-sized
yacht. The coastline of a large city was spread out behind
them, partially blocked by a passing oil tanker. Blancanales
had found the picture tucked inside a new wallet beside
crisp American dollars. In the picture, the dead man he'd
retrieved it from had his arm around the woman.
Blancanales flicked the picture with a thumb as they
headed back to the rental, leaving the dead strewed behind
them. "Anyone want to bet this is a new love interest?"
he asked.
"Could be somebody he was holding the torch for,"
Schwarz commented as they got into the car.
Lyons guided the car out onto the street, turning side-
ways for a moment, and shot through the gap in the traffic.
Taking a right on red at the next comer, he got his bearings
and kept moving.
He kept constant check on all the mirrors, but couldn't
spot anyone following them.
Using the cell phone, he called Mott and told the pilot
to be ready for instant takeoff when they arrived. When he
punched the End button, he knew things were falling into
place. Too much information was coming their way, and
his cop's sense told him that.
The problem was, he didn't know for sure what kind of
deadline the Stony Man teams were up against. Or what
kind of shape they were in.

BARBARA PRICE STOOD watching the images on the wall
screen at the far end of the room. The view was from a

geosynchronous satellite twenty-three thousand miles out
in space, and showed Bolan and the Phoenix Force warriors
in pursuit of the North Korean convoy carrying the fission-
able materials. The last contact with Bolan had been more
than eight minutes earlier. She'd logged the time mentally,
then kept an eye on the sweep of the second hand.
The convoy resembled a convoluted earthworm twisting
and turning along the coastal road. The jeeps Bolan, Phoe-
nix Force and the SEALs occupied were only minutes away
from overtaking the tracks.
One of the monitors on Kurtzman's desk showed the
placement of the U.S. forces out in Korea Bay. The MiGs
had backed off from the helicopters carrying the wounded
and the dead back to the aircraft carrier as soon as the
American fighters had fired a couple of warning missiles.
So far, none of the North Koreans seemed to know there
was a threat to the convoy.
The brief phone call from Lyons had brought Price up-
to-date on the events in San Juan, and she'd quickly relayed
it to McCarter and his group in Seoul. The Phoenix Force
leader had suggested that they discreetly interrogate one of
the probable attendees to the meeting that was taking place
in addition to the economic summit. Price had agreed.
She glanced back at the wall screen and saw that the
MiG patrols had widened, almost overlapping the convoy.
If the North Korean pilots spotted the Chinook carrying the
hovercraft in, the mission controller had no doubts about
what would happen. Tension filled her, but she made her-
self breathe through it. "Barb."
Price glancod at Kurtzman.
The cybernetics expert tapped his keyboard and consid-




ered one of his monitors with grim regard. "Our telecom-
munications into North Korea is back on-line."
"How?"
Kurtzman shrugged his big shoulders. "Beats me. It
wasn't anything new that we've done." He looked at her.
"Do you want to switch over to our systems?"
"Can you?"
�'Yeah."
"Without losing anything that's going on now?"
"I'm pretty sure."
Price considered the option, turning over the pros and
cons. "Do you feel safe about using our systems over
there?"
"No," Kurtzman answered at once. "Personally I don't
want to use anything we' ve got open to us over there until
I've had a chance to run diagnostics and check the integrity
on them."
� 'Then don't," Price replied. �'We've got what we need
here. Let's go with this. Check out those systems, and let's
see what you come up with."
Kurtzman nodded and turned his full attention to his
board.
Price continued to watch the scene unfolding on the wall
screen. The confrontation was only minutes away, counting
down. Despite Striker's report that what appeared to have
been the computer command center at the base had been
destroyed, more than anything else she wanted to know
what had happened to the team that had manned it. As long
as they were loose, she didn't feel the operation was any-
where near safe. Or close to being completed.

"OKAY, MATES," David McCarter said, "let's paint this
one by the numbers, shall we?" He sat in the driver's seat
of a Nissan compact car, drumming his fingers impatiently

on the steering wheel. The downtown streets of Seoul were
already heavy with morning traffic. He was parked in an
alley beside the Lotte Department Store, Seoul's largest
shopping center.
"We're making the turn and coming at you now," Gary
Manning said.
McCarter shoved the gearshift into first, kept the clutch
in and built up the rpm. The play Phoenix Force had set
into motion was tricky, much more than the "discreet"
interrogation he'd told Price they'd be attempting. But the
Briton felt confident the team could pull it off.
After reviewing the crime connections Kurtzman and his
team had turned up from the Kimpo International video-
tapes, their selection of victims had been simple. Nicky
Steranko was heir to the Steranko Family empire in Phil-
adelphia. Leo Tunin had provided other pertinent facts that
had influenced McCarter's choice.
At thirty-four, constantly protected by his father, Ster-
anko had never had to scuffle for position or power among
the American Mafia. He was egotistical and cruel, and dal-
lied in rough sex to such a degree that Papa Steranko had
a whole new crop of problems during the past few months.
From what Turrin had turned up, Nicky Steranko had killed
three working girls in Philly's red-light district and the bod-
ies had surfaced with evidence linking Nicky to the murders
in spite of his father's best efforts to bury them.
A homicide cop had made the connection solid enough
through a history of past indiscretions to drop weight on
Nicky. On the surface, Papa Steranko was boasting how
Nicky had gone to make "the big deal," that everyone had
been waiting on. According to Turrin, Nicky was actually
hustled out of town one step ahead of a federal arrest war-
rant.
Once they had the Intel, McCarter had managed the in-




terception they were playing out in short order. A few
bribes at the hotel where Steranko was staying had provided
a loose itinerary. Brutally simple and direct, it was the kind
of plan the Briton favored.
"Has he made you, Gary?" McCarter asked.
"The guy's more interested in the girl his people picked
up a few minutes ago."
"What girl?" McCarter asked.
"Looks like an escort service," Manning said. "You had
to watch close, but money changed hands, and the guy
who'd been standing with the woman said his goodbyes
and went back into the motel."
"Papa Steranko's going to be pissed when he finds out,"
Calvin James said. His voice was light and enthusiastic. "I
bet Nicky wasn't allowed any playmates."
"Look alive," Manning said. "The Mercedes just passed
the Midopa Department Store."
McCarter knew that put their target through the last in-
tersection before they reached his position. "Calvin, you
have the go."
"Affirmative. Ready, set...hit it!"
Pinning the accelerator to the floor, McCarter streaked
out of the alley, pulling slightly to the left to avoid a flock
of shoppers. He scanned the street scene ahead of him. The
dark blue Mercedes with Nicky Steranko and his entourage
had only a second's notice before McCarter drove the Nis-
san into the right front fender.
The collision was loud and violent, pulling the Briton
hard against the seat belts even though he'd been prepared
for the impact. A heartbeat later, James cut across oncom-
ing traffic and smashed into the Mercedes on the other side,
trapping it and snarling passage along the street.
McCarter shoved the door open with difficulty even
though he'd left it unlatched to prevent getting trapped in-

side. The creak of warped metal crunched through the flood
of surprised and alarmed voices around them.
Getting out, McCarter drew his Browning Hi-Power
from shoulder leather and slid on a pair of yellow-tinted
aviator sunglasses. The hard guy on the passenger side of
the Mercedes tried to bring up a mini-Uzi and shove it
through the broken glass of the window.
Firing from the point, McCarter placed a 9 mm round
through the middle of the man's forehead. James was on
the other side, yanking the door open and spilling the un-
conscious driver to the ground.
At the sight of gunplay, the bystanders drew back in-
stantly, taking shelter in doorways and recesses along the
buildings.
McCarter grabbed the rear door handle and yanked it
open. Nicky Steranko occupied the seat with another man
and a nicely dressed young woman who was screaming
hysterically, adding bits and pieces of Dutch profanity.
Steranko recoiled from McCarter, pressing a hand to a scalp
wound he'd somehow acquired.
"Who the hell are you?" Steranko demanded.
McCarter motioned with the Browning. "Out. Now."
"Do you know who my father is?" Steranko demanded.
"You're a dead man. Do you hear me? I'll piss on your
grave."
Knowing time was already working against them, Mc-
Carter reached in and grabbed the man's expensive suit
jacket. Using weight and leverage, he yanked Steranko out
of the car and manhandled him over the trunk. James had
the other man covered and was relieving him of his pistol.
"You're okay, miss," McCarter told the young woman.
"You're not part of this."
The fear was still deep inside her, and though she'd
stopped screaming, she wasn't moving, either.




"You'd better get on with yourself," McCarter advised,
"unless you intend to be part of the investigation later. The
police, I'm afraid, woa'4 I~ il~ t~0r way considerate."
"Yam ~,'� $teranko snarled, sending bloody spittle
flying. "I don't know who you think you are, but--"
Placing a hand behind the mafioso's head, McCarter
shoved Steranko's face into the car's trunk. Holding Ster-
anko down, the Briton shoved the Browning's muzzle into
the man's mouth. "Another bleeding threat, mate, and I
forget I need you alive. You understand?"
Steranko nodded, visibly shaken by the presence of the
gun in his mouth. His eyes were magnetically drawn to the
cocked hammer.
"All right, let's go." Holding his prisoner's arm behind
him in a come-along grip, McCarter hustled him toward
Manning's waiting gray Dodge Caravan. He shoved Ster-
anko through the open side door as James entered through
the passenger side. Manning got under way immediately,
cutting a sharp U-turn that put them in the empty right lane
that had been blocked by the car James had abandoned.
Driving fast, the Canadian put distance between them-
selves and the scene.
"Now," McCarter said coldly, "we're going to talk."
"I'm not telling you a fucking thing," Steranko Said
belligerently.
"Oh, yes, you are," McCarter said. "Because being able
to talk and telling me what I want to know is the only thing
that's going to keep you alive." He raised the Browning
and pointed it at the man's ample stomach. "I don't have
any problems at all about putting you down for the deaths
of those women in Philadelphia. In fact, I'm rather against
the idea of letting you walk at all. I think you're a bloody
pestilence that needed eliminating."
Steranko's bloody lower lip trembled.

"Do you know how long it can take to die from getting
gut-shot, mate?" McCarter asked calmly. "I mean, by
someone who knows what they're about?'~ -...~:
"What do you wam:lo know?" Steranko asked.
McCarter showed him a cruel smile that would have
shamed a shark. "When and where is that meeting you're
supposed to attend this afternoon? We'll start with that.
Then I'll want to know something of the guest list~TM
Steranko only had a little difficulty talking, b,:,t once he
started, it all came out.




CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Korea Bay Coastline, North Korea

"Stony One, this is Stony Base."
"Go, Base," Mack Bolan said into the headset's mouth-
piece. "One reads you." He domshifted the jeep, lugging
into the incline, feeling gravity heavy on him now.
"When you crest the hill you're presently on," Price
said, "you should have a visual on your target. Chances
are they'll see you, too."
"Affirmative, Base. The Chinook?"
"With you. A team's ready to hit the water with the
hovercraft."
"When we engage the convoy," Bolan said, "have them
do that."
Price droppod out of the loop.
Gunning the engine, Bolan followed the crooked trail to
the top of the hill. Vegetation was sparse on top, and he
knew they wouldn't have adequate cover. "Phoenix Five,
did you copy?"
"That's affirmative, Stony One. Let's lock and load."
With no chance at cover, the Executioner opted for sur-
prise. Keeping down the hammer, he guided the jeep over
the hill. Sunlight lit up the expanse of ocean to his left, less
than a mile away. The convoy consisted of four vehicles,

a jeep followed by a two-and-a-half-ton truck and two more
jeeps. They were less than a quarter mile away, down in
the bottom of a V-shaped valley.
"Commander," Bolan called to Conrad as the jeep
started slithering along the downgrade. "Sir," the SEAL leader responded.
"Are you familiar with the BG-157" Through the haze
of dust left by the North Korean military vehicles, Bolan
spotted the two rearmost jeeps dropping back on an inter-
ception course. He knew they'd be calling in for aerial sup-
port at the same time. The last deadly numbers were trick-
ling away on the play.
"Russian grenade launcher," Conrad answered.
"Can you hit anything with it?"
"From a moving vehicle?" Conrad grinned. "Hell, if
it's going to be a sporting event, how about we get some-
thing down on it?"
Bolan passed back the AK47, then the bandoiler of
rockets. "You take out that forward jeep before it can reach
the top of the hill, lunch is on me."
"I'm on it." Conrad fed a rocket into the tube and tried
to manage a kneeling position on the jeep's back deck.
Machine-gun fire rattled along the trail, marching in rag-
ged and dusty footsteps toward Bolan's jeep. The warrior
tagged the headset's transmit button. "Phoenix Three."
"Go."
"You're our cover. I'm going left. You go fight."
"You got it."
Bolan scanned the terrain as the North Korean machine
gunners tried to find the range. The lead jeep and the truck
didn't slow. "Commander." "Sir."
"I'm going to find you a level spot. You get the one
shot."




"Tell me when."
Bolan nodded. Halfway down the valley wall, he tapped
the brake and held the wheel steady. The terrain was as
even as it was going to get. "Fire!"
The rocket whooshed overhead, spreading out a fan of
heat in its wake. "It's away!" Conrad yelled.
Bolan shifted gears and accelerated, driving into a cloud
of dust that he could use as camouflage for a few precious
seconds. He heard the yammer of the big .50-caliber in
Hawkins's vehicle and knew Encizo was at work.
The BG-15's HE round caught the jeep in dead center,
delivering a solid punch of instant carnage. Bodies were
blown from the vehicle, and it jumped like a scalded cat,
losing purchase on the incline. Still, momentum managed
to shove it a few feet farther before gravity reclaimed it.
Spinning sideways, the flaming jeep suddenly went end
over end, crashing back down on top of the truck. Ham-
mered by the jeep's weight, the big truck shivered, strag-
gled for a moment to push the extra tonnage, then gave up
the fight.
"Gmat shot," Bolan told Conrad.
"It wasn't all skill," the SEAL team leader confided.
"Enough of it was," the warrior replied. "If the skill
wasn't them, the breaks wouldn't come." He shifted, again
gaining speed. He heard the hot brass hitting the rear deck
behind him as one of the SEALs aimd out his own machine
gun.
A ragged line of bullet holes appeared in the side of the
jeep ahead of them. Some of the rounds had to have been
tracers, because when the jerrican mounted on the rear was
hit, it exploded in flames, bathing the jeep crew in fire.
Bolan worked the gearshift and the steering wheel and
blew by the sudden inferno.
Encizo's marksmanship accounted for the last jeep, cut-

ting its wheels out from under it and sending it skidding
out of control. Before the crew could recover from the sud-
den impact against a tall tree, the .50-caliber machine gun
roared out a death song, knocking the bodies from the jeep.
Men were already starting to fan out around the stalled
track, taking up holding positions behind rocks and clumps
of brush. Return fire picked up intensity, slamming into the
jeep.
A trio of rounds struck Bolan at different points across
his chest, glancing off the body armor. "We're leaving the
jeep," he told Conrad.
The SEAL leader nodded and loosed a couple rounds
from the AK-47 that took down a North Korean soldier
sprinting to another position.
Applying the brake, Bolan swerved sharply and brought
the jeep to a halt behind a copse of trees off the trail. He
leaped from the rocking vehicle as Grimaldi and the SEALs
deployed behind him. Drawing the Stechkin, he raced for-
ward, moving the line of engagement to the enemy. A quick
burst rattled a soldier from the trees and dropped his body
less than ten feet away.
Bolan took cover behind the tree and grabbed the sol-
dier's corpse. As bullets chewed bark around him, he
hauled the body toward him and hit the transmit button on
the headset. "StOny Base, this is Stony One." "Go, One."
"Do you have a fix on us?"
"Affirmative, One. The hovercraft has been deployed
and is on its way to you."
Glancing to the west, Bolan saw the finger lake that
spilled in from the coast, glinting between the trees and
accumulated water foliage. "There's a waterway most of
the distance."




