Except for the window above the driver's door on the Saab. Instead of the faint sheen of glass, here there was simply an empty space.

No one would leave the driver's window of a parked car open on a chilly evening like this.

As Bolan watched, his suspicions were confirmed. A black shape materialized in the open space above the door. Its outline was definitive. An ambusher popping up for a snap shot before he dropped back out of sight and out of range.

Bolan was ready. He fired first. His Beretta was equipped with a suppressor. A sharp cry came from the other side of the street and the silhouette vanished.

A red light at an intersection two hundred yards away changed to green.

Traffic surged forward. The Executioner was on his feet, dodging for cover behind a cruising taxi, racing for the far side of the roadway. He flung himself down between the Volvo and the Citroen. It was too dangerous to approach the Saab without checking first. He might only have winged his assailant; the guy could be playing possum, waiting to get in a close-up sucker shot as Bolan approached; there might even be two of them.

There were.

Fragments of stone stung Bolan's face as a hail of slugs hosed down beneath the Citroen and into the space between the two cars. Heavy-caliber shells flattened themselves against the pavement, bounced up against exhausts and the underside of the engines and whined away into the shadows. The second gunman was aiming to score with a ricochet if he couldn't make a direct hit.

Bolan considered his arsenal situation. He had refilled the Beretta's clip in his hotel room there were still fourteen rounds left in the box magazine. He was also carrying the big silver AutoMag, but the heavy cannon was unsilenced and he didn't want to draw too much attention to this private battle.

But there was only one way to finish it quickly.

Attack! He waited until the stoplights released another parcel of traffic, then he used the noise of the passing vehicles to mask his own movements, bellying his way beneath the Citroen until he was looking out at the grille of the panel truck. The shooting from the Saab behind it had stopped. Bolan sprang upright by the truck fender and dashed, not across the sidewalk into the shelter of a doorway, but out into the open, in the center of the roadway.

The second killer, on his feet beside the Swedish sedan, with his gun questing left and right in search of his target, was taken completely by surprise. He whirled, the Executioner's menacing figure registered on his peripheral vision. Too late.

Bolan triggered the 93-R, a 3-shot burst. The 9 mm parabellums drilled through the hardman's forehead. Bolan saw a momentary cloud of crimson in the diffuse light, as the gunner's skull disintegrated. Then he dropped into forever, hidden from sight behind the Saab's hood.

Bolan ran to the car's front window.

His first shot had scored. The man who had opened fire was dead, too, his faceless body sprawled over the blood-spattered seat.

At first glance there was nothing on either of them to show who they were or who had sent them. Bolan could not wait for a second glance. Although the exchange had been virtually noiseless, passersby had already gathered at the traffic lights. Several cars had stopped. Across the road the doorman was shouting and there was a wail of sirens in the distance.

Bolan crossed the sidewalk in two quick strides and melted into the shadows of an alleyway. The last thing he wanted was an interview with the members of Iceland's police. They would ask too many questions, study his ID, maybe check him out with Interpol.

There was not much crime in Iceland foreigners who broke the law were not welcome. The interview could turn into an interrogation.

And however much Bolan had been the injured party on this occasion, the fact remained that his Interpol dossier had him listed as an outlaw.

And he had killed two men on a Reykjavik street.

If he quietly vanished, with luck, he would get away unrecognized.

There were no witnesses to the shooting or to the clumsy attempt on his life at the airport; the doorman was the only person who had actually seen him during the firelight; he had made no reservation and left no name at the restaurant.

He releathered the Beretta and found his way back to the Hotel Wotan by a roundabout route. Thirty minutes later he was in bed.

He had barely fallen asleep when his unknown enemies struck again.

2

The attack was stealthier than the first two. If Bolan had not been a superlight sleeper, his warrior instincts sensitive to the slightest deviation from the norm and if he had not already been alerted by the two previous attempts the intrusion could have passed unnoticed.

For one thing, the clandestine entry was not made the obvious way via the fire escape, the balcony and the floorlength double-casement windows, which would have presented no problem to a professional. A small lobby, with closets on one side and the bathroom on the other, separated the bedroom from the door to the hallway. And it was through this door, the lock oiled with an aerosol spray and a skeleton key expertly maneuvered, that the killer came in.

The entry was completely noiseless.

It was perhaps some infinitesimal alteration in the atmospheric pressure, an exhalation of breath felt rather than heard, that brought the Executioner instantly awake, every nerve tingling with anticipation, his whole body tense as a coiled spring.

He held his breath.

No shape passed across the strip of half light showing between the drapes.

No current of air fanned his face. No board creaked. Bolan's right hand slipped beneath the pillows; his fingers curled around the butt of the Beretta.

A brilliant light blinded him; a high-intensity beam that shafted from a powerful electric torch at the foot of the bed. Clutching the gun, he rolled violently to one side.

That was when the second intruder struck.

A flurry of movement from behind. A heavy body leaped, pinning him to the bed. Hard knees crushed his shoulders, a muscular leg trapped his gun hand before he could withdraw it from beneath the covers.

The flashlight advanced. The knees clamped vice-like on either side of his head, pinning him. Bolan heaved, threshing desperately from side to side. But the man with the light was now kneeling on his hips, immobilizing his body, too.

A hand with an iron grip closed over his jaw, fingers on one side, thumb on the other, forcing open his mouth. The end of a plastic funnel was jammed between his teeth.

Bolan bucked and writhed more violently still, but the combined weight of his assailants held him down. There was a gurgle of liquid.

He gagged as it rushed through the funnel, flooding his mouth and throat.

A second hand squeezed shut his nostrils. For one of the few times in his life he was entirely helpless he had to swallow the fluid or suffocate.

There was no other choice.

He swallowed.

Fierce heat fired the membranes of his gullet. He experienced an instant of panic when he feared they were forcing him to drink some caustic acid. Then came realization... and with it complete bewilderment.

He was drinking cognac.

Relief, temporary though it was, automatically relaxed his taut muscles. His body went limp.

Fractionally, perhaps without acting consciously, the attackers also relinquished a small percentage of their hold.

It was then that Bolan saw the light glinting on the hypodermic syringe.

And the killer straddling his hips made his first and fatal mistake.

Bolan was still swallowing brandy, gasping for breath between each swirl of the fiery liquor. The man with the syringe shuffled himself up from Bolan's hips until his knees were thrusting against the Executioner's armpits. His captor raised the syringe, directing the flashlight downward with his other hand.