12

The Palisades Parkway was beautiful at night. The moon was almost full, the trees bare, ghostly in the silver light. As he drove farther away from the city, the Hudson's shimmery glow replaced the fading lights of the town.

By Exit Fourteen, it was solid country, nothing but trees and open fields. A startled deer froze at the sound of the rented Camaro's engine and then hightailed it to the safety of the forest. The trees were covered with a thin, icy glaze, and they sparkled when the headlights hit them. Huge boulders, left behind by glaciers, glittered under the ice, their cold fires reflections of the hellfire that blazed in Bolan's eyes. It was cold and clear, the kind of night when death went walking. And it would, if the Executioner found the scum responsible.

Parsons's hideaway was in the country near Middletown. Country living must appeal to him, Bolan thought, and the people of the area had seen it all: Moonies from Harvard, hippies from San Francisco, even groups that practiced witchcraft. Parsons and his friends wouldn't even rate a raised eyebrow. Comings and goings were regular events. The farmland was rich. Apple orchards and horse and dairy farms were numerous. And late-nineteenth-century estates were cheap. Too far from the city for an easy commute, they were now maintained as country homes by the wealthy or turned to more profitable use by small businesses. Or converted to retreats by dozens of cults, movements and activist groups. As he neared Goshen, Bolan could almost smell the nitrate he knew would soon fill his nostrils. It was a smell that would violate the clear, cold air, which was free of car exhaust and factory smoke. The country road was rough. Wary of patches of ice formed by snowmelt runoff, Bolan slowed the car. At the turnoff to Parsons's place, he left the Camaro in a small clearing that had been plowed flat and rutted by heavy use. The road, little more than twin ruts among the snowy weeds, wound through the trees.

He would use it until he got closer to the estate. It would save time. The moon had begun to slide in and out of cloud cover, which darkened the woods a bit. Not enough to cover his approach completely, but enough to make it easier. Up ahead, twin columns of smoke rose above the trees and dispersed in the stiff wind. Bolan had one hundred yards to go. Time to leave the path and use the woods for cover. The brittle crust of snow crunched under his feet. Twigs and branches, hidden under the snow, snapped with every step. In the silence of the forest, the snapping sounded like a pistol shot. Two small outbuildings offered some cover. Bolan angled behind them, then made a painstakingly slow circuit of the house. He wanted some idea of what would greet him once he got inside. And the Executioner knew that he would get inside come hell or high water.

The place was large, mostly fieldstone, and brightly lit. A broad porch occupied much of the front of the two-story building. A deck had recently been added to the back and there were three doors.

Occasionally a shadow would pass by the curtains that shrouded all but one of the windows. There had only been two cars down at the main road, but it was impossible to tell how many people were inside. Bolan knew it was possible that the cars were communal property. There could be a dozen hardmen inside, or nothing but women and children. Only time would tell. And time was running out.

Mack Bolan had to make his move. Easing around the side of a small fieldstone stable, he inched forward, using shadow and the momentary dimming of the moon to cover his approach. Small evergreens dotted the side lawn and offered some protection as he neared the house. The hard snow crunched as he moved. The last thirty feet would be the toughest; there was no cover. Heading toward a curtained window, Bolan sprinted to the wall directly beneath it. At the base of the wall was a bed of tangled shrubs — and vines covered with snow, making a mound two feet deep and three feet high. Bolan was forced to stay back from the wall and to keep low. Working through the heavy drifts, he moved toward the back of the house. The stairway to the deck would get him close, but he'd have to take his chances on which room to enter. The stairs were covered with ice that crunched with every step. Slowly, slowly. One at a time, Bolan climbed to the broad deck. Even in the cold, the smell of the new lumber stung his nostrils. Once on the deck, he drew Big Thunder from its sling. He inched to the nearest window and paused to listen. Inside, there was silence. This was going to be easier than he had hoped. The storm window was up, and the screen was plastic. A quick slice of his knife, and it fluttered to the deck. The inside sash was locked, but the blade slid up and over. The lock clicked open, and he was home free.

Slipping the knife back into its sheath, he pushed on the sash with his left hand. It resisted for a moment, then the ice that held it gave under the pressure.

With a dull thud of its sash weights, the window slid open. Pulling aside the curtain, he listened. Bolan could hear voices from deep within the house but the room was vacant. He pushed the curtain all the way back and slipped inside.

A dim light filled the room, and a brighter light spilled through a crack under the door. It was a bedroom, with two large double beds. It was neat, but showed signs of regular use. Books and papers filled two rows of shelves on one wall, and clothes hung in the open closet. Opening the door a crack, he could hear the voices more clearly. Soft piano music obscured the words.

The hallway outside was bright, too bright for him to take a chance on being spotted, but he had to get a better idea of what he was up against. There was a light switch on the wall directly opposite the doorway. With any luck, it controlled the hallway lamps. Pulling the door wide open, Bolan listened. The hall was deserted. Quickly he reached for the switch and flipped it, plunging the hall into darkness. Someone would notice it sooner or later, but at least he would be harder to spot.

Swiftly he stepped to the end of the hallway, pausing for a moment to listen at each door. Silence.

Everyone must be downstairs. Making his way to the stairs, he checked the door at the head of the stairwell. That room, too, was silent. He listened again, hoping to get an idea of the numbers he was up against. The voices continued at a constant level, and the piano droned away. He could tell that there were two men and two women. But Bolan couldn't tell if one of them was Rachel. He strained to hear, but the piano masked the voices.

Softly he began his descent. There was a faint sound behind him, and he turned. The door at the head of the stairs had opened.

"Go on down, Mr. Bolan. We've been expecting you." Peter Achison gestured with a Skorpion machine pistol. To his right, holding an Ingram MAC-10 in his hands, was Bert.

"Place the gun on the carpet gently. Slowly."

Bolan bent to place the AutoMag on the stairs in front of him. Bert laughed, but Mack Bolan never heard it. Someone had climbed the stairs behind him. A rifle butt slammed into the side of his head. The Executioner collapsed and rolled down the stairs.