"Yes," Price said. "Base has confirmed it and advised
Skate Leader."
Bolan stripped two grenades from the dead man, then
flipped them toward the ragged line of North Korean
troops. The explosions killed at least five more men and
wounded others.
Around him, following the spearhead he'd launched, Gri-
maldi and the SEALs spread out and fired at will. He
tapped the headset. "Phoenix Three." "Go, Stony One."
"You've got the camera, and we're going to need shots
of this for proof that the North Koreans had the fission-
ables."
"I've already got some footage on tape. We get a look
inside that deuce-and-a-half, we'll have it locked."
Bolan picked up the soldier's rifle. Expecting to find an
AK47, he was pleasantly surprised when he discovered the
rifle was a Dragunov SVD sniper rifle. When he checked,
the magazine had only two rounds expended from its box
of ten. The soldlet's pockets yielded three more magazines.
"Sarge!" Grimaldi called out in warning.
Bolan had already heard the footsteps approaching his
position. He wheeled around the tree with the Stechkin in
his fist and unleashed a long burst at the two soldiers less
than twenty feet away. The 9 mm rounds caught them and
knocked them back.
Sheathing the Stechkin, the Executioner shouldered the
Dragunov and stepped into position beside the tree. Both
eyes open as he breathed out a half breath, he marked his
targets mentally, then peered through the PSO-1 x4 scope.
Laying the crosshairs on the head of his frst target, he took
up trigger slack, then squeezed.
The heavy 7.62 mm round snapped back the soldier's
head and sent his corpse sprawling. Rolling with the recoil,

moving on to his next target, the Executioner laid down a
withering barrage of single-shot destruction. His second
shot cored through the next man's chest, picking him off
from behind a tree, while the third knocked him down.
Shots four and five hit two more gunners, but he was sure
of the kill only on one. Six crashed through the temple of
a soldier who'd fired a grenade launcher at the SEALs,
sending Conrad and one of his people to ground as dirt and
rock spewed over them. The final round finished off the
man the warrior had figured he'd only injured earlier.
Dropping the empty magazine, Bolan shoved another
home. He paced his shots, but only managed to secure three
more casualty hits with the next ten rounds. The pace of
the firing was important even if it wasn't telling, part of
the warrior's psychological arsenal.
When the LCAC Hovercraft sped into the valley over
the surface of the finger lake, its blowers sounding like a
pack of sulfur-breathing beasts from hell, the North Korean
soldiers broke ranks and stood their ground uncertainly.
The hovercraft didn't hesitate as it crossed from the water
onto land. Four sailors manned it, two of them standing
beside the 40 mm deck-mounted machine cannon.
Bolan fed the Dragunov a fresh magazine, then tapped
the headset. "Skate Leader, this is Stony One."
"Go, Stony One, you have Skate Leader."
"I've got some targeting coordinates for you."
"Let's have them. Things look a bit unsettled down there
for us to start in on the fly." The hovercraft came to a
smooth, even stop in spite of the broken terrain visible un-
der the skirting.
Bolan called out the coordinates with a marksman's eye
and stood ready to correct if he needed to.
The 40 mm machine cannon drummed death with a blis-
tering series of throaty coughs. The high-explosive and




antipersonnel rounds dropped into the ranks of the North
Korean soldiers with an accuracy that was deadly and de-
moralizing. In seconds the North Koreans gave up trying
to defend their prize and fled.
"Move in," Bolan called out to the Phoenix Force war-
riors and the hovercraft crew. The SEALs followed their
lead. He shoved a new magazine into the Stechkin and
slung the Dragunov as he double-timed it to the wrecked
truck.
At the truck, he and Hawkins held the others back, then
went forward to make sure the cargo hadn't been booby-
trapped. If the North Korean commanding officer had been
thinking, an international incident could still be arranged
that would further incriminate the United States. Detonation
of the fissionable materials, if possible, could be blamed on
the invading American forces.
A quick survey turned up nothing. The crates were a
jumbled mess in the back of the truck. Broken boards
showed white, but the shielded containers holding the ra-
dioactive materials appeared to be intact. One of the hov-
ercraft crew handed in a Radiac Set and Hawkins moved
the wand around, scanning the dials.
"Clean," he announced, passing the set back to the
sailor.
"Rare?" Bolan asked, turning to look for the Cuban.
"Got it," Encizo said. He held the minieamcorder from
his pack on his shoulder, playing it over the truck's con-
tents. "I'll get some more footage as we get the crates and
cargo out."
Bolan grabbed the nearest one with Hawkins's help, and
they passed it out to the waiting SEALs and sailors. The
Chinese writing on two sides was clearly visible, painted
on in a virulent crimson. The canisters were heavy and

awkward, but in less than two minutes, they'd cleared the
truck.
Out in the morning sun again, Bolan found himself
drenched with perspiration, aching deep in the large mus-
cles of his body where the lactic acid build-up had reached
painful concentrations. His body needed downtime, but he
knew the mission wasn't over yet.
The headset buzzed for his attention. "Stony One, this
is Stony Base."
"Go, Base," Bolan said, helping Hawkins move one of
the canisters to the waiting hovercraft.
"You've been picked up. We scan two MiGs racing to-
ward your position. ETA is a minute and a half."
"Affirmative," Bolan replied. He glanced up at Skate
Leader.
"I copy," the hovercraft captain replied, then turned to
his crew and urged them onto the hovercraft.
Ordering a brigade line set up with the Phoenix Force
commandos and the SEALs, Bolan and Hawkins handed
up the canisters. Some of the team put them on the hov-
ercraft's deck while others belayed them with cargo netting
that had already been secured on one side.
Twin contrails appeared in the sky, coming at a dead run
from the south.
"Stony One," Price called.
"I see them," Bolan said as he and Hawkins scrambled
aboard. The deck crew set up on the 40 mm machine can-
non while the pilot powered up the hovercraft and sent it
skidding back out into Korea Bay.
"You know how to use one of these?" the hovercraft
skipper asked.
Bolan glanced at the Stinger missile launcher with the
warhead already in place. The power cords were wired into
the hovercraft's power supply. "Oh, yeah."




"The admiral mentioned there might be some problems
with aerial reinforcements. I figured we might as well have
a couple equalizers on hand if it came to it." He lifted the
second Stinger from a metal equipment box welded to the
hovercraft's deck.
"Not exactly the typical kind of stores you'd find on-
board an aircraft carder," Hawkins commented.
"Maybe you're not supposed to, but you'd be surprised
at what's in our inventory these days."
Bolan settled the Stinger over his shoulder and readied
the launcher. He shrugged out of the Dragunov and man-
aged a somewhat steady stance as the hovercraft deck vi-
brated beneath him.
The MiGs thundered through the air, then the on-board
cannon started blowing holes along the hillsides and valley.
Their initial run scattered rock, earth and water over the
crew and passengers of the hovercraft. The 40 mm machine
cannon from the hovercraft punched holes in the morning
sky but couldn't get close enough to their targets. Bolan doubted they'd survive another pass.
"I'm locked on," the hovercraft skipper shouted over
the roar of the huge fans.
"Fire away," Bolan ordered.
With an explosive whoosh, the Stinger missile took
flight. Five feet long and packed with a smooth-case frag-
mentation warhead, the deadly arrow screamed into the sky,
tracking its prey by homing in on the jet's exhaust plume.
Evidently the North Korean pilot never knew death was
coming for him, because he never took evasive action. The
missile caught up with him while he was making the wide
turn that would bring him back around. The explosion
ripped the jet from stem to nose, leaving only a tangled
mass of fiery debris to rain over the countryside.
The Executioner immediately fired his second missile.

The other jet was on the approach now, either ignoring
what had happened to his partner or not aware of it. Cannon
fire hammered into the earth, leaving craters behind as it
tracked toward the hovercraft.
The Stinger flew straight for the MiG. Bolan and the
others took cover on the hovercraft as the cannon fire
closed to within yards. Then the missile struck the jet and
blew it out of the air.
Bolan handed the launcher back to the hovercraft skip-
per. "We're done. Let's get out of here."
A few twists and tums along the waterway, and they
were out to sea. Black smoke coiled into the air from the
wrecks of the North Korean land transport and downed jets.
Bolan stood at the railing and scanned the sky. The salt
air and the spray felt good, though he was nowhere near
relaxed.
"I never did get your name."
The Executioner turned and saw Conrad standing behind
him. "You weren't supposed to."
Conrad grinned. "Yeah, I kind of got that impression
along the way. Still, I'd like to shake your hand and thank
you for getting my team back home."
Bolan took his hand. "You're not home yet, sailor, but
you will be."
"Yes, sir. That's good enough for me."
The headset crackled, and Bolan adjusted the pencil-thin
mouthpiece. "Go, Stony Base. You have Stony One."
"We've got a tentative ID on the computer team that set
the North Koreans up on this play," Price said. "When
you get aboard the Thomas Paine, we're going to debrief
you.' '
"Where is he?" Bolan asked.
"We're still working on that. We believe we know




where he's headed. Once you get aboard the carrier, we'll
get you the whole story. As much of it as we know."
Bolan dropped out of the loop and reviewed what he
knew of the mission, wondering what dangers the escaped
computer team posed.
"What's up?" Grimaldi asked, coming up beside him
with the Phoenix Force.
"I'm skulling it out," Bolan said, "and it doesn't look
good."
"We heard the transmission from Barb," Encizo said.
"She didn't sound happy."
Bolan looked at the SEAL team resting against the op-
posite side of the hovercraft. Rations were being passed out,
and they ate and drank ravenously. "The computer team
wasn't at the site when we rescued the SEALs," the hellfire
warrior said. "They knew we were coming." "Stands to mason," Hawkins agreed.
"And from the message Hal and the President received
at the White House, it was these people who stole the fis-
sionable matedais from the Chinese," Bolan said. "But I
have to ask myself why."
"The money," Grimaldi said.
"Always an option," Bolan replied. "Was it enough to
risk blowing their cover like they did? Evidently they've
had a solid operation in place for some time. Why not ne-
gotiate the delivery through a third party, never become
involved at all?"
"The only answer is that they wanted something for
themselves," Encizo replied.
Bolan nodded in agreement. It was the way he read it,
too, but he didn't know what the answer was. Any way it
went, he knew there was a hell of a butcher's bill waiting

somewhere, and he was sure the unknown player in inter-
national politics was standing by to collect. The Execu-
tioner intended to see that debt settled.




CHAPTER NINETEEN

Aboard the Shadow Scythe

Dixon Lynch sat in the small office that he'd ordered built
on board the submarine. He didn't really like it. The room
was small instead of spacious, orderly instead of ornate. He
gazed at the monitor ahead of him as the satellite relayed
pictures of the hovercraft streaming out to sea in Korea Bay
under the protection of American fighter jets.
Kalico lounged in the red leather chair in front of the
desk.
"I see the North Korean military has lost their little
toys," the woman said.
Lynch leaned back in the chair, allowing himself to relax
only slightly. He'd always maintained that edge of readi-
ness that he felt put him one step ahead of any competition
that might have stood against him. The American covert
force was no different. "The Americans think they've
won," he said. "The North Koreans feel they've lost. As
far as any of them are concerned, it's game over."
"Are you so sure?"
He looked at the woman, and a slow grin spread across
his face. "Yes."
"They know about the upcoming meeting in Seoul,"
Kalico stated.

"What makes you say that?"
"Nicky Steranko was abducted only minutes ago."
"By whom?"
The woman shrugged. "Lambert wasn't sure, but Ster-
anko didn't turn up on any Seoul police reports. He's think-
ing they could be part of this covert force you've been
chasing. There were only three of them, and they moved
very fast and were very sure of themselves."
Lambert was the go-between for the meeting in Seoul.
"Steranko is a bottom feeder," Lynch said. "If I'd felt
certain his father would have gone for the arrangement I've
invested in without him here, Nicky wouldn't have been
present at all.
"There was trouble in Philadelphia. Maybe it just caught
up with him."
"And maybe it didn't."
Lynch felt the slow burn of anger. He didn't like to be
questioned. "So what do you suggest?"
"We lay low," Kalico said. "Wait and see what hap-
pens."
"No."
"You're doing very nicely for yourself, love, without all
this added grief," Kalico argued.
Lynch chuckled, but it was dry and without mirth. "Of
all people, you should understand me most."
"I do," Kalico said. "That's why I'm trying to make
you see what's going on. These people are bloody damn
good at what they do, Dixon, and they're breathing down
your neck at this very moment. But you don't seem to be
aware that they're even there."
"Wrong," Lynch argued. "I've got them exactly where
I want them. You're forgetting Shatterstop."
"You're forgetting the hole Eddie Trask has put in your
systems. You don't know what has leaked out."




Lynch shook his head.."These people can't touch me.
One move on their part, and I blow up that little hidden
base of theirs." He lifted a hand and closed it into a fist.
"We have them now. We've got a virus inside their pro-
gramming that will survive whether they do or not, and
they exist only at this moment because I haven't chosen to
destroy them already."
"Then destroy them," Kalico said, "and schedule this
meeting at some other time. These people will still want to
deal a few months from now."
Lynch placed his elbows on the arms of the chair and
laced his fingers together in front of his face. "No."
�'Why?"
"Not until Razor has found out how much access we
have to their systems."
"Eighty percent or a hundred," Kalico asked, "is it re-
ally going to matter?"
"It does to me," Lynch answered. "I don't like settling
for anything but the best. If I quit before I've gone the
distance, I don't get a full measure of what I can do. I'll
break them and come out on top. Count on it."

USS Thomas Paine

MACK BOLAN HELD a cup of coffee cupped in his palms
and focused on the computer screen that had been set up
in the aircraft carrier's combat-information eenter. The
Thomas Paine was holding its present position and keeping
an eye on developments Mong the North Korean coastline.
So far, there'd been no attempts at retaliation.
The mood in the tic was somber, and the big warrior
could feel it. The SEALS were safely back among their
own, and the fissionable materiMs were out of enemy
hands, but unfinished business hung on the horizon.

"His name is Dixon Lynch," Barbara Price said. "We
turned him from leads we've picked up that pointed to Sin-
gapore." On the screen, the mission controller stood beside
Hal Brognola and Kurtzman in the computer room. "Hal
spotted a tattoo on one of the men who attacked Mack near
Seoul, and it traced back to a ship registered in Singapore
that's owned by a holding company Lynch has a major
investment in. And Able turned up a photograph in San
Juan that we matched to Singapore. It was shot from a
yacht. Aaron was able to get the yacht's name from a re-
flection in the water. She was the Golden Fleece, and she's
owned by Dixon Lynch."
"The property in the Catskills that Able Team invaded
also led back to a holding company in Singapore that be-
longs to Lynch," Kurtzman said. "Eventually. Make no
mistake, this guy is good at what he does."
The computer monitor blinked, then a color still of a
black man in an expensive suit addressing a group of busi-
nessmen filled the screen.
"This is Lynch?" David McCarter asked. Like Able, he
was tied into the transmission via satellite. While Phoenix
Force had holed up in Seoul, Able Team was in the air,
winging toward Virginia.
"Yeah," Brognola said. "There's not many pictures of
the guy. He's definitely reclusive."
"He was at the base camp in Nampo," GrimMdi said.
Bolan studied the face, knowing it belonged to the man
who'd boarded the helicopter before the Stony Man team
had gone in after the SEALs.
Grimaldi, Hawkins and Encizo sat around the oblong ta-
ble in the CIC and ate from the sandwich tray sent up by
the galley. Showers and fresh clothing were still in the fu-
ture.




