Grim Death pumped another round through the open window, and the twitching stopped. On the radio, one record ended and a new screamer began as the severed spirit winged into the Universe.

Bolan leaned through the window, found the ignition switch and turned it off. For an instant there was silence, then a muffled droning sound intruded the night. He straightened up, turning toward the noise, every combat sense alert and tingling.

The garage door was opening. An engine rumbled into life inside the garage, the sound reverberating like distant thunder.

Carter didn't wait for the door to open on its own. A Lincoln sprang forward, caught the door at half-mast and crashed through, crumpling aluminum and losing paint along the way.

Tires were smoking, and the headlights blazed on to high beams, pinning Bolan as he stood in the car's path. Carter's face, a twisted mask of panic, was visible above the dash.

It was do-or-die now, and Bolan had only a split second for decision. He could risk a shot, maybe kill Carter at the wheel and end it there, or...

He moved quickly, diving headlong across the Caddy's hood, bouncing once before slithering off the other side. Behind him, Carter's tank met the crew wagon in a shuddering collision, scraping down its length with a hellish grinding sound.

Bolan hit the ground rolling and came up in a crouch, already moving toward his own sedan. He saw the battered Continental veer away, plunging across the lawn and churning grass under the tires, shearing off a length of picket fence before reaching the street. With a screech of tortured rubber it gained the pavement, taillights winking like glowing eyes. Then it was gone.

Lights were coming on across the street, sleepy citizens responding to the battle sounds. Bolan reached his car and slid behind the wheel, pulling on the Nitefinder goggles as he fired the engine. He was on the Lincoln's track, without lights, when the first door opened three houses down.

There had been no choice at all in his decision. Mitchell Carter had to live, at least until the Executioner learned his role with Minh. Premature execution would have closed the channels, canceled all bets before Bolan had a firm idea of who was in the game.

The guy was KGB, no doubt about it. His reaction to the Bolan stimulus marked him as a well-conditioned "comrade." Punch the right buttons, and he jumped.

To a point, anyway.

At the moment he was frightened, confused and running for his life. He had a choice to make before he ran much farther.

If he was buying Bolan's act, he faced a grim decision.

He could touch base with his control and try to make amends for almost running down a fellow agent on assignment. If he took that route, Bolan was prepared to track him up the ladder of command, taking out the rungs as they appeared.

Or, he could burn his bridges, take the loss, and throw in his lot with the "traitorous" Minh and his Universal Devotees.

Either way, the Executioner would have his reading, know the parameters of his problem. Either way, there would be another shot at Mitchell Carter.

It was inevitable.

The guy stood for everything Bolan hated, everything his New War was designed to counteract. He was a traitor and a cannibal, feeding on the vitals of a nation that sheltered him since childhood. He repaid kindness with a cold-blooded reign of terror.

The warrior brought his mind back to the here and now track. Carter was leading him along a winding course, crossing Chinatown and homing on the business district south of Market Street. Bolan hung back, never running close enough to give himself away.

Five minutes into the pursuit, he knew where they were going. Given Carter's course, there was no doubt about the destination.

Bolan broke off the track, running parallel and letting the sedan unwind. With any luck, he would arrive ahead of Carter.

He was on the numbers once again, running with the wind at his back.

It was the wind of war, sure, and it smelled of death.

8

Amy Culp, working on her third cup of coffee, moved restlessly around the small apartment. Physically exhausted, she was afraid to sleep in the strange place, never knowing when danger might arise. A shower might have helped, but it would also prevent her from hearing the telephone, or someone at the door.

The old apartment house was full of sounds. The muffled ringing of a telephone, doors opening and closing, a toilet flushing somewhere overhead. Each noise spoke to her of secret enemies coming to recapture her, or worse.

It was good to be away from Minh, away from the dark atmosphere of the Universal Devotees. Amy felt relief, freedom, but her feelings were tempered with fear. She was not beyond the church's reach, nor was she certain of her safety in the new surroundings. Her rescuer — God, she didn't even know his name — seemed to be a decent man, but he was one hell of a dangerous man, and that left Amy with a host of unanswered questions.

Who was the man in black? How did he know her?

What was he doing at the Devotees' retreat? Who was he working for, and what was that business about a phoenix nest?

Amy dropped into a chair. Wearing out the carpet wouldn't bring answers to her questions.

What she needed was a way out, an escape hatch away from Minh's army and the stranger with his guns. They could play war games, but she didn't plan to be the prize.

Amy started weighing her options.

She knew where she was. She had checked street signs along the way, working out directions from her spotty knowledge of the city. Amy knew she was in Haight-Ashbury, and she knew the name of the street and the number of the house.

So far, so good. But transportation was a problem.

Under the circumstances, walking was risky so she saved it as a last resort. She had left Minh's estate without a dime, thus eliminating taxis and public transportation. If she had access to a car...

Amy stiffened in her chair, suddenly alert. Someone was moving in the corridor outside, footsteps approaching from the direction of the stairs. In a moment they were at her hiding place, hesitating.

She held her breath, afraid to make a sound. Her eyes never left the doorknob; she would scream if it moved.

Keys jingled across the hall. A door opened then gently closed. Amy slowly released her breath, letting go of her grip on the chair. Her hands were trembling and she clenched them into angry fists, her knuckles whitening. A single tear marked her cheek.

It was ages since she cared enough or felt enough to weep.

The moment passed. Amy's mind returned to thoughts of freedom, of escape. If she couldn't reach transportation, it would have to come to her. She had a telephone, but whom could she call?

Home was out, of course. Even if her father answered, if he still cared enough to help her, she guessed there was nothing he could do from Washington now that things had gone this far. She would have to seek assistance in her own vicinity. She had no reason to have faith in a city of politicians a continent away. It had to be local help, and now.

Police? Amy made a sour face. There was nothing to be gained from questions, accusations. She was getting out, and that did not include appearances as a witness in protracted court proceedings. Maybe later, when she had put some space and time between herself and the Devotees.

The man in black had left a number, but she didn't plan to use it. If her rescuer was the law, he could get along without her help. If he wasn't...

At last she thought of Sarah.

One of Amy's oldest friends was in her senior year at Berkeley, just across the bay. She mentally kicked herself for not thinking of Sarah sooner.