Bolan reached into his coat and withdrew a combat knife from its sheath. The six-inch tempered steel blade was more than enough to sever the power line. Now all he had to do was time it right. As he watched the camera move, he heard the sound of the patrol Jeep.

"Hurry up. Here they come," Eli Cohen urged in the world's loudest stage whisper.

The camera reached its limit and began to pan back away from the oncoming patrol. Wait.

Wait. And... now. Bolan sliced through the small cable and held his breath. The camera jerked once, then was still. They were home free.

And not a minute too soon. The headlights of the oncoming Jeep danced along the fence. Bolan sprinted back to Cohen and checked his SMG.

"Remember, we have to hit them before they get to that camera," Cohen cautioned. "Ready?"

Cohen made Bolan uncomfortable. The guy was a natural leader. A take-charge kind of man.

Two of them working together would lead to friction eventually. But there wasn't time for that now. They had too much to do. And too little time to do it in.

The Jeep cleared the last bend. Coming straight on, its riders looking nervously into the trees.

"You take the driver," Bolan said.

"Gotcha."

Closer, closer. The Jeep was now fifteen yards away, well within the Ingram's effective range.

"Now," Bolan whispered.

If Cohen replied, Bolan didn't hear him. He squeezed the Ingram's trigger and swept a tight figure eight with the SMG'S muzzle. It was too dark to see much, but Bolan had no doubt that the guard in the passenger seat never knew what hit him.

Cohen's target was the easier of the two. The driver had turned toward his passenger as if to confide in him. The burst from Cohen's Ingram caught him leaning. A narrow column of death stitched the man's side from neck to hip. The impact of the slugs drove him sideways. The steering wheel followed, and the Jeep careened into the fence.

The man's foot was still on the accelerator. The engine strained against the fence. Cohen was up and running, reaching the Jeep just as the fence post was beginning to bend. Cohen grabbed the driver by both shoulders, yanking him from the Jeep. The engine sputtered, then died.

"Three down and one to go," Bolan said as he joined the Israeli agent.

"Let's get this mess into the trees." Cohen hopped into the driver's seat. He restarted the engine and backed the Jeep hurriedly away from the fence.

Bolan grabbed the driver's corpse and threw it roughly into the back of the Jeep, then climbed in beside the dead man. The Jeep bounced through the snowy undergrowth. Straining through the occasional drifts, the engine seemed loud enough to wake the dead.

Bolan glanced at the man beside him and knew it wasn't that loud. Curious, he searched the dead man's pockets. There was nothing but a wallet.

He opened the wallet and flipped through the papers.

There was a driver's license, a couple of credit cards, business cards, a matchbook cover with a scribbled phone number, a couple of receipts.

In the photo section were several snapshots. Some showed the dead man, a woman who was probably his wife and two kids.

There was always something to make you wonder, Bolan thought. Wonder why a man would do the sort of things this guy did. And, worse, why you did what you did.

Why couldn't these assholes make the connection between people they cared about and people others cared about?

The Jeep stopped and Cohen jumped down. Bolan sat, staring idly at the photographs.

"Something wrong, Mack?"

Bolan sighed. He closed the photo section and flipped the wallet closed. He tucked it into the dead man's pocket and climbed from the Jeep. "No, nothing's wrong. Let's go."

Cohen looked at his watch. "I've been out here nearly an hour. I'll have to get back soon before Glinkov misses me."

Bolan nodded. "Listen, Eli. That son of a bitch is mine, understand? I want him."

"That all depends, Mack."

"On what?"

"Rachel. If she's okay, he's yours, but..."

Bolan clapped a hand on the smaller man's shoulder. He squeezed gently. He didn't have to speak. Cohen turned silently, his shoulders shaking ever so slightly. He shook his head, as if to clear it, and rubbed his jaw. "We got work to do," he said.

The two men walked back to their own Jeep.

Each felt alone, and, as they walked side by side, the feeling was intensified by the knowledge of the other's loneliness. Cohen started the engine and backed the Jeep out into a small clearing where he could turn it around. He drove to the fence. Bolan hopped down and covered the evidence of their latest encounter. Back in the Jeep, he scrutinized Cohen's face, looking for some trace of Rachel. He saw none.

None but the ghost of her present situation, which haunted her brother. Bolan knew the Israeli felt as helpless as he did. The odds confronting them were enormous.

And the pain of that helplessness was as old as mankind.

Bolan knew that. He knew that the Spartans at Thermopylae had felt it, and the Jews at Masada, too. It must have robbed Roland of sleep at Roncesvalles and lain down beside the farmers' sons at Valley Forge. Hell, for all he knew, the same sense of powerlessness had haunted the Vietcong in the tunnels at Cu Chi. Sure, he knew all that. And it didn't help one damn bit.

"One more and we're golden, Mack." Cohen tried to joke, but his voice betrayed his feelings.

Both men knew that the next Jeep didn't mean the ball game. It was just the end of the first quarter. And Glinkov was no rookie.

Cohen revved his engine, and the Jeep lurched forward. Once again, he threaded his way through the trees. "I think I know the best place for our next play."

Bolan looked at Cohen, waiting for more.

"It's risky, but it will save us some time."

"Are you going to tell me more?" Bolan asked. "Or do I have to guess?"

"What's the matter, Mack, don't you like guessing games?"

"Not tonight I don't."

"All right, you just watch. If you don't know by the time we get there, I'll fill you in. Fair enough?"

"Nothing's fair about any of this, Eli. You know that as well as I do."

Cohen didn't answer.

He didn't have to.

22

Malcolm Parsons was in way over his head. It was a truth he had been trying to ignore for too long. One by one, his illusions had crumbled. His control was less than he had thought. His money didn't come from the source he had imagined. He was less a mover and shaker than he wanted to believe.

Instead of using people, he had been used. He had fought against the truth, fought long and hard. Now, pacing back and forth in the heart of a concrete fortress, he could no longer deny it.

Being forced to take the life of Allan Reynolds meant little in comparison to this realization.

For as long as he could remember, he'd thought he was more important than he really was. Now reality had risen up and slapped him in the face. Now reality answered to the name Glinkov. It was, he knew, too late to save Alan Reynolds. It was too late to rescue whatever shreds of dignity he had left. It was even too late to preserve his reputation as a man who got things done. And he was afraid it might be too late to save his own life.

Whatever Glinkov was planning, it was clear there was no longer a need for Malcolm Parsons. He had been used by the Russian, skillfully and ruthlessly. Parsons was enough of a tactician to admire the Russian's work. He had used Parsons just as Parsons had used so many others.

There was only the slimmest of chances that Parsons could yet pull this one out.

Glinkov stood in the doorway, watching Parsons pace. "Malcolm, you seem upset," Glinkov said, finally betraying his presence.

"You bastard. You scheming, bloody bastard," Parsons roared. He charged the smaller man angrily.