"Dixon Lynch," Barbara Price said, "is a self-made
man."
A new picture took shape on the computer monitor,
showing a multistory downtown building made up of light
gray stone and black glass and detailed in chrome. As the
monitor zoomed in for a closer look, Bolan saw the name
SmarTech emblazoned in orange across the second-story
face where it could clearly be seen from the street.
"This is his primary headquarters," Price went on. "No
one in the intelligence community has much on him. Vague
references, footnotes and a few questions."
"He hasn't been a big player in international crime?"
Bolan asked.
"On the surface," Price said, "it doesn't seem so. After
looking at his portfolio, what we could find of it, I'd say
he's been more than active, but he's really been careful
about it."
"Then why this operation in North Korea?" Grimaldi
asked. "Guy had to have known he was going to be blown.
Hell, he didn't bother trying to disguise himself when he
questioned me."
"Because he didn't think he had anything to worry about
from you," Gary Manning said.
"He knew I wasn't regular Army," the pilot stated. "He
kept asking me about the group I was with. He knew there
was a covert organization in the works."
Bolan looked at the screen. "He knows about Stony Man
Farm. Maybe not the name or the location, but he knows
about it. How closely was he tied with the intelligence com-
munity?"
"Lynch is a prime developer in communications pro-
gramming," Price said. "For the past five years, his com-
pany has pioneered work in the field that's getting adopted
around the world. And he's developed systems for a hum-

bet of businesses that were actually fronts for espionage
agencies."
"Gives him access to a number of agencies if he's care-
ful about putting his own programs into the software,"
Blancanales declared. "What about it, Aaron? Can the guy
have gotten away with it?"
"Sure," Kurtzman responded. "No matter how many
antivirus programs are developed, there's always a hacker
out there working on something with a new spin."
"The Stony Man systems are on-line with a number of
agencies without anyone being aware of it, right?"
"Yeah."
Carl Lyons broke into the conversation. "Was Lynch
operating in the black?"
"Yes," Price answered. "His company has been show-
ing growth every quarter for the past nine years."
"Then he didn't need the money the North Koreans were
paying him," Lyons said.
"The fissionable materials and charade pulled on the
U.S. government had to have brought in a huge chunk of
money," Calvin James stated. "Cash can't be over-
looked."
"What's this guy worth?" Schwarz asked.
A parade of stock quotes, business-magazine articles and
legal papers flowed across the screen.
"Conservatively," Price replied, "our guess is some-
where in the neighborhood of two billion dollars. Of course,
a lot of that is tied up in properties and investments."
"Any cash-flow problems that you've been able to dis-
cover?" Hawkins asked. "No."
"His getting involved with the North Koreans doesn't
make any bloody sense, then," McCa~er said.
Bolan got up from the table and refilled his coffee cup.




He remained standing and looked at the computer monitor.
"Pol?"
"Yeah?" Blancanales said.
"Give me a surface judgment of this guy."
"Probably do better if I had a chance to study him
more."
"Yeah, but you've seen the building, and you've seen
the business reports. Lynch doesn't have any partners."
"Nobody that can unseat his control," Blancanales said.
"I noticed that. And that damn building is strictly for show.
If he's doing business worldwide, and his systems are good
enough to constantly bring in profit after profit during a
time when the computer industry is constantly changing,
he didn't need that building."
"Could have been a tax write-off," Hawkins said.
"No," Blancanales said more confidently. "Lynch does
things for effect. He's big on ego. The incident with the
Dragon's Gate and the SEALs shows that. Since the ils-
sionables weren't aboard the trawler, it would have been
easy to simply let the SEALs go away empty-handed. In-
stead, he filmed it, and if Aaron is right, enhanced the im-
ages at considerable cost to falsify what really took place.
He's a control freak."
"But he's deep into money," Bolan stated.
"Yeah."
"What about the leads we turned up in San Juan?" Ly-
ons asked. "Trask definitely pointed the finger at someone
who was trying to network the cartels, Yakuza, Triads and
the Mafia from America, Sicily and Russia. That sounds
like our boy, Lynch."
"But why would those people let him have a piece of
the pie?" McCarter asked. "He'd have to bring something
to the table."
In Bolan's mind, some of the possible connections began

to surface. "Lynch could offer information that can't be
gotten anywhere else."
"You're thinking Lynch has been siphoning off infor-
mation through the systems he's sold," Blancanales said.
"Worked just right, maybe he could clean up with those
people."
"And that would make the North Korean gambit just a
trial run," Price said. "A showcase for the people he's
assembled in Seoul."
"I think it was more than that," Bolan said. "The events
in North Korea weren't just a trial run. He was after some-
thing."
"What?" Brognola asked.
"Us," Bolan stated.
"Damn," Kurtzman swore.
"He knew about you and Phoenix," Price said. "I could
understand that, because security's hard to keep intact when
you're operating on the fly and through other agencies. But
if he was tapped into our network the whole time..." She
left the rest unsaid.
"The Catskills site was an acceptable loss, too," Kurtz-
man said. "The people Able turned up there didn't know
anything that could hurt Lynch. Hell, they didn't even
know who they were really working for. And I tried to
capture the video being transmitted into the White House."
"Bait," Bolan said. "While you were reaching for him,
he could have been reaching for you."
"Our communications were taken off-line when you
people penetrated the Nampo site," Price said. Her voice
let everyone know she didn't like the way things were com-
ing together. "If Katz hadn't been able to buy us time with
the Chinese Intelligence systems, we wouldn't have been
able to coordinate the rescue effort."
"It scans," Bolan said. "Lynch didn't take on the North




Korean job merely out of ego or even to show these people
he's trying to do business with what he can do. Given that
he knew about Stony Man Farm, he escalated the pot re-
garding the fissionable materials and the captured SEALs
to the point that he knew we'd have to buy in. Think about
it--Stony Man Farm's computers are tied in covertly to
most of the systems in the world."
"There's no one that has more access than we do,"
Kurtzman stated.
"Our intelligence network is a double-edged sword,"
Price said. "It's our country's greatest asset, but if it was
used against us, there's no telling how much devastation
could be wreaked before we had a chance to stop it. Even
revealing our insertion into other intelligence agencies
could severely hamper international relations for a long
time."
"Even though those countries spy on us," Lyons
growled.
"It's not a matter of who does it," Brognola argued. "It
just matters who gets caught at it." He paused. "Have we
got a handle on this guy?"
"So far," the mission controller said, "we have the ad-
dress McCarter and his team turned up. And we're tracking
something called Shatterstop through Virginia. It appears
to be headed for Roanoke."
Kurtzman was busy at the computer keyboard. "I have
some other bad news. Our negotiated time through the Chi-
nese interfaces is about up. Ten more minutes, and we have
to clear this frequency. It'll mean either a communications
blackout from the Farm, or chancing the computer systems
here."
"The risk is too high," Brognola growled. "If Lynch
and his people have gotten to us, they're going to know
every move the Stony Man teams make." He popped a

couple antacid tablets into his mouth and chewed. "We'll
be off-line until we can scare up something else."
"I agree," Bolan said. "But a point to keep in mind is
that Lynch might not need the Farm intact if he's already
into the cybernetics systems."
"Shatterstop?" Schwarz asked.
"That's what I'm thinking," the warrior said. "Could
be a fitting name."




CHAPTER TWENTY

The suite of rooms Lynch had rented for the meeting was
at the top of the Koreana Hotel. The establishment had been
recommended to him by a number of his company's Jap-
anese customers, and a visit there the week before had as-
sured him it was more than satisfactory.
He waited in an opulent office he'd arranged at the other
end of the floor, staring out over the Seoul skyline until he
was fashionably late. Across the street was Toksukung Pal-
ace. Only the palace's main gate and audience hall still
stood. From his readings, Lynch knew the king's courtiers
and ministers had once waited in ranks to greet the king,
offer advice and ask the royal favor in the attendant gate
and flagstone courtyard.
It suited Lynch's sense of style to be so close to a place
of power while he was assembling his own empire. He ran
a hand down the expensive lines of his Italian-made suit
and briefly considered his image in the window. There'd
never been a time when he felt more ready to take on busi-
ness negotiations.
The door behind him opened.
He turned and found Kalico standing there, dressed in a
short business skirt and jacket that still came off as sexy.
"The mob grows restless, love," she said. "They're anx-

ious to see the master of ceremonies. Some of them are
threatening to leave."
"But none of them have?" Lynch asked.
"No."
"And none of them are threatening too loudly?"
"No."
"Then it sounds like the perfect time to make my en-
trance." Lynch glanced briefly at the security monitors
built into the desktop. The pictures were all black-and-
white, but the cameras were spread about enough to give
good cross sections of the suite. More than seventy people
were inside the room, divided into their individual groups.
Lynch pressed a button, and the monitors recessed again
into the desktop, hardly leaving a seam at all. He hadn't
been surprised that the hotel management had such devices
available. For the right price.
'~How do I look?" he asked his companion.
"Dynamic," she replied. "The epitome of a rogue
male."
"The hell with that." Lynch shot his cuffs as he headed
for the door. "Do I look like a guy who can deliver?"
"Yes."
"Good. You walk into a room with the deal in your
pocket, not like it's laying on the table." Lynch stepped
through the door and saw Eric Hardcastle waiting for him
with five of his handpicked mercs. All of them were dressed
for a social event. Lynch had picked up the tab for the suits,
getting the very best money could buy, also ensuring that
the suits could hide the weapons Hardcastle and his team
would be carrying. "Ready?" Hardcastle nodded.
"Then let's do it." Lynch walked toward the suite.
Two of the mercs walked slightly ahead of him, with
Hardcastle and another man flanking him, and two men




brought up the rear. More of the mercs had already joined
the crowd waiting in the suite, blending with the crowd and
ready to step in if it became necessary. Still more were
secreted away in other rooms on the floor.
Lynch didn't hesitate at the double doors leading into the
suite. He pushed them open and walked across the red car-
pet leading to center stage.
Every head in the room turned to look at him. He rec-
ognized most of them only from research he'd done getting
ready for the deal, and Kalico was there to help him re-
member anyone he wasn't sure about.
Round tables were scattered around the large space, with
plenty of room between them. Seating charts had been
made, and Lynch's people were seeing to the catering. Po-
tential enemies and competitors had been kept separate, and
notice had been given that personal differences were to be
kept shelved during the meeting. Three long buffet tables
made a loose triangle that further divided some of the
guests. The center of the room had been left open, giving
Lynch the stage area that he wanted.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said in English, knowing
that all of the guests spoke that language or had translators
present, "forgive me for being late, but there were some
last-minute details to attend. As you've seen from the
morning news, I've had rather a full schedule."
Three men rolled a podium with a small attached dais
into the center of the room. They locked the wheels down,
and Lynch stepped onto it. He tapped the wireless micro-
phones and heard the deep thumping echo back to him from
the speaker system around the room. Huge monitors
mounted in the upper comers of the room came on, filling
with his image. The effect, he felt, was everything he'd
wanted it to be.

"The North Koreans lost the materials you'd procured
for them."
Lynch looked for the speaker and found her. Her name
was Lyao Sin Fong, and she was a major mover in flesh
and opium in Hong Kong these days. Sleek and deadly in
a pale blue, formfitting dress, she idly smoked her cigarette
in a long-stemmed holder, her black hair cut off at the
shoulder.
"Yes, they did," Lynch answered. "I was paid to de-
liver, and it was done. After that, they were on their own.
Evidently they weren't prepared for success."
"Or perhaps they were, in the end, betrayed." Her voice
was flat and unaccusing but quietly curious. "No."
"Kirosawa was attacked in his apartment," Oleg Dres-
dov said. He was one of the prime forces behind the straw
banks that had cropped up in Russia after the fall of com-
munism, and had bilked speculators on both sides of what
had been the Iron Curtain to make his fortune. Reports
indicated that he was now worth millions of dollars, and
had any number of legitimate investors waiting to find him
and either take him to court or have him assassinated. "And
no one has seen Nicky Steranko since this morning. We've
heard reports that he was kidnapped by police agents."
Lynch made his tone inflexible. "At the outset, I told
you there was considerable risk in joining me here. Just as
I told you there was considerable profit for those who did."
"Maybe we should get to the profit part," Ethan Gold-
stein said. Tall and built like a hungry wolf, tho Israeli
cocaine trafficker had begun by working with the Colom-
bians, but had lately started branching out, joining up with
the Russians in Eastern Europe.
"Sure." Lynch looked through the audience and found
Kirosawa sitting with a group of Asian crime lords. "Mr.




Kirosawa, do you know who invaded your rooms last
night?"
"No," the Yakuza chieftain replied. His face looked pale
and bruised. A white bandage covered his temple.
"Were they Seoul policemen?"
"No."
"American agents?"
"One, perhaps."
"The other?"
"British, I think."
"You'd never seen either of them?"
"No."
"Never had business with them?"
"No."
"But they definitely knew you, right?"
Kirosawa nodded.
Lynch addressed the whole audience. "You've all heard
about the American covert team who rescued the SEALs
the North Koreans had captured. Let me show you them in
action." He waved at the monitors on the walls.
A montage of shots, specially engineered by Kalico,
filled the screens. All of them centered around the men
who'd invaded the Nampo site. The violence was bloody
and swift, somehow more threatening without the sound.
Some of the footage was in infrared, and the figures moved
like vicious green ghosts across the screens. When it ended,
the audience was quiet.
Lynch softened his voice deliberately, working to get the
attention of every man and woman present. "There is a
force out there," he said, "that's above the DEA, the Coast
Guard, any police department you could name, above In-
terpol and above the CIA. They have military backing,
training in a dozen or more different arts of killing, and
information on every one of you. At any time, one of you

could become their target. Make no mistake, these people
have declared war on crime, on your businesses. They'll
take you down if they're pointed your way, and you'll
never see a day in court."
The conversations were out of control for a moment.
More than a few of the people stood up and paced angrily.
"Mr. Lynch," Carmine Vecchione of the Naples Ca-
morra shouted above the others, "we are not children to be
frightened away by your stories. Or your films." He was a
leonine figure, well into his forties, with his dark hair swept
back. "We've all seen the fantasies you can work with your
computer graphics."
"Yes, Mr. Vecchione, you have." Lynch smiled disarm-
ingly. "However, what I'm telling you is the truth."
"And you can somehow protect us from these people?"
Lyao Sin Fong demanded. "For a price? Have you gotten
us here to bribe us or blackmail us into paying you to
protect us from some imaginary agency?"
"It's not imaginary," Lynch countered. "Many of you
have already been talking among yourselves about these
people. You've had operations that have touched on some
of their work." He searched the audience. "Ramon De-
Silva."
The cartel leader looked up.
"Maybe you'd like to tell this group about what hap-
pened to your predecessor, Luis Costanza, a few years
ago."
"He was assassinated," DeSilva answered. The man
didn't bat an eye. "By whom?"
"There was a lot of talk about an American military
team that was sent after Costanza."
"Was there any truth to these stories?"
"Yes. The cartels had people who told us Benito Franco,




before he was killed, was deeply involved with a group of
American soldiers."
"Right." Lynch looked around the room, listening to the
quiet settle down around him as he recaptured their atten-
tion. "At that time, Costanza was building a supercartel,
one capable of taking on the American police forces. Some
cartel leaders joined him, others he blackmailed or killed."
"It is true."
Lynch knew he'd regained control. He felt the deal clos-
ing around him, the magic of the moment. He abandoned
the podium, walking in DeSilva's direction, making them
listen to hear him. "Costanza was a threat that couldn't be
reached through normal, legal means. He was marked for
death by the covert agency I'm telling you about."
"If you're not offering protection from the people,"
Goldstein said, "what are you offering?"
Lynch held his hands out at shoulder width, a move fur-
ther designed to pull their attention squarely on him.
"These people have an information network beyond any-
thing you've ever seen. I've studied it. In order to be ef-
fective, in order to remain a secret, they've managed to tie
themselves into every major law-enforcement agency and
espionage department in the world."
"Who are these people?" Kirosawa demanded.
Lynch shook his head. "I don't know their names."
"Then how do you propose to kill them?"
"Killing them is only one option that can be acted on,"
Lynchsaid. "That's not even a profitable one. If you kill
these people, more will simply take their places. All you
can do that way is slow them for a while."
"Then what do you propose?" Goldstein asked.
"What if your organizations could be tied into an inter-
national source of information detailing what most of the
police agencies in the world are doing while you're moving

your product around? What if you could ferret out under-
cover officers within your ranks? What if you could take a
look at the evidence a prosecuting body had against your
operation and have your lawyers prepare a better defense?
What if you could research officials who could be bribed
or blackmailed?"
"what are you talking about?" Kirosawa asked.
"Their computer systems," Lynch replied. "I've pene,-
trated them. Everything they know, I know. Everything
they can access, I can access." He paused. "And for a
price, so Can you."
"Can you prove this?" Lyao Sin Fong asked.
"Sure," Lynch replied. He waved to the technicians in
the comer. "I'd be glad to."

