"Really."

Carter's nod was jerky, almost spastic.

"I didn't get the details. Your men were right behind him."

"And?"

The counselor made a sour face,.

"And nothing. The bastard killed them — four up, four down."

Minh's expression was a practiced blend of concern and curiosity. In fact, he felt neither.

"Where were you?" he asked.

"Trying not to make it five."

Minh smiled appreciatively.

"Are the authorities involved?"

"It's possible," he said. "I didn't wait around."

"Of course." Minh said, pausing thoughtfully. "You saw one man only?"

Carter looked suspicious, as if the question might be loaded.

"Just the one," he said at last. "Expecting more?"

Minh ignored the question and countered with another of his own.

"Is it possible to verify the KGB connection?''

Carter made a show of studying his fingernails and hesitated before answering. When he finally spoke, his voice was cautious, distant.

"If the agency is behind this, they'll lie," he said. "If they're not... I'd like to have the situation in control before I fill them in."

Minh was pleasantly surprised by the Russian's cagey realism. He favored Carter with a smile.

"I agree," he said. "We should face our enemies — whoever they are — with a united front.''

"You still haven't told me what your trouble was out here tonight,'' Carter said.

"We suffered an intrusion of our own," he said. "Several of my men were killed, a member of the Devotees was... removed."

"Abducted?"

"More in the nature of a liberation," he replied.

"Somebody special?''

Minh nodded.

"You met her, I believe. Amy Culp."

The name registered.

"Pretty girl... freckles?" Carter asked. It hit him allatonce. "The senator's kid."

Minh waited, saying nothing.

"How badly can she hurt us?"

The Vietnamese took his time, letting Carter sweat.

"That depends. The longer she remains at large..."

Carter made a low, disgusted sound and slapped an open palm against his knee.

"Dammit all...''

Minh's voice was velvet-covered steel.

"Calm yourself, Mitchell. I am not without resources. Our subject has a friend."

Hope dawned in the lawyer's eyes.

''Have you got a line on her?''

Minh suppressed the urge to snap at Carter, put him in his place.

"I have every confidence she will join us soon," he said. "At the moment, I am more concerned with coordinating information on the two attacks."

Carter suspiciously eyed his counterpart.

"You see one man behind both?" he asked.

Minh responded with his customary caution, the tone almost patronizing.

"I am not a believer in coincidence." he said. "To encounter separate, unconnected enemies within a single night would be... remarkable."

Carter saw the logic, and the thought did nothing to appease him.

"What should we do?" he asked.

Minh held him with a steady gaze.

"For the moment, nothing," he replied. "The woman is within our reach, and I've contained the problem here. It may be possible to salvage something at your home."

"If you can't..."

Minh cut him off.

"The operation has begun. Cancellation now is quite impossible."

About to answer, the attorney reconsidered. He dropped his eyes, avoiding Minh's penetrating stare.

"I understand," he said at last.

Minh wondered if he did. So far, the Russian's understanding, his ability to cope, was minimal at best.

There was no surprise concerning KGB involvement in the raids. Deception was consistent with the Soviet technique, and Minh discounted his original mistrust of Carter. Whatever was happening, the lawyer's surprise was clearly genuine.

Minh was not prepared to search for motives. The Russian mind was convoluted, often contradictory. A mission sponsored by the Kremlin might be scuttled without explanation — or redirected into other channels, seeking other goals. If an agent failed to note the change, adapt with alacrity, he would be sacrificed without a second thought.

Mitchell Carter was marked for sacrifice.

Minh suppressed a smile. It was possible, he thought, for enemies to reach agreement on the minor points.

Without a doubt, the counselor was expendable.

Minh could take him now, of course. A word to Tommy Booth would do the trick. One word, and Carter would be gone without a trace.

When the time was right, as soon as Minh found out what he was up against, he planned to give that word. In the meantime, Carter was useful. There were ways he could help the Devotees.

When his usefulness expired, Minh would do a grudging favor for the Soviets and complete their sacrifice.

In fact, he was rather looking forward to it.

"I have every confidence she will join us soon.''

Crouching in the darkness, Bolan stiffened as he heard those words. Alarms were ringing in the back of his mind, alerting him to danger.

From what he knew of Minh, the Asian wasn't one for idle talk or empty threats. If he had a line on Amy, a crew would be on its way to pick her up.

There was no time to wonder how she was discovered. Minh spoke of a friend. If the girl was rash enough to call someone, if she ignored his warning….

In the space of a heartbeat his decision was made. Bolan scrubbed his strike in favor of a rescue mission, knowing it might already be too late.

He couldn't leave the lady to fate, even if by leaving he gave the enemy a chance to reinforce the hard-site — or slip away to parts unknown.

The gesture might be a futile one, but it was unavoidable. Bolan didn't have it in him to abandon Amy.

It was a trait, sure, that made the man.

In Vietnam, Bolan had earned the label The Executioner with ninety-seven registered kills. As the point man for Penetration Team Able, he was known from the delta to the DMZ as a specialist in sudden, violent death. His targets were the savages — infiltrators, NVA regulars, Vietcong terrorists — and Able Team spread the fear of hellfire among them. In a war without boundaries, Bolan and his men deprived the cannibals of cherished sanctuaries and made them vulnerable.

An army psychologist described Bolan as the perfect sniper — a man capable of killing "methodically, unemotionally, and personally," without losing his humanity along the way. A committed man, equal to the task he selected for himself.

That was half the man, but at the same time Bolan showed another side and built another reputation. Time and again the warrior risked his life, jeopardized his mission to relieve a suffering soul. Hostages and casualties, civilian or military, Bolan drew no lines, recognized no distinctions. He crept or fought his way through hostile lines on more than one occasion, bringing home the helpless.

And another kind of legend attached itself to Bolan in the Asian hellgrounds. The peasants of a war-torn land tagged him with another name to compliment — and contradict — The Executioner label.

It translated: "Sergeant Mercy" — and it fit.

Few men could wear the dual label of soldier and humanitarian. Mack Bolan wore them both, and wore them well. It was a measure of the man that he discerned no contradiction in the varied aspects of his character.

When Bolan brought his war home from Asia, to confront another breed of cannibal, the whole man arrived on a different kind of battlefield. His enemy — the mafiosi— came to know an Executioner who struck without regard to fear or favor, ravaging their ranks at will, leaving death and ruin in his wake. At the same time, he showed another face to friends and allies, soldiers of the same side fighting on behalf of Man the Builder.

The face of Sergeant Mercy, yeah.

Bolan recognized that while the battle front shifted and names and faces changed, his war remained the same. Savage Man was still the enemy, devouring and polluting everything he touched. The same universal goals applied whether Bolan found enemies in Saigon or San Francisco.