"STONY ONE TO STONY BASE," Mack Bolan transmitted.
"We're in position and waiting for the green." He stood
in the cargo area of a Bell Model 412SP helicopter. Jack
Grimaldi sat in the pilot's seat, handling the yoke with au-
thority as he flew the craft toward the Koreana Hotel.
"You've got your green, Stony One," Hal Brognola re-
plied. "The Man wants Lynch and his operation taken out
ASAP. Base will be standing by."
"Affirmative." Bolan dropped out of the loop and
glanced at Grimaldi. "Take her in, Jack."
The pilot gave him a thumbs-up and started to lose al-
titude. The streets and shopping areas of downtown Seoul
grew closer, the taller buildings a threat to the helicopter.
Still, Grimaldi navigated between them easily. "Pop the door, David," Bolan said.
The Phoenix Force leader nodded and slid the cargo door
open. Wind rushed in, filled with the smells and noxious
fumes of the city. Despite the hard afternoon sun, shadows
lingered at the foundations of the tar buildings.




Clad in the combat blacksuit, Mack Bolan was a dread-
nought of carnage waiting to be unleashed. He carried the
big .44 Magnum Desert Eagle on his hip, and the 9 mm
Beretta 93-R rode in shoulder leather. His body armor was
laden with extra magazines, incendiaries and other tools of
his violent trade. A Neostead combat shotgun was holstered
over his back on his right shoulder.
The five members of Phoenix Force were similarly clad
and armed to the teeth.
The penetration of the hotel suite was going to be strictly
a hit-and-git mission. From what Stony Man Farm had
learned, there were no innocents on the top floor. All of
Lynch's guests were criminals, whether they were wanted
in their home countries or not. The flip side of the coin was
that the Stony Man warriors were decidedly outnumbered.
"Get ready," Grimaldi advised.
Bolan stripped off his headset for a moment, then pulled
on the Nomex balaclava that covered everything but his
eyes. He reseated the headset, then pulled the mouthpiece
forward. "Count off," he instructed the other warriors.
They did, assuring radio communications were solid.
Hawkins and James readied the rappeling lines, holding
the coils of rope in their arms as they knelt by the cargo
door.
Bolan glanced at the approaching rooftop. The streets
below looked a long way down.
Abruptly the rooftop was under them, and Grimaldi was
pulling up the chopper's nose. "Go!" the pilot ordered.
Under his competent hand, the aircraft hovered scarcely
twenty feet above the rooftop, maintaining a vantage point
that could oversee the whole rooftop while providing a
proximity position.
Hawkins and James flipped out the door, holding tight
to the rappeling lines as they slid rapidly down them. They

landed on their feet and held the lines taut for the others
to follow. Manning and Encizo went next.
"Company, mate," McCarter said, pointing toward the
small group of men hovering around the HVAC units less
than forty yards away. "If they get off a round, we're going
to lose something of our little surprise."
Without a word, the Executioner drew the silenced Ber-
etta 93-R. It was chugging in his fist, spitting death, even
as he was aware the Briton was doing the same with a Hi-
Power. The five guards didn't get a chance to loose a single
shot as the 9 mm rounds knocked them down. The Stony
Man warriors reloaded automatically when their weapons
blew back empty.
Still holding the pistol in his fist, Bolan seized the rap-
peling line and went down. The rope burned along his
glove and boots. McCarter was only a heartbeat behind
him.
"Gary," Bolan said, "you're with me."
"On your heels," the Canadian said, settling the satchel
pack he'd prepped earlier over his shoulder.
Bolan sprinted across the rooftop to the HVAC. Kurtz-
man's research had revealed that the top-floor suites had
their own duct system and independent air-conditioning
units. If the rest of the building lost power, the top suites
would still be comfortable. When reviewing the hotel's
stats, the Executioner had decided to make use of those
systems.
He slipped a pair of bolt cutters from one of the armor's
modular pockets, located the duct work he wanted and
snipped the locks. A couple seconds later, the grate was
off. The straining motor was audible, sucking in air to be
cooled and pumped inside the building.
Manning shoved the satchel inside, lodging it in place.




"We're go." He slipped the H&K MP-5 SD-3 from his
shoulder.
"David?" Bolan transmitted.
"Another few seconds," the Briton replied.
Bolan scanned the rooftop as he and Manning jogged
over to the side of the building where the suite's banquet
room overlooked the Gate of Transformation by Light. A
glance skyward showed him that Grimaldi had taken the
helicopter back up. It looked like a red-and-white shark
cruising against the blue sky. The rappeling lines still hung
from it.
"Stony One, this is Stony Base," Kurtzman called over
the headset.
"Go, Stony Base, you have One."
"Lynch is trying to access the computer," the cybernet-
ics expert said.
For the time being, Stony Man Farm had remained off-
line from its own systems. Kurtzman and Tokaido had dis-
covered contamination among their files and programs, but
they hadn't had time to do anything about getting rid of it.
That would take days, perhaps weeks, to do properly. If
tampered with too much, Lynch would have known he'd
been found out.
Yakov Katzenelenbogen had arranged for alternate sys-
tems to be used through known Mossad channels. The re-
sulting network had been almost as good as what was nor-
mally possible through Stony Man Farm, but everyone
knew they were going into battle with less than what they
could have had.
"How much time can you buy us?" Bolan shook out his
nylon cord and collapsible grappling hook while Manning
did the same.
"A few seconds. Anything more and he's going to know
something's wrong."

"David?" Bolan asked. He stepped over the edge, set
himself and let the cord take his weight. It wouldn't be
long before people below noticed them and called the po-
lice department.
"It'll do, mate."
Bolan and Manning dropped down on either side of the
large plate-glass windows. Diaphanous curtains covered the
glass on the inside, and heavy tinting kept anyone from
easily seeing into the suite.
"He's rebooting," Kurtzman said, "trying to make the
connection again."
Manning reached into his munitions pack and spread out
fingers of C-4 across the glass, no more than three or four
inches long. The curtain's valance hid the action from any-
one inside the suite who might have been looking in that
direction. The Canadian shoved preset timers into the gray
white worms of explosive. "Going to set up alternating
vibrations when it goes," he said. "It'll cause an implosion
and drop the glass almost straight down. Won't be much
left to slow us down."
Bolan nodded and drew the Neostead from over his
shoulder, resting his weight easily on his feet. The South
African combat shotgun was a study in the true meaning
of lethal. Twin tubes ran on top of the barrel, carrying six
rounds of double-aught buckshot apiece and feeding di-
rectly down into the breech. The laser sight was a further
demoralizer.
"That's it," Kurtzman said. "I've got to let him in."
"Do it, mate," McCarter said. "We're inside."
Bolan listened to the whisper of the doomsday numbers
counting down on the play. Stony Man Farm had been able
to trace Shatterstop as far as Roanoke, and thought they'd
moved Able Team to somewhere within a nine-mile radius.
But without a chance to tag a communications transmission




from Lynch, they couldn't locate the domestic arm of
SmarTech's operation.
"Sarge," Grimaldi transmitted, "we've got trouble. Ev-
idently a relief crew just came up for the guys on the roof-
top. They know their security's bleeding."
"Pull back, Jack," Bolan said. "Don't give them an easy
target."
"Shit," the pilot responded. "They've spotted your line
and Manning's. They're coming over."
Bolan glanced at the edge of the rooftop. One slash
across the nylon cord, and there'd be only the street and
certain death waiting for them below. Time was running
out.

Roanoke, Virginia

CARL LYONS HAD NEVER liked feeling helpless. It had hap-
pened with increasing frequency during his days on the
LAPD as criminals and well-schooled lawyers learned how
to use the very legal system against him that he fought to
uphold. When he'd been offered the chance to join the
Stony Man team, there'd been no hesitation. Once, the law
had offered a demarcation between right and wrong, but
that line was blurred. Stony Man Farm had bypassed the
courtrooms and their tangles, moved the action right back
onto the playing field of good versus evil, and he stood
firmly entrenched on the side he'd always chosen.
The times of feeling helpless and frustrated were fewer
now, but he still didn't like them. He particularly hated this one.
Night had fallen over Roanoke hours earlier, and his
watch told him it was only a few minutes away from mid-
night. Parked at a scenic overview in the foothills of the
Blue Ridge Mountains, he was almost on home ground.

The thought wasn't as comforting as it normally would
have been.
Stony Man Farm was only a couple hundred or so miles
away, near the Shenandoah National Park. The realization
that the Farm was well within striking distance of a number
of ground-launched missiles left a cold stone in his stom-
ach.
And that was what they'd all agreed they were looking
for. From Trask's files on Shatterstop, the operation could
be nothing else. If Dixon Lynch hadn't been able to quietly
corrupt the Stony Man cybernetics systems, he'd meant to
see them destroyed. At some point during the North Korean
operation, Lynch had managed to target the counterterrorist
hardsite.
Lyons didn't like the idea of the Stony Man support team
remaining on-site, but they'd had no choice if they were
going to help target Lynch for Phoenix Force and Bolan.
And there was no way to quickly transfer all the systems
somewhere else even as a backup Intel site. However, the
"farm hands" had been cut back to a skeletal crew that
was strictly voluntary.
He stood to one side of the Dodge Ram 1500 4X4
pickup and raked the surrounding terrain with night glasses.
Somewhere out there, death lay in wait.
The headset crackled in his ear, then Price said, "Able
Team, stand ready."
"We're here, Barb," Lyons answered.
Blancanales and Schwarz replied as well.
Even after Bolan and Phoenix Force engaged Lynch at
the hotel in Seoul, Lyons knew, it could take time for
Kurtzman and his team to track down a transmission. Too
damn much time. And that was if Lynch made a call. There
was every possibility that the attack was to take place if a
call wasn't made.


Lyons continued to rake the terrain with the night
glasses. His eyes felt grainy and tired, and the moonlight
played tricks on his vision. He was outfitted in boots, jeans
and a flannel shirt, with a windbreaker covering the Colt
.45 Government Model pistol on his hip and the .357 Mag-
num Python revolver in shoulder leather. Inside the cab of
the Dodge was a CAR-15. Extra magazines filled his pock-
ets.
As he watched, an orange 1966 Ford Mustang with four
women inside pulled off the main highway running from
Roanoke to Salem into the rest stop less than a thousand
yards from his position. An idea came to him as he watched
the women get out and approach the various trucks parked
there, avoiding the passenger cars and family vans. It was
strictly from the cop days on the streets, but he thought it
might work.
Getting back into the pickup, he cranked the engine,
turned and headed back to the rest stop. He tagged the
headset's transmit button. "Pol. Gadgets."
"Go," Blancanales responded, followed a heartbeat later
by Schwarz.
"Got an idea I've got to play out," Lyons said as he cut
into the rest area. "Saw a carload of lot lizards arrive to
work on the night trade at a rest stop here. Got me to
wondering how many other places they might have stopped
at, and who they might have seen."
"Want some backup?" Schwarz asked.
"Negative." Lyons pulled the big 4x4 pickup to a halt
behind the Mustang, blocking it in and instantly getting the
attention of the four women. "If something comes of it,
I'll let you know."
"Stay hard, Ironman," Blancanales advised.
A peroxide blonde in a black leather miniskirt, silver-
studded black leather vest and pumps walked toward him.

She was in her early thirties, Lyons guessed as he stepped
out of the track, and hard enough to push back when leaned
on.
"Hey," she said, "that's my car you're blocking in
there, asshole."
"Yeah," Lyons said, "I kind of figured that."
The way her hand drifted to her back as she continued
walking toward him let the big Able Team warrior know
she'd reached for some kind of weapon. Her cheeks were
rouged and her lips were deep red, not blunting the hard
features in the slightest. "Maybe you want to move it away
before you get hurt." She stopped six feet from him.
"I don't think I'm going to get hurt," Lyons said, taking
out his wallet and letting her see the pistol in shoulder
leather. "I'm a real live do-gooder. Got my shield to prove
it. Bullets bounce right off." He showed her the badge
Price had set up for his cover.
"You're not local," the woman said, not relaxing.
"Fed," Lyons told her, putting the badge away.
"Federal vice?" Her look was complete disbeliefi
Lyons shook his head. "I'm looking for somebody.
Thought maybe you might have seen them."
'Tm not too good at faces," the woman said. "Working
in the dark all the time, you know how it is." "Where have you girls hit tonight?"
Glenda smiled and pulled a cigarette from her purse.
"Don't I have a Fifth Amendment or something around
here?"
"The guys I'm looking for are bad news," Lyons said.
"You'd probably remember them. They wouldn't want at-
tention."
"That fits a lot of drivers. Guys out here are sometimes
dodging the IRS, ex-wives and their lawyers, and parole
officers."




"Figure three or four guys in the same truck," Lyons
said. If it was a missile, the Shatterstop team would need
that many men to launch.
Her brow wrinkled. "Clean-cut guys?" She dragged her
fingers along her chin. "Military haircuts and hard-ass at-
titudes?"
"I don't know," Lyons replied honestly. "I haven't seen
them."
"There was a truck Gina ran into at the rest stop a couple
miles back, like they were headed into Roanoke. We were
working the lot until a state police cruiser moved us on."
She took another hit on the cigarette. "When I saw you, I
figured tonight just wasn't our night."
"What about the truck?" Lyons said.
"Gina said she saw these two guys get out of a cab with
Chinese takeout. She thought that was strange to begin
with, but figured what the hell, if they could afford a cab
back into town and Chinese takeout, they could definitely
afford a couple of us. She followed them back to the truck,
but didn't see any dollars under the windshield wiper,
which is how we usually know a driver's looking for some
companionship. Still, she thought she'd give it a try, you
know? All they can do is turn you down, right? They can't
kill you."
Lyons knew differently, but he didn't say anything. A
prostitute was a serial killer's prime target.
"Gina knocks on the door, right? Guy opens it, asks her
what the hell she wants. He tells Gina she should take it
on somewhere else. Rude, you know. Guys don't always
have to be so damn rude about it. A girl's got a right to
make a living."
"How many were in the truck?"
"Four. For sure. She didn't have much of a chance to
look around. The guy she was talking to, he shoved a gun

in her face, told her she'd better leave or he was going to
scatter her brains in about one second flat. She left."
"What was the name on the truck?" Lyons asked.
The blonde hit the cigarette again and coolly blew
smoke. "I don't know that I remember. My mind gets kind
of fuzzy on me sometimes."
Lyons got a couple hundreds from his jeans pocket and
handed them over. "Give me a name."
"Longarm Transit," Glenda replied. "Fancy Peterbilt rig
with a custom paint job. Trailer's got a painting of a giraffe
that looks like it's all legs. You can't miss it."
Lyons said thanks and climbed back into the Dodge
Ram. By the time he'd cleared the rest area, he'd already
radioed the information to Blancanales, Schwarz and Stony
Man Farm.
He stared through the windshield as he pressed his foot
harder on the accelerator. It might be a false lead, but he
didn't think so. It felt right. The net was tightening, but it
remained to be seen who was trapping whom.




CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Dixon Lynch didn't worry about the first two failed at-
tempts to get into the covert agency's computer system. As
far as he knew, they hadn't gone back on-line since they'd
shifted over to the Chinese systems. It was possible that
with the pickup of the insertion team by the aircraft carrier
near Nampo, they'd shut down so they wouldn't be over-
heard by military-intelligence communications going
through that sphere of influence.
He worked the keyboard confidently, every eye in the
room on him, using the pass codes Gutter Razor had en-
gineered for him. The screen flared to life, reflected on the
monitors depending on the walls.
"Where do you want to go?" Lynch asked. "What do
you want to see?" He typed, already having an agenda in
mind. Accessing the Japanese National Police files, he
reached in for the information on the Yakuza. "How about
you, Mr. Kirosawa? Wouldn't you like to know if there are
any undercover officers planted in your organization?"
There was no answer, but the rumble of conversations
grew steadily louder as the screen changed, showing files
in Japanese.
"You can't speak the language?" Lynch said with a
smile. He activated one of the pull-down menus. "No prob-
lem. The programming allows for multilingual capabili-

ties." He tapped the mouse buttons. The screen wavered,
then the Japanese characters vanished, replaced by Russian,
German, French and finally English.
An hour aboard the Shadow Scythe, working the systems
Razor had freed up to his plundering so far, had given
Lynch enough experience to freely cruise the files. Abruptly
two faces appeared on the screens in full-frontal and profile
shots.
"Do you recognize them, Mr. Kirosawa?" Lynch asked.
"Yes," the Yakuza chieftain said. "They are men within
my organization."
Lynch entered new commands. The full-frontal pictures
of the two men remained, shunted over to the right, then
more pictures appeared on the other side. Both men were
shown in Japanese National Police uniforms, looking con-
siderably more clean-cut. "I can get you names, induction
dates and training sites they attended." Lynch looked at
Kirosawa. "How much would you be willing to pay for
such information?" He didn't wait for an answer. "And
today you get it free. But you have to ask yourself, how
many more are there like that?"
The conversations grew, and Lynch knew they were be-
ginning to see the potential.
"This agency is real, ladies and gentlemen," he said.
"Only now, instead of working against you, they can work
for you, too." He paused. "And I can give it to you. Many
of you have already started working together, forging a
crime industry that moves at least a half-trillion dollars a
year. I know. I've done the research. And you're getting
more savvy in what to do with those profits. At least a
quarter trillion per year is going back into legitimate busi-
nesses, providing further growth and a varied portfolio."
"What do you want out of this?" Oleg Dresdov asked.
Lynch turned, flexing his hand at his side so the cam-




eraman he'd stationed for the meeting would switch back
to him, then signaled for a close-up. He gave the assembled
group of thieves, murderers and robber barons his best win-
her's smile. "That's easy," he said. "I just want a piece
of the action."

"DAMN, THIS GUY IS SCARY," Aaron Kurtzman said. His
attention was focused on the wall screen at the end of the
room. The video feed was coming from the computer
Dixon Lynch was using in the suite at the Koreana Hotel.
Barbara Price didn't know how the cybernetics expert had
managed it, but somehow he and Tokaido had tied in the
corrupted programming linked to Lynch's CPU to pick up
the video and audio feeds and bring them through the bor-
rowed Mossad channels. It was purely passive, though, and
any action on their part to interact or interfere with Lynch
would have brought the corruption and viruses into the Is-
raeli systems--and alerted Lynch.
She finished her emergency phone call to Tokyo and
hung up. She had a contact in the American Embassy there
who could get in touch with the Japanese National Police
and get the two blown undercover officers out of danger
before Kirosawa had a chance to call in and expose them.
"Yeah," Brognola said, "but there's been some good
come out of this, too. Without Lynch, we wouldn't have
known about Aleksei Kandinsky's organization down in the
Caribbean."
Silently Price agreed. Kandinsky's activities had been
noticed, and patterns had been developing in that part of
the world regarding Yakuza activity, the cartels and the
Russian Mafia, but investigating Lynch and DeSilva had
unveiled more of the stranglehold Kandinsky had on Aruba
and other Caribbean areas. The mission controller was al-

ready taking notes, assembling files and planning an ex-
ploratory probe into the area in the near future.
"They are organizing out there," Brognola went on. He
unwrapped a cigar and thrust it unlighted into the comer
of his mouth. "They're getting harder and smarter, and it's
up to us to cut them down to something regular police
agencies can handle."
No one said that all hinged on whether any of them was
still there. Shatterstop was still a loose cannon, perhaps
literally. Price shook the thought from her mind. Able Team
was riding a bet, and she'd always been willing to back
Lyons's hunches.
But the clock was moving.
"Geez," Kurtzman said, glancing back at one of the
monitors on his desk.
Price leaned in for a closer look. The satellite provided
through the Mossad Intelligence network was good enough
to show the small group of men who'd walked out onto the
rooftop of the Koreana Hotel.
"It's about to hit the fan," Brognola commented.
"Where's David and his team?" "Inside," Price replied.
Lynch's security group jogged into motion, heading for
the side of the building where Manning and Bolan had
started their descent.
"Tell him to open the ball," BrOgnola growled. "It's
all-or-nothing now, and we're going out down and dirty."
Price reached for the radio.

MCCARTER PEERED around the comer into the hallway.
There were two rooftop entrances, and his team had come
through the narrower maintenance one instead of the ele-
vator-assisted delivery entrance.




The stairs allowed only one man to pass at a time. Phoe-
nix Force went in single file, led by McCarter.
At the end of the hall, two men stood guard with auto-
matic weapons. They were professional in their dress and
attitude, but weren't expecting any trouble.
McCarter lifted the silenced Browning and put two
rounds into the back of the head of the man on the left. As
his corpse stretched out forward, the second man turned
and tried to back away to cover at the same time.
The Briton raced forward, the Hi-Power level before him.
He stroked the trigger again, coring a round through the
center of the man's heart, then once more, making a scarlet
ruin of his target's throat before he could loose a dying
scream.
Grabbing one of the bodies, McCarter pulled it back into
concealment while James did the same with the other. The
double doors the guards had been assigned to opened out
into the main hallway. Some of the details were different
than the blueprints Kurtzman had snatched from the hotel
files, but that was to be expected since the modular walls
allowed for reshaping of the rooms.
Hawkins and Encizo quickly mined the doorway. If they
had to use it in their retreat, the explosions could kill gun-
ners who were hot on their heels. And if they went out
another way, the explosions could provide further distrac-
tion.
The headset beeped in his car. "Stony Base to Phoenix
One."
"Go, Stony Base," McCarter replied. "You have Phoe-
nix One."
"Striker and Phoenix Two are about to receive com-
pany," the mission controller said. "They're going to need
some support."
"We're on our way," McCarter said grimly. He filled

his empty hand with his other Browning, glancing around
at his team and making sure they'd copied the transmission.
"Let's go for it," Hawkins growled.
"I got the point," James said. He handled his H&K
MP-5 SD-3 with both hands and went forward.
"Double-time, lads," McCarter urged, then followed the
ex-SEAL into the corridor. Hawkins trailed him, with En-
cizo bringing up the rear.
A cluster of bodyguards from different crime lords and
mercenaries in Lynch's employ stood in front of the double
doors. Guns filled their hands as soon as they spotted the
black-clad Stony Man warriors.
McCarter and Phoenix Force gave them no quarter.
Bringing up his Brownings, the Briton started triggering
rounds as quickly as he could, burning through both mag-
azines. Brass leaped and glinted, spilling to the carpeted
floor. Bullets tore through the expensive door, chipping
away the hand-tooled wooden exterior.
Return fire from the guards ripped fluorescent lighting
fixtures from the ceiling and spilled them in a chemical
haze and burst of sparks to the floor. Divots from the plush
carpet were ripped loose and sent spinning.
"Split off!" McCarter commanded, waving Hawkins
and Encizo to the left.
The two Phoenix Force warriors pounded down the hail-
way.
McCafret took one side of the double doors while James
took the other. Holstering the Brownings, the Briton pulled
the H&K MP-5 SD-3 from his back. He tagged the head-
set's transmit button. "Stony One, this is Phoenix One. If
you needed a diversion, mate, this is as good as it gets."
There was no answer.
Unable to wait, McCarter kicked open the double doors
and met a hail of bullets coming in his direction.




SHOULDERING THE NEOSTEAD, Bolan waited for the first of
the rooftop security guards to look over the side as he heard
McCarter's words die away. When the guy did, the Exe-
cutioner squeezed the shotgun's trigger and rode out the
recoil.
Caught dead center by the hot charge of double-anght
buckshot, the guard's head went to pieces.
"Go," Bolan said to Manning. The men up top could
cut the nylon cords without ever exposing themselves.
"Fire in the hole!" the Canadian yelled, turning away
from the big window.
Bolan shielded his face with an ann, keeping the Neo-
stead at the ready. Through his fingers, he saw the plate-
glass window fragment into a thousand gleaming shards,
then drop almost straight down. "Jump," he told Manning,
flexing his legs and propelling himself from the side of the
building. His free hand caught the line, ready to pay it out
from his harness when he needed to.
He flew away from the building in a short, tight arc,
mirrored by Manning on the other side, then he was twist-
ing, navigating his way through the gaping maw of the
destroyed window.
Without warning, he felt gravity grab a more fierce hold
on him, and he knew the nylon cord had been severed. His
swing turned into a fall.

DIXON LYNCH STOOD frozen for a moment, not knowing
which way to move. He saw the black-clad gunmen invade
the suite despite the firestorm that met them. The body-
guards and security people were the first to react, knocking
down their employers and taking up defensive postures be-
hind whatever cover they could find.
Then the main window overlooking the street exploded
and rained to the carpet just inside the frame. Screams and

yells punctuated the noise, but were almost lost amid the
bursts of autofire.
Then, incredibly, two more black-clad commandos
swung in through the emptied window, hanging from thin
black cords. One of them landed off balance, t~iling a
slashed length of the cord after him. Three of the Yakuza
fired at him as he rolled and came up on his feet. The
shotgun roared in his hands, kicking out smoking shells.
The Yakuza went down like tenpins.
"No," Lynch said in a hoarse voice. He couldn't believe
they'd actually gone up against him with so much to lose.
And to walk into this suite, knowing it would be filled with
nothing but enemies easily outnumbering them, it was lu-
nacy.
He raked the Giock 23 from under his left arm and fired
at the black figure with the shotgun, ignoring the guns blast-
ing around him. He was sure he'd hit the man at least twice.
"Get down, Dix," Eric Hardcastle growled in his ear.
The big mercenary dropped a heavy hand over him and
pulled him away. "We've got to get you out of here. Relax
and let me do my job."
Lynch went with him, digging for the cell phone in the
holster at his waist. The people who'd orchestrated the
strike were dead, history, whether they knew it or not. He
punched in the numbers for Shatterstop.
Hardeasfie became an elemental force of elbows and
knees playing a sonata of bone-crunching violence. His pis-
tol boomed repeatedly as he marched Lynch and himself
to the exit in the rear of the suite.
"You double-crossing son of a bitch!" one of the Amer-
ican Mafia representatives yelled as he pointed a pistol at
Lynch.
Hardcastle dropped him with two shots through the face
and kept Lynch moving over the spasming corpse.




Lynch's conversation with Shatterstop was brief. As he
punched the End button on the cell phone, a rolling voice
that sounded straight out of a winter graveyard called out
to him.
"Dixon Lynch!"
Although unwilling, Lynch turned to face the speaker.
The black-clad warrior with the shotgun stood framed by
the empty window behind him, the hard light of early af-
ternoon spilling in after him. He had the shotgun in his off
hand now, and he aimed a big pistol at Lynch from less
than forty feet away.
Suddenly Kalico was there, leaping at the man in black
with a knife in her fist and screaming like a banshee. She
wrapped an arm around his throat from behind and raked
at his hooded face with the blade.
The big pistol fired just as Hardcastle slammed into
Lynch and knocked him through the exit. "Move!" the
mercenary yelled.
The cell phone fell from Lynch's fingers and dropped to
the carpet. He didn't care. All that mattered was that he
could get away. Hardcastle was already ordering the heli-
copter they had standing by to meet them out in the street
in front of the hotel. A flying wedge of mercenaries bris-
fling with guns surrounded Lynch and herded him down
the hall to the private elevator he'd arranged.
They hadn't beaten him. There was still a lot he could
accomplish before they shut him out of their cybernetics
systems.
There was a short wait on the elevators. The constant
din of gunfire filled the hallway with noise. He got himself
together, taking a new grip on the Glock in his fist. They'd
set him back, but they hadn't stopped him. He was hurt,
but he wasn't finished.
The elevator arrived, and he allowed Hardcastle to put

him on it. He had a lot to do once he reached the Shadow
Scythe.

"DID YOU GET IT.9" Brognola asked.
Kurtzman shook his head, studying the computer moni-
tors spread across his desk. "The call went through too
quick. I couldn't lock on securely enough." He swore with
feeling. They'd known Lynch would place his call through
a conventional phone line or a cellular handset, and he'd
set capture programming in the communications systems to
snare any calls made to Roanoke, Virginia. "It was made
to a cell phone. I couldn't get the triangulation set up in
time once it bounced off the cell tower in Virginia."
He glanced up at Hunt Wethers's station, where radar
watch was being kept in a two-hundred-mile radius around
the Farm. So far, nothing had appeared on the event hori-
zon.
Brognola dropped a friendly hand on his shoulder. "You
did what you could, Aaron."
In the background, Price was relaying the information to
Bolan, Phoenix Force and Able Team. Kurtzman watched
the monitors with keen anticipation. He'd done what he
could, but he knew it wasn't enough. Not by a long shot.

TI4~. NOMEX HOOD Bolan wore had a Kevlar lining on it
that left only his eyes, nose and mouth unprotected in the
form of a keyhole. Blunt trauma would generally knock a
man out, but it might not kill him.
The woman's blade scratched over the Executioner's
right cheekbone as she stabbed at him, but never reached
his flesh. She remained locked onto his back, however, and
drew back her arm to make another attempt. Lynch and the
mercenary Price had identified as a German named Eric




Hardcastle had disappeared through a door at the rear of
the room.
An Italian-looking man with a chrome pistol fired at Bo-
lan before he could move.
He was caught fiat-footed, and the bullets hammered
against the Executioner's armor, braising the flesh beneath.
Raising the Desert Eagle, Bolan loosed a pair of 240-grain
skull-busters that erased the man's features and threw his
corpse backward.
He twisted as the woman stabbed at him again, deflecting
her aim and causing the point of the knife to dig into the
Kevlar atop his shoulder. Before she could recover, he
leathered the big .44 and grabbed her striking elbow. With
one lithe move, he flipped her over his shoulder.
Bullets meant for the Executioner caught her in the chest.
Shock filled her face as she put a hand to her breast and it
came away bloody.
Bolan drew the Desert Eagle in one smooth motion and
fired a steady roll of thunder blasting the life out of the
killers, then grabbed the woman's blouse and tugged her to
the brief safety of an overturned table. One look at her
wounds told him there was nothing he could do.
"You know," she said in a ragged voice as a thread of
crimson trickled from the comer of her mouth, "I really
loved him. And he didn't care for me at all." Abruptly
light left her eyes, and her head lolled to the side.
Bolan didn't know who the woman was. Maybe he'd
never know. It depended on how things worked out on the
Seoul end of the operation. He sat on his heels beside her
and thumbed fresh rounds into the Neostead. Lynch
couldn't be allowed to escape. They just needed him run-
ning.
He tagged the transmitter. "Phoenix Two."
"Go," Manning responded.

"It's time."
"Affirmative." A heartbeat later, a huge explosion of
noise echoed through the room. Immediately afterward,
roiling black clouds of smoke blew from the ductwork and
invaded the suite.
Bolan reached into one of the pockets of the modular
armor and pulled out a gas mask with night-vision goggles
attached. He pulled it on, threading the pencil-thin mike
through the mask. A pair of gunners looking for cover came
around the table. Lifting the shotgun, he cleared them out
of the way with two blasts. "Phoenix One." "Go, mate."
"The pigeon flew through the back."
"I saw him. If you and Two would like to take a run at
him, we'll cover before we pull back." "See you out front."
"You can bloody well count on it."
Bolan pushed himself to his feet, blasting away with the
12-gauge three more times, putting down two more targets.
The confusion inside the suite was nearly complete. With
the gdvent of the CS-laced smoke from the munitions
satchel Manning had stashed in the return-air system, more
of Lynch's guests were losing their stomach for the fight.
"Two," Bolan growled.
"You look over your shoulder," the Canadian said,
"that'll be me."
The headset chirped for his attention.
"Go," he said, pausing at the rear door. Black smoke
was pouring out into the corridor, and he got a glimpse of
the private elevator's doors closing.
"If you can find Lynch," Price said, "see if you can get
the number he called in Roanoke. We missed the connec-
tion."
Glancing back at the floor, Bolan spotted the cell phone




he'd seen Lynch drop. He stooped and picked it up, then
punched the Send and Redial buttons. "Try it now," he
said. Out in the hallway, he dropped the phone gently onto
the carpet. Someone on the other end of the line said hello.
"The elevator?" Manning asked, joining him.
"Yeah." Bolan paused at the doors and leathered the
shotgun across his back. "We've got to keep the pressure
on, keep Lynch running and in our sights." He stuck his
fingers through the double doors and pushed them open.
Down in the elevator shaft, the cage was two floors be-
low and continuing to drop rapidly.
"I can do that," Manning promised. "Provided we can
get onto that cage quietly."
"Let's go." Stripping off the Kevlar-lined Nomex hood,
Bolan replaced the gas mask and NVGs. Leaning out into
the shaft, he wrapped the Nomex hood around the steel
cable, then locked his boots around it, as well, and started
to slide after the descending cage. He started gaining on it,
but the Nomex hood was heating up fast. He kept count of
the floors as the cage descended.
"It's affirmative," Price said as his boots touched the
top of the cage. "We've got lock and triangulation. Able
Team is closing in on Shatterstop now."
"Shut them down," Bolan said. He stepped off onto the
cage, causing as little disturbance as he could. Manning
joined him a second later.
Without a word, the Canadian set to work preparing a
shaped charge atop the elevator cage. "We're going to need
some room when this goes." Bolan nodded.
"How far are we from the first floor?" Manning stood
up, finished. A remote detonator was in his hand and a tight
grin was on his face.
"Six more stories."

"We need two of them for a safety zone."
"Go," Bolan said, and reached for one of the passing
struts. The cage was going fast enough that the sudden stop
strained his muscles and joints when he stepped off onto
one of the support struts. Perspiration covered his face and
gleamed along the exposed skin of his wrists.
The cage stopped on the first floor, and the ding of the
doors opening echoed through the shaft.
Clinging to the side of the elevator shaft, Bolan tapped
the headset's transmit button. "Phoenix One, this is Stony
One."
"Go, Stony One." The Briton's tone was clipped but
unhurried.
"Your situation?"
"We're going topside, mate. Meeting up with G-Force.
We'll be ready to pick you up in seconds. It seems we
weren't the only ones with a helo standing by."
Manning touched off the detonator at Bolan's nod.
Enough time had elapsed that the warrior felt certain Lynch
had had time to leave the cage.
The explosion was loud and echoing, trapped as it was
inside the shaft. The heat billowed up but quickly dissi-
pated.
When Bolan looked back at the bottom, he saw the cage
was a jumbled wreckage. He started down, working his way
through the support lattice. When he reached the cage, he
drew the Desert Eagle and peered through the crawl space
left above the warped elevator doors. He caught a glimpse
of Lynch, Hardcastle and the mercenaries disappearing
through the main doors leading onto the street.
Rolling through the gap, he landed on his feet and gave
pursuit. In order to completely put Lynch's threat behind
them, his main computers had to be taken out. Price, Brog-
nola and Kurtzman had all agreed that the man had un-




doubtedly backed up a lot of what he'd discovered on those
units.
Kurtzman's team had turned up the probable existence
of a submersible in the files they'd accessed through the
Mossad Intelligence network. Finding out where it was
berthed at the present was another matter.
Bolan made the main lobby doors with no resistance. A
housekeeper pushing a cart of cleaning supplies backed
away from him, and a guy running a floor waxer switched
off his machine and abandoned it.
Out on the street, Hardcastle and his team blocked off a
section with smoking emergency flares. The crimson-and-
yellow fog drifted upward at first, then was beat back clown
by the descending Mil Mi-8 Salon helicopter. The chopper
didn't touch the ground, hovering only a few feet above it.
Lynch and his people scrambled aboard, then it quickly
rose into the sky, threading between buildings. Traffic came
to a stop in the streets, and a few collisions by surprised
motorists further confused things.
Keeping the Desert Eagle up and at the ready, Bolan
tapped the headset transmit button. "Stony One to Stony
Base."
"Go, Stony One," Price replied.
"Have you got your target?"
"We're tracking now."
Bolan jogged out onto the street as the helicopter dis-
appeared in the distance. "G-Force?" "On my way, guy."
Glancing up, the Executioner watched the Bell Model
412SP drop quickly. The cargo door was open, and the four
other Phoenix Force commandos could be seen inside.
James kicked at a rolled bundle in front of him. Spinning
out like a dropping spider, a rope ladder trailed out of the
aircraft.

"On the fly, mate," McCarter said over the radio. "The
local constabulary has a bird in the air, as well. We don't
have time to tarry."
"What, no curb service?" Manning groused.
Bolan broke into a run, plotting an interception course
in his mind as he made his body accept the demands he
was putting on it. Manning raced along beside him.
Without warning, a group of Japanese burst from the
hotel directly in their path and started brandishing guns,
forming a protective barrier around an old man in their
midst.
"Go," Bolan ordered Manning, drawing the Desert Ea-
gle and slowing. He took a two-handed grip, aware that the
Canadian had made the rope ladder and was now clinging
to it.
The Japanese gunners opened fire, aiming at the swing-
ing target and Bolan.
Concentrating on his field of fire, the Executioner emp-
tied the clip rapidly as bullets sliced the air around him.
Eight rounds, carefully placed and dead on target, punched
five of the Japanese shooters backward, tangling everyone
else.
Behind, sprinting now, Bolan raced for the swaying rope
ladder. Grimaldi was still in forward motion, unable to
come to a complete stop without becoming an even easier
target for the gunners firing from the upper floors. Bullets
had already spiderwebbed the Plexiglas nose.
A row of cars parked at the curb blocked Bolan's path
as a pair of Seoul police cars came shrieking around the
end of the block ahead of him. Their whirling blue cherries
flickered inside their plastic cases.
Bolan knew he'd only have one chance at the brass ring.
Leathering the Desert Eagle, he pushed himself, his breath
like liquid fire spilling through his lungs. He raced up the




rear of a Volkswagen bug, losing his balance for just a
moment as the small car shifted on its springs and shocks
under him. Then he vaulted to the top of a Mercedes in
front of the Volkswagen. The ladder remained just out of
reach.
Marshaling his remaining speed and strength, he threw
himself from the top of the Mercedes toward the rope lad-
der. His fingers grazed one of the rungs, then slid down to
the next as he started to fall. He closed his hand around it.
His shoulder burned from the sudden exertion, then he
found a foothold and made it bearable.
"He's on," McCarter said. "Haul him in."
Working carefully as the helicopter rapidly gained alti-
tude, Bolan scaled the rope ladder while Phoenix Force
reeled him in. They had Shatterstop located and Lynch on
the run. All that remained was to see if the Stony Man
teams could pull it all together.

CHAPTER TWENTY-IWO

More than two dozen eighteen-wheelers were parked at the
Roanoke rest stop. The camper trailers, vans and motor
homes easily more than doubled that-number, which
amounted to a confusing collection of vehicles.
Carl Lyons made the turn into the rest stop's access road,
eyes straining to find the Longann Transit truck. He braked
for a couple weary parents carrying an ice chest and herd-
ing three young children toward the picnic area.
"I've got him, Ironman," Blancanales said calmly.
"He's dead ahead of you, already pulling out."
Peering farther down the road, Lyons spotted the Long-
arm Transit truck speeding up the incline leading back to
the highway. The Able Team warrior shoved his foot down
on the accelerator and scooted around a station wagon pull-
ing a camper trailer and negotiating a parking spot.
Coming out around the station wagon, Lyons was caught
flat-looted by the second truck charging at him, pinned in
the sudden glare of its headlights. He tried to swerve and
speed up, but the effort was too little too late. The second
truck caught him like an avalanche of steel, taking the 4X4
pickup broadside.
The seat belt seized up around Lyons, and he lifted an
arm to keep the chunks of safety glass from the shattered
windshield out of his faoo. Ho got a brief glimpse of the




line of parked cars coming up fast from the left, then he
was smashed into them. He hit the side of the truck hard,
almost slipping into unconsciousness. "Ironman!" Schwarz called.
"Here, dammit!" Lyons answered. Blood trickled warm-
ly down the side of his face as he turned and stared at the
huge grillwork of the Peterbilt plastered across the passen-
ger side of the Dodge Ram. Ahead of him, the Longarm
Transit truck was pulling onto the highway, streamers of
gray smoke pouring from the double stacks. "Pol, stay with
that bastard!"
"I am, amigo."
A second later, Blancanales whipped by on the highway
in his bronze Suburban.
"Hang on," Schwarz called. "I'm on my way."
"You and Dick Tracy," Lyons growled as he filled his
fist with the .357 Python and struggled to get free of the
seat belts.
The Peterbilt pulled away, metal screeching as it tried to
stay locked to the Dodge. The lights on the left side had
been smashed and left empty s_ockets in their place. Moving
quickly, a pair of shadows came around the right side of
the vehicle, facing Lyons with machine pistols.
Without hesitation, the Able Team leader raised his
weapon and started to fire, emptying the pistol rapidly. Both
shadows stumbled back and went down. The throaty roar
of the Peterbilt escalated as it stopped fifteen feet away.
Shuddering, the big rig surged forward again, rushing at the
pinned pickup.
Leathering the empty Python, Lyons scrambled through
the Dodge's window after trying the door and finding it
stuck. He climbed and fell out of the window, landing on
the warped trunk of a sedan. Pushing himself to his feet,

he ran along the length of the car as the Peterbilt rammed
into the pickup again.
Shaken by the collision, the car rocking under him, Ly-
ons lost his footing and went down, managing at the last
moment to get a boot on the front of the sedan and push
himself toward the open space in front of the car. He rolled
and got to his feet just as the Peterbilt shoved the pickup
and sedan forward, trying to run the Able Team warrior
down.
Lyons drew the Colt .45 Government Model and lifted
it toward the Peterbilt's windshield. The wrecked tonnage
came at him, fast enough that he had to keep moving
quickly to avoid it. Trees went down under the tangle of
vehicles. Antitheft alarms on two cars on either side of the
truck went off, adding to the din.
He aimed at the driver's side of the truck and put all
eight rounds through the windshield in an area that could
have been covered by a dinner plate.
Abruptly the truck jerked to a stop, shivered and died.
"Ironman!"
Lyons glanced up and saw Schwarz coming toward him
in the blue Jeep Renegade he'd been using to scout the
highway in their search for Shatterstop. "Go around. Meet
me on the other side and let's make sure this one's down."
The Jeep's wheels tore chunks from the earth and sent
them spinning as Schwarz powered for the rear of the huge
tractor trailer.
Dumping the empty magazine from the .45, Lyons re-
charged the weapon while sprinting around the front of the
Peterbilt. A speedloader dropped six more rounds into the
.357. Keeping the gun in his left hand, he leathered the .45
and raced to the truck's side.
Grabbing the handle, he yanked the door open and let




the .357 Magnum pistol lead him in. A dead man sat behind
the steering wheel, most of his face blown away.
Lyons dropped back to the ground and swiveled to cover
the side of the trailer as he advanced to the rear. His breath
was hot and ragged, and he took a two-fisted grip on the
pistol. "Pol?" "Go."
"Your quarry?"
"Still on him."
"Heading?"
"Sticking with the highway, Ironman. But I had a par-
ticularly nasty thought. If Lynch is really good with com-
munications programming, he ought to be hell on wheels
with targeting systems."
"Stay with him," Lyons advised. "Me and Gadgets will
have your back door in a minute."
Schwarz had left the Jeep running at the rear of the
trailer. People were already starting to gather, demanding
answers and cursing.
"Empty," Schwarz said as he clambered down from the
trailer, a high-intensity flashlight in his hand.
"Running blocker for the main unit," Lyons said.
"That's the way I figure it." Schwarz climbed behind
the Jeep's wheel.
Sliding into the passenger seat, Lyons reached into the
back and took up Schwarz's CAR-15. "You copy Pol's
transmission?"
"Yeah."
"Let's roll."
'Getting out of the rest stop took just a moment. Some
of the truckers didn't want to give ground, demanding to
see badges and wanting to know what had happened. Lyons
thrust the assault rifle through the door and loosed a burst
into the air. In the silence that followed the rolling thunder

of the CAR-15, he shouted, "Federal marshals! Stay the
hell out of the way!"
The crowd peeled back, and Schwarz raced through
them. The road was blocked by rigs that were trying to get
out of the area. Using the 4WD shift-on-the-fly function
allowed by the Jeep, Schwarz headed off-road and cut
across the grass and through the trees to reach the highway.
Lyons held on tight, bounced around unmercifully by the
rough ride.
Once on the highway, Schwarz pinned the accelerator to
the floor and went through the gears by the numbers. The
speedometer needle rose fast.
Tagging the headset's transmit button and peering
through the Jeep's streaked windshield, Lyons said, "Pol?"
"I'm here, guy."
"The truck?"
"Holding steady at around a hundred and ten."
"What about the mile marker?" Lyons asked, catching
sight of the marker Schwarz pointed out while racing
around a Winnebago.
Blancanales relayed it to him.
Doing the quick arithmetic, Lyons figured the Peterbilt
was only three miles ahead of them. He glanced at the
speedometer again. The leep was hitting one-forty. None
of the vehicles Able Team had requisitioned for the mission
was running stock. "Can you shoot the fires out?"
"I tried," Blancanales said. "They're run-flats. And
while I was up there, the driver pulled the rig around and
had the trailer kiss the front end of my car. If I get into an
ass-kicking contest with him, I lose." "We'll be right there."
Schwarz had to go Off the shoulder to pass two cars
running abreast. The Jeep vibrated as if it were trying to




come apart, left a cloud of dust behind, then roared back
onto the highway.
"Shit," B!ancanales said. "They just blew the trailer
cover off. There's a Scud set up in a mobile launcher in
back."
"They'll have to stop before they can launch," Lyons
said.
"Maybe you'd better tell them that," Blancanales said
grimly. "They've got a team back there setting up now."
Lyons glanced at Schwarz.
The other man shook his head and pointed to the accel-
erator pinned to the floorboard. "I'm flat out."
Lyons nodded, then prayed they'd be in time. Everyone
holding the fort at Stony Man Farm was depending on
them. Ground zero would wipe them all out.
They crested a hill and started down a long grade, nar-
rowly avoiding the tangled wreckage of sheet metal that
had been the trailer. At the bottom of the hill, Lyons spotted
the Suburban following behind the eighteen-wheeler. Auto-
fire flashed along the back of the fiatbed trailer behind the
big tractor rig, and sparks flared from the front of Blanca-
nales's Suburban in counterpoint.
"Get alongside," Lyons directed. He looked farther
down the highway. The grade curved and remained uneven
for another mile or two, then a fiat run stretched out for a
distance. He knew there'd be plenty of time to launch the
Scud and get it off once the truck reached that part of the
highway. "Right side." Schwarz nodded.
"Pol." Lyons dropped the canvas top on the Jeep, letting
the wind take it and blow it back. He stood in the passenger
seat, then went into the back, holding on to the roll bar.
The CAR-15 was slung over his back.
"Go," Blancanales said.

"We need a distraction."
"Say when."
Lyons stared at the truck as Schwarz cut the distance to
fifty yards. Two of the three men on the flatbed were en-
gaged in shooting at the approaching Able Team vehicles.
The third man was laboring over a launch-command setup
mounted near the tractor rig.
As Lyons watched, his eyes tearing from the rushing
wind hitting him in the face, the Scud missile suddenly
elevated, its nose rising up to a level just below the air foil
mounted on the truck cab. When the propellant was ignited,
it would leap into the air and streak toward its target.
Bullets crashed into the front of the Jeep and took out
most of the windshield.
Alongside the trailer, Biancahales opened fire, using the
assault rifle one-handed as he fired through the passenger
window. The autofire sent the men on the fiatbed scram-
bling for cover. Without warning, the Peterbilt swept over
to the left, trying to take out the Suburban with its greater
size and weight.
The fiatbed connected and knocked the Suburban into a
skid. But Schwarz moved in for the kill, cutting the distance
to nothing. Just as he drew even, though, the fiatbed came
back across, trying for the Jeep.
"Hold it," Lyons said, leaning out away from the 4X4
to reach for the trailer. "Just a little more."
The flatbed was level with his waist. The pavement be-
tween the vehicles was passing at more than a hundred
miles per hour. The engines worked hard and loud, making
conversation even by the headsets almost impossible.
With only inches separating the truck from the Jeep, Ly-
ons jumped with everything he had. There was a brief feel-
ing of near weightlesshess, then he slammed down on the




metal floor of the flatbed. Bullets inscribed fresh scars
against the steel surface.
Wind whipping against him, Lyons rolled toward the
Scud, coming up underneath the tail section of the missile.
He pushed himself to his knees, feeling the vibration of the
track tires beneath him. Unslinging the CAR-15, Lyons
stood and whirled around the Scud, alerted by the pounding
of running feet.
He caught the approaching gunman almost point-blank.
The guy's rifle went off and unleashed a spray of bullets
that rattled across Lyons's rib cage, deflected by the body
armor he wore. The sudden pain robbed the big Able Team
warrior of his breath, but he remained locked on his target.
Caressing the trigger, he fired a triburst into the man's face.
Staggered, the corpse lost coordination and was pro-
pelled forward by the motion of the Peterbilt and the wall
of wind from behind.
Lyons slapped the dead man aside with the CAR-15's
barrel. Flailing, the corpse tumbled from the trailer, then
vanished under the wheels of Schwarz's Jeep.
The Scud shifted slightly in its cradle, letting Lyons
know it was ready for ignition. The flat section of the high-
way was less than two hundred yards away and closing fast.
He went forward, the assault rifle canted across his chest,
held in both hands. Movement on the fight alerted him,
then he saw Schwarz bring the Jeep in close.
"Ironman!" Schwarz called out. He managed to reach
out a hand and hold the Jeep steady. "You may need some
help shutting down that launch system."
Kneeling, Lyons reached for his teammate, but the dis-
rance was too great.
"Look out!" Biancahales yelled. He had the Suburban
behind the trailer now, within only feet, staying in a posi-

tion where he could see most of the flatbed. "Guy coming
up behind you!"
Before Lyons could turn, he felt a bullet graze the inside
of his left thigh, spreading burning fire in its wake. Ignoring
the pain, he drew the .357 from shoulder leather and fired
three rounds into the man's forehead as fast as he could
squeeze the trigger.
The gunner fell, rolled, then vanished over the side of
the trailer.
Turning back to Schwarz, Lyons stretched out his hand
and caught his teammate's arm as the eighteen-wheeler
slammed against the Jeep and sent it spinning out of con-
trol. For a moment, Schwarz hung from Lyons's hand, feet
only inches above the highway. The Jeep rolled over and
over from the impact, going to pieces in seconds.
"Grab something," Lyons urged, feeling as if his arm
were about to be pulled from its socket.
Instead, Schwarz raked his Beretta 92-S from his hip and
pointed almost at Lyons's head. Brass nearly jumped into
the big ex-cop's face as Schwarz squeezed the trigger, and
his grip slipped.
The third man aboard the flatbed crashed down only
inches from Lyons as Schwarz holstered his pistol and
reached for the lip of the trailer bed. In seconds he was
aboard.
Lyons raced with Schwarz to the fire controls bolted into
the floor of the trailer. The truck swerved suddenly, and a
line of cars got past on the right, so close that an immediate
series of honks started.
Glancing at the series of dials and lights, Lyons couldn't
make heads or tails out of the firing station. Schwarz moved
immediately, punching different buttons and flipping dif-
ferent toggles. His finger dropped to a round keyhole.
"Son of a bitch," Schwarz said. "The missile's on an-




tomatic, and it's been locked. We need the key to shut it
down."
"Check the dead guy over there," Lyons said. 'TI1 get
the driver."
Schwarz nodded and moved off.
The Scud whined and whirred as it made more adjust-
ments.
Stepping forward from the trailer, Lyons crossed to the
tractor, negotiating the distance with difficulty on his
wounded leg. He saw the driver reflected in the side mirror,
a thick man with curly brown hair and a gunslinger's mus-
tache.
Without warning, the driver shoved a Smith & Wesson
.40-caliber pistol through the window and tried to fire back-
ward at Lyons. Lashing out instantly, the Able Team leader
slammed the .357's barrel across the man's wrist, breaking
it with a harsh snap.
The tractor veered sharply out of control for a moment
before the driver straightened it. By then, Lyons was on
the running board. He screwed the pistol barrel into the
man's neck.
"I want the key to the firing center," Lyons ordered.
"I don't have it, man," the driver said, nursing his bro-
ken wrist.
"Ironman," Schwarz called over the headset, "the guy
back here doesn't have it. What about the driver?"
"He says no." Lyons held on while the driver navigated
around a four-car convoy. "Who has the key?"
"Craft," the driver responded.
"Describe him."
The description fit the second man Lyons had shot. He
knew there wasn't enough time to attempt to retrieve the
key from the body lying somewhere back along the high-
way. "Pol."

"Go."
"Pull up alongside. We're getting off."
"On my way."
"Ironman," Schwarz said.
"Go."
"According to the counter back here, we've got forty-
two seconds to ignition."
"We're geuing off," Lyons said. "Come take this
clown."
Blancanales pulled up beside the eighteen-wheeler and
held steady as Schwarz came forward and Lyons opened
the tractor's door.
"Out," Lyons commanded the driver, taking the wheel
himself and making sure the cruise control was locked on.
Schwarz made the leap onto the Suburban's roof first,
then hooked a foot under the luggage rack and reached for
their prisoner. The guy went, held in check by Schwarz's
Beretta.
Lyons had been keeping a mental countdown going. If
he was right, he had only eighteen seconds left. Checking
to his left, he made sure Schwarz and the driver were se-
cure. He left the cruise control on. "Pol?" "Yeah."
'Tm going right--hard. If I'm going to make it off here
in one piece, you're going to have to be right there."
"You can count on me."
"I am."
To the right, blurred by the cracked glass in the passen-
ger window, the roadside dropped in a sharp ditch. Evi-
dently the highway had been built up at this point to help
with flooding.
Both hands on the wheel, seeing a knot of ruby taillights
only a short distance away and spread out before him, Ly-




ons said, "Now!" He pulled on the wheel, keeping the
door open with his foot.
The tractor's tires shrieked in protest, but held to the
road, taking the sudden sharp right turn.
Satisfied that the truck was on course, knowing his safety
margin before ignition had dropped to eleven seconds, Ly-
ons threw himself out the door for the Suburban's roof. He
landed hard, off balance, knowing how a bug had to feel
when it found an unexpected windshield. Then he was slip-
ping, sliding for the end of the Suburban and the highway
rushing past at a hundred-plus miles per hour. "I've got you, Ironman," Schwarz said.
Lyons felt a hand close around his wrist and stop him.
Finding the luggage rack, he managed to roll over and look
for the eighteen-wheeler.
For a moment, it looked like the truck was going to hold
steady past the point of ignition. Lyons felt a cold chill
pass through him, then sudden exultation as the tractor's
wheels went off the highway and caught in the overflow
ditch.
The rig turned sharply, jackknifing the trailer. Propelled
by the momentum and weight, the trailer went crashing
through the tractor, smashing it to pieces. The Scud didn't
fare any better, falling from the cradle and spilling across
the ground.
Trailer, tractor and missile left gouges scarring the
ground, took out several yards of barbed-wire fence and
came to a stop in a field. And remained there.
Blancanales brought the Suburban to a stop at the side
of the road. Schwarz got their prisoner from the roof and
handcuffed him, then unceremoniously stuffed the guy into
the rear of the Suburban. Cars on both sides of the freeway
stopped, and drivers got out with cellular phones, asking if
anyone needed help.

Lyons waved them back and told them to call the state
police, enforcing his words with the badge and his author-
ity. When he rejoined his teammates, they were looking at
the destruction.
There wasn't much left of the eighteen-wheeler.
"Looks to me like someone's going to need a new Pe-
terbilt," Blancanales said with a tired smile, then turned to
Lyons. "How about you, Ironman?"
Glancing down at the blood staining his pant leg from
the wound along his inner thigh, Lyons said, "Nope. But
it was a near thing."




CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Inchon, South Korea

"Able Team just took out Shatterstop," Hal Brognola said.
"How are they?" Mack Bolan finished shrugging into
his aqualung as he stood behind Jack Grimaldi and peered
through the Bell Model 412SP's Plexiglas windows. The
helicopter carrying Dixon Lynch and his inner core of
bodyguards was streaking westward over the city, toward
the coastline.
"Standing," the head Fed replied.
"Couldn't ask for anything more," the warrior said. At
their present speed, the choppers would reach the coastline
in under six minutes. He guessed that if Lynch had a two-
minute lead on them, he'd be able to vanish into the open
sea. The satellite tracking systems, including the SOSUS
array that had been set up by the U.S. Navy during the past
few hours, hadn't been able to find the stealth sub that
Kurtzman and his team had turned up on their search
through Lynch's records.
The helicopter that carried Lynch, however, was a dif-
ferent matter. Stony Man Farm had locked on through the
satellite systems, and two SLAR-equipped Navy choppers
moved through the area as backup in case the satellites
crashed.

"Just wanted you to know the pressure's off here,"
Brognola said. "That way you can stay focused on your
end of the mission."
"Affirmative," Bolan said.
"You people stay frosty up there," the head Fed told
them.
If Lynch was allowed to escape, havoc could be wreaked
that would have far-reaching consequences. It was possible
Lynch's computers were downloading files from across the
world that would create problems for law-enforcement
agencies, as well as government bodies. To say nothing of
the political backlash that would strike if Stony Man's pres-
ence became known.
Still clad in the combat nightsuit, Bolan had added the
aqualung and scuba mask with a built in LITEL-system, and
a compressed-gas speargun. He'd strapped a Randall com-
bat knife to his right calf, and a quiver of bolts for the
speargun hung down his left hip.
"They're going down," Jack Grimaldi called.
Bolan had already noticed the descent. His gear was
strapped down, and he was ready.
Lynch's helicopter was well out from the coastline, skim-
ming low over the Yellow Sea, skirting southwest under
Inchon. The city was a thriving harbor and heavily indus-
trial. Yachts dotted the water, some farther out and some
still tied up at the docks. Sailboats, gaily colored and look-
ing frail against the immensity of the sea, sprinkled the
water. The tide was out, leaving yards of mud flats exposed.
Children were running below, playing under the protective
eyes of their parents.
Lynch's aircraft pulled up short, coming around broad-
side in its effort to slow rapidly. A freighter was directly
below the helicopter. Men were scrambling across the deck,
clearing a space for the helicopter to land.




"Stony One to Stony Base," Bolan transmitted.
"Go, Stony One. You have Stony Base," Price replied.
"Can you get a reading on the sub?"
"Negative, Stony One. If it's down there, it's hidden
from everything we have access to." "Affirmative."
"That's got to be it, mate," David McCarter said.
"Lynch knows the U.S. Navy owns this part of the ocean.
There's nowhere for him to go but under."
Bolan nodded in agreement. He took up a pair of bin-
oculars from the storage compartment beside Grimaldi and
trained them on the freighter. She was the Leaping Jack,
and was flying Malaysian flags.
Grimaldi was closing the distance, imitating the helicop-
ter's approach and going in low.
Suddenly water toiled up at the leeward side of the
freighter. All hands on deck moved in that direction, and
Bolan could tell from the way they acted that they were
amazed first by the appearance of the chopper, and even
more so by the submarine surfacing. It looked like a black
wedge, pyramid shaped, and covered with triangular facets,
designed to elude radar and sonar. "There!" McCarter said.
Bolan nodded. "Take us in, Jack." He pulled the scuba
mask over his face and clicked the UTEL earpiece into
place. Going back to the cargo area, he joined Phoenix
Force at the sliding door and strapped on his fins. "Gary,
Calvin, you're with me."
Both men nodded. James's experience with the SEALs
would help Manning with the placement of the shaped
charges. If the sub got below sixty feet, the Stony Man
warriors would have to give up the chase. McCarter's team
was assigned to affix a satellite transponder during that
time, in the event that the sub did get away.

Leaning away from the helicopter into the wind, Bolan
saw the activity on the deck of the freighter as Lynch and
his party raced for the sub. A ladder was thrown down and
attached to the sub's conning tower. Lynch was the first
man on, scrambling quickly for the hatch.
Abruptly bullets struck the sides of the Bell Model
412SP, coring through the sheet metal. Grimaldi stubbornly
held the craft on target.
Bolan stood poised in the cargo door. The sea was a
bright sheen less than six feet below him.
"Go!" Grimaldi said as bullets scarred the Plexiglas
windows of the helicopter's nose.
Leaping from the aircraft, Bolan dropped into the Yellow
Sea. He went down at once, holding the speargun in one
hand, a bolt already in place. Waving with his free hand,
he turned toward the sub, getting himself oriented.
The sub hadn't moved, lounging under the water by the
freighter like a huge steel shark.
Manning and James knifed through the water not far
from his position, and wasted no time in getting turned
around, as well. The rest of Phoenix Force made their en-
trances only a little fa~er on.
Bolan swam hard, kicking his fins with everything he
had. Even with the unique design, it was easy to spot the
diving planes at the rear of the boat. He closed on them,
wrapped a hand around the nearest structure and slung the
speargun over his shoulder. Taking the demolitions he'd
brought from his backpack, he started affixing them to the
diving planes.
"Mack, look out!" Encizo called.
Looking to his left, Bolan was already in motion, moving
out of line with the diving planes. A frogman in deep blue
and orange swam toward him, flanked by three other men,
trailing bubbles behind them.




A silvery explosion of more bubbles signaled the release
of the spear the lead man fired. The spear ripped by the
Executioner with only inches to spare, leaving a swirling
wake of bubbles.
Slowed by the water, Bolan slipped his own speargun
free and fired from thirty feet out. His bolt knifed through
the water and took the lead swimmer in the face.
The man's body suddenly went slack as his arms made
a futile grab for the spear sticking out of his mask. Blood
streamered away in spreading coils. More bolts sped toward
Bolan. Two of them thudded against the side of the sub,
but the third slashed through one of the warrior's fins.
Recharging his speargun, Bolan knew he'd only get off
one more shot before the men were on him. He aimed de-
liberately and squeezed the trigger. The recoil pushed him
slightly out of position, and the haze of bubbles covered
his view.
Moving, Bolan slung the speargun over his left shoulder
as he drew the Randall survival knife. The broad blade with
its saw-toothed spine looked deadly in the murky water.
The first man to reach Bolan had a knife in his fist and
attacked him while the second man went for the demoli-
tions strapped to the diving planes.
Dodging the knife sweep, the Executioner grabbed the
man's mask and yanked, pulling him off balance and letting
water into the mask. Disoriented, the frogman fiailed out
weakly. As he brought his knife across the man's throat,
Bolan got a brief glimpse of the men of Phoenix Force
similarly engaged. Then the cloud of suddenly released
blood tinted the water so heavily he couldn't see more than
a few feet.
The man at the diving planes nearly had the explosive
off.
Stroking for him, the Executioner freed the collapsible

grappling hook from his web belt and released the line.
Before the man knew he was coming, Bolan hooked the
grappling hook to his tank. The guy tried to fight him, but
the Executioner bound him to the diving planes along with
the explosives.
"She's going down," McCarter warned.
Bolan clicked into the UTEL. "Gary?"
"It's coming," the Canadian replied.
"I've got the communications array all set," Encizo said.
"Touch it off," Bolan replied.
Immediately a small explosion ripped the satellite dish
and radio receivers away.
The sub continued to descend. As she did, she started
forward, the screw twisting through the water violently.
Bolan was breathing hard as the scuba struggled to keep
up with his usage. Normally the tank contained an hour's
worth of diving, but he knew the strenuous activity beneath
the water was reducing the tank's capacity to only a few
minutes. Diving deeper to pursue the sub would take even
more time off.
Bodies hung in the ocean, locked into place by their neu-
tral-buoyancy belts. None of them belonged to the Stony
Man team.
Finning vigorously, Bolan followed the sub down and
forward. His depth gauge put them at thirty feet, then forty.
Manning was still locked on to the side of the sub like a
leech, working like a madman.
"Stony One, this is Stony Base," Price called.
"Go, Base." Bolan felt the pressure settle in on him,
feeling like a huge fist clamping around him, intent on
squeezing him to death.
"We're not picking up the transponder anymore."
"That's because the bloody thing became a casualty
when no one was looking," McCarter said. Twenty feet




away, on the other side of the sub, the Briton held up the
plate-sized transponder designed to survive excessive
depths. However, it hadn't been designed to withstand the
spear that was partially sticking through it.
Bolan glanced at his depth gauge, having to use the light
now. They were at seventy feet. Black comets were already
in orbit in the warrior's vision.
"Done," Manning said. He flung himself away from the
sub.
"Detonate," Bolan ordered.
"Fire in the hole!" Manning cried out in warning.
A series of explosions suddenly ringed the submarine,
throwing out clouds of debris and sandy murk. The frog-
man tied to the diving planes blew up with the assembly.
The other explosions took out instrumentation, leaving the
sub deaf, dumb and blind, totally dependent on an external
satellite feed that didn't exist anymore.
Still, the captain didn't give up. Holding to the present
neutral buoyancy and a knowledge of the waters, the man
evidently decided to make a run for it. Far enough out to
sea, repairs could be made without being picked up or no-
riced. The screw redoubled its speed.
Bolan swam for the rupture that had been left in the sub's
side. The blast had peeled back the sub's outer hide, leaving
a gaping hole that was large enough to swim through. The
inner hull of the boat was only a little more than an ann's
length away.
The water was colder at that depth, and the current told
the Executioner that the sub had reached a speed that
couldn't be matched by a swimmer if he lost his precarious
hold. Only Manning and Hawkins had managed to get on
with him.
"Good luck, mates," McCarter called. "Give them
hell."

Bolan glanced back and saw the other three Stony Man
warriors swimming for the surface. Then he turned back to
the men he had with him. His arms were straining as he
fought the current. "Gary, can you do something about the
inner hull?"
"Yeah. But it's going to be risky being so close to
ground zero."
"We don't have a choice." Bolan took out his under-
water flashlight and switched it on. He played the beam
inside the ballast tank and found that the tank went another
ten feet forward. "What if we're in there?"
Manning craned his head around and looked. "Do it. I'll
set up a double charge. First one outside, shaped to blast
outward. I'll set it so it goes off a split second before the
second one, which I'll have on the inner hull. With the
water to act as a buffering medium, maybe it'll work."
"You're hoping the first blast draws out whatever con-
cussive force that's reflected from the second detonation,"
Hawkins said.
"That's what it's supposed to do," Manning said.
"Hopefully it'll set up some kind of implosion field. We
didn't have all this water around us, it probably wouldn't
work. As it is now, it's worth a shot."
"Get it done," Bolan said. He pulled himself inside with
effort. Manning and Hawkins followed.
As the Canadian set up the shaped charges he'd need,
Hawkins looked at Bolan and played his flashlight over his
depth gauge. "We're at sixty-five feet. Going up."
"Must be the diving planes," Bolan said.
"Once they notice, if they think they're safe, they'll get
someone out on them."
Bolan nodded. "It won't matter to us. By then we'll be
out of oxygen." He tagged the UTEL and tried to raise
Stony Man, not sure if he could.




"Here, Stony One," Price said.
Briefly the Executioner explained the attempt that was
going to be made, then added, "Can you trace the UTEL?"
"Barely. You're breaking up really bad."
"Same here." The static fuzzed over many of the words.
"If we don't make it here, we're going to leave a UTEL
in the ballast tank. Maybe you can use it to track ~the sub."
"I understand. Stony Base out, and God keep."
Bolan knew the mission controller was aware they
weren't going to be leaving the sub alive unless they'd
achieved some kind of success. His oxygen was almost
depleted. His throat and lungs burned, and he was starting
to feel dizzy and colder.
"Done," Manning said, rejoining them.
Bolan glanced at his depth gauge. They were at fifty-five
feet. The surface was too far away to make it on what they
had left in their aqualungs without decent air somewhere
along the way. Manning's needle was buried in the yellow.
So was Hawkins's.
"Do it," Bolan ordered.
Together, they crowded into the farthest space from the
target area they could.
The double explosion was devastating. The concussion
slammed into Bolan and knocked his face against the bulk-
head. He lost the mask for a moment and found it with
difficulty. He played his flashlight over the ruptured area,
finding two holes now instead of one.
The turbulence trapped inside the ballast tank was pow-
erful, but not as bad as it could have been. Bolan swam
into the lead, grabbing hold of the edges of the new rupture.
It was almost manhole sized, and seawater poured into the
room gallons a second. Judging from the crates and shelv-
ing strewed around the room and now floating on the rising
waterline, the space had been used for storage.

Without hesitation, the Executioner pulled himself into
the room, propelled by the water as he filled the rupture.
Off balance, he flew into the room as if shot out of a can-
non, slipping and sliding across the wet floor.
The hatch opened as he pushed himself up. Two sailors,
blurred by the water covering his face mask, peered in at
him. One of them raised a full-size Uzi and screamed a
warning.
The Executioner drew the Beretta 93-R from shoulder
leather and fired two rounds. Both bullets struck the men
in the face and knocked them backward. He left the Desert
Eagle holstered. With the Magnum rounds, the bullets
would bounce around a lot off the bulkheads.
Manning followed him into the room, followed by Haw-
kins. Both of them drew their Berettas.
Taking the lead, Bolan stepped out into the corridor and
headed in the direction of the bow. The sub was claustro-
phobic, dark from flickering tube lights that signaled it had
sustained more damage than at first believed.
They raced through two more hatches, dogging them and
jamming the wheels with bolts meant for the spearguns to
prevent getting caught in a cross fire from any crew that
might come forward.
A hail of bullets drove the Executioner to cover just be-
fore the next hatch was closed. During the brief instant it
had been open, he'd seen the ops center--and Dixon
Lynch.
Bolan took the time to recharge his weapon. Noticing the
security-camera lens in the upper wall above the door, he
crossed the corridor and broke it with the Beretta's butt. If
it had been working, it no longer was. He looked at Man-
ning. "Any surprises left to take care of that door?"
The Canadian shook his head. "I used up everything I
had on the hull."




Hawkins showed them a mirthless smile. "But not ev-
erything I had." He reached into his pack and produced a
bar of C-4. "And because I know attempting to take that
ops center is going to be an up-close and personal thing,
these." He fished out two Thunderflash grenades. "Figured
we might be doing a leg of this little jaunt inside some-
where."
"When we pop that door," Bolan said, "there's not go-
ing to be much time for thinking."
Both Phoenix Force commandos nodded. Bolan took one
of the grenades Hawkins offered while Manning worked
the C-4 into the hatch frame. Within two minutes, they
were ready to go.
"Explosion's going to be a bit much in here," Manning
said. "But there's nothing to do for it."
Bolan nodded. He grabbed two extra magazines for the
Beretta in his left hand and pushed the fire selector to 3-
round burst. Holstering the 93-R, he fisted the Thunderflash
grenade. He waited against the opposite wall, leaning into
the steel bulkhead, then signaled Manning to blow the door.
The explosion was deafening, yet still left tinging in the
big wartior's ears. Unable to hear, he pushed himself to-
ward the blown hatch. Standing just outside, feeling the
wind from the rounds going past him, then the solid thud
of at least two flattening against the Kevlar protecting his
back, he pulled the grenade's ring with his teeth, counted
down and sent the bomb spinning into the room. He drew
the 93-R.
The detonation happened a heartbeat later, filling the sub
with even more noise and harsh, bright light.
"And two," Hawkins said, lobbing his own grenade into
the ops center.
As soon as the second one went off, Bolan followed the

Beretta into the room, going low. The furniture was bolted
to the floor, so he tried to remain clear of it.
The ops center was set up in a square, neatly compact
and totally functional. At least a dozen men were in the
room.
Raising the Beretta into target acquisition, Bolan cut
down a pair of gunners with tribursts to the face and throat.
He pushed himself up and ran for a mate who was still
disoriented from the blasts while Manning and Hawkins
poured into the room behind him. There was nowhere to run.
Gunfire rolled in unforgiving thunder, filling the ops cen-
ter. Sparks jumped as bullets struck metal surfaces, and
smoke and fires erupted from electronic gear as other
rounds slashed through them.
Bolan held the mate and knocked the gun from his hand
before he could fire at Manning. At least four rounds struck
the man in the chest as he was killed by his own men.
Holding the corpse as a shield, Bolan fired through the rest
of the magazine in the 93-R, then dropped the empty and
replaced it.
Hawkins was staggered by a round that passed through
his shoulder, but he didn't quit firing.
Bolan burned down another gunner with a triburst. He
tracked another man, leading him, then fired through the
Plexiglas plotting map in the center of the room and killed
the man. He scanned the room for Dixon Lynch, but didn't
see him.
Manning put the captain down with a heart shot, catching
two rounds from the man's Tokarev against his armor in
the process.
Without warning, Lynch stepped from behind a bank of
instruments where he'd been hiding and put his arm around
Hawkins's throat as the young Phoenix Force commando




kicked an empty clip from his pistol. Lynch put his gun to
Hawkins's head. "Don't move or he dies!" he yelled.
Bolan and Manning turned, but neither was in position
for a clear shot at the man behind Hawkins. "Put the guns down!" Lynch ordered.
"Take the son of a bitch," Hawkins snarled. "If you
don't, he'll kill me anyway."
"No," Lynch said. "You can leave by whatever means
you arrived here. Killing you isn't going to matter in the
larger scheme of things."
Bolan lowered his pistol, waving to Manning to do the
same.
"Take the shot," Hawkins said. "I'm going to count .to
three, and if you don't, I'm going to move on him anyway.
One--' '
"Stand steady, T.J.," Bolan commanded.
Hawkins did, but didn't look happy about it. "He's ly-
ing."
Lynch grinned. "That's the way. No one else has to die.
I know you can't track this sub, and I don't have to kill
you to get away."
"No," Bolan said, "you don't."
"Put the gun down."
The Executioner didn't move, and the silence stretched
between them.
"Put the gun down," Lynch repeated.
Bolan shook his head. "I don't think so. You're a gamer,
Lynch, and you play to win. A tie would be even harder
for you to accept than a loss."
"I'll kill him." Lynch pressed the gun harder into Hawk-
ins's throat.
"Then I'll kill you," Bolan said. "We each lose. An-
other tie."
He raised his voice. "Manning, put your weapon down."

With no hesitation, Manning did.
"Now kick it away," Bolan ordered, "and get down on
your knees.' '
The Canadian did.
"My gun's at my side," the Executioner said. "If you're
good enough, you can kill me, then kill my men. If you try
to kill anyone but me, you're going to die. Believe that."
Lynch laughed suddenly. "I underestimated you. I won't
do that again." Then he thrust the pistol out, already firing
at Bolan.
Whipping up the Beretta 93-R, the Executioner fired
once, placing a trio of bullets one above the other between
Lynch's eyes. The corpse jerked and fell backward, the gun
tumbling from the man's nerveless fingers.
"Not in this lifetime," the Executioner said grimly. Then
he turned, looking for the communications station so he
could start making rescue plans with the Navy units lying
in wait. Even when they were attacked with their own
weapons, he knew it was the hearts of the Stony Man war-
riors that kept them strong, not the hardware. A brave and
willing heart was the only thing a soldier needed when he
took his place against those who would prey on others.