When the elevator reached the lowest level of the plant, the door opened with a soft sigh. Eli stepped cautiously into the corridor. To the left, there was nothing. To the right, he could see the dim outlines of several doors along the near wall. The opposite wall was blank. He waved Bolan and Stevens out.

"Eli," Bolan whispered, "wait here. Give Matt and me two minutes. We'll work around to the other side. When you get to the guards, make sure they're both watching you. We'll hit them from behind."

Eli nodded. Bolan and Stevens turned to the left and sprinted down the next passage. Eli counted the seconds. The hands of his watch barely seemed to move. Finally the two minutes were up.

Slowly, keeping close to the wall, he headed down the corridor. In the dim light he couldn't see very far ahead.

The first door on the right was closed. Cohen opened it with a turn of the knob. The room was pitch-black.

He felt for a light switch. When it clicked on, the room was bathed by flickering fluorescent illumination. It was an office of some kind, empty except for its furniture. Cohen walked on to the next doorway. Another empty office. And another. Six in all. There was a long blank space. At its far end, barely discernible in the dim light, was the figure of a man.

He walked more quickly now, approaching the guard with a confidence he didn't really have.

"Rachel Peres around here anywhere?" The guard tilted his head to the door beyond.

Beyond the guard, he couldn't see the second sentry. It puzzled him, but there was no time to worry about it.

And beyond the guard, Cohen saw Matt Stevens.

And the Executioner. Mack Bolan reached into his coat for the Beretta. It was risky, but there was no choice. Eli Cohen knelt to tie his bootlace.

With a clear shot, Bolan squeezed. The Beretta coughed. The slug bored through the guard's temple.

Blood sprayed over Cohen's neck and hands.

Catching the slumping body before it fell, he placed the dead man against the base of the wall. The door was closed. He turned the knob and pushed the door open. It was dark inside. As with the other offices, he reached for a light switch. Nothing happened.

Cautiously Cohen stepped into the dark room.

"Rachel? Are you here? Rachel?"

Silence. He could hear his own breathing, coming faster and faster. His mouth was dry. Something was very wrong. As he moved slowly forward, he reached out blindly with his hands, waving them back and forth until he finally found something. It felt like a desk.

Carefully he groped along the edge of the desktop. His fingers encountered a wire, which he followed to the base of a desk lamp. He depressed the push-button switch. There was a brief glimmer, more darkness, then a flash of light.

Four men stood behind the desk. Their weapons were pointed directly at him.

This was going to be tougher than he thought.

26

Mack Bolan and Matt Stevens held their breath. When Cohen flicked on the light, its blaze cast a stark white rectangle on the corridor floor. The sudden blaze was followed by silence. Something was wrong.

"Fancy meeting you here." The voice belonged to Eli Cohen.

He wasn't talking to Rachel. Bolan eased closer to the doorway. He couldn't risk charging the room unless he had an idea where Cohen was.

On the opposite side of the door, Stevens fingered his rifle nervously.

"You know, Cohen, I never did like you." The voice was low and rasping, full of Hollywood menace — a wise guy putting on a show for his buddies.

"The four of you never did much for me, either," Cohen said. He was raising his voice just slightly.

Bolan smiled. Eli was telling him what he needed to know.

"I guess those AK-47's make you big deals, huh?" Cohen continued.

"Hey, Bobby," another voice joined in. "What are we wasting time for? Why don't we get it over with? I don't like it down here."

When Bolan got through, he'd like it a lot less.

"What, exactly, is it that you have to finish?" Cohen's tone was mocking. He wanted to get them on edge, but knew he couldn't push them too far too soon. "You know, you guys won't make it out of here, no matter what happens to me."

"Says who?" Bobby demanded. "You?"

"Not me, no. But think about it for a minute. Who are you working for? Not Peter Achison. He's a gofer just like you. The Russian is pulling your strings. And when he's got what he wants, he's gonna cut them. Dead."

"No way, man. When we finish here, it's gonna be hot sun and sandy beaches for me."

"I wouldn't count on it. You never know where you're gonna wash up once you're cut loose."

"Let's just grease the bastard and get on with it," a third voice said.

"Shut up, everybody. Cohen, put your gun on the floor. Slowly. Then turn around." Bobby must have sensed the play slipping away from him. He was trying to force things back into his control.

Bolan heard the clink of the Ingram on the concrete floor. He moved. Wheeling back away from the door, he sprayed hellfire into the room.

Eli was bent over, and the bullets skimmed just over his stooped form. At the first sound, he dived for a corner of the room, rolled once and slammed into the wall.

The four men inside were taken by surprise.

Bolan's first burst of fire caught Bobby in the throat. Blood spouted from three holes just below his shoulder line. Stunned by the impact of .45 caliber slugs he slammed back into the wall, but refused to fall.

As Bolan sprayed a figure eight to the left of the dying man, he caught a second punk in the shoulder. The bonecracking slaughter chewed him to pieces before he dropped.

Bolan stood framed in the doorway, an easy target, but there was no other way. Matt Stevens slipped in behind him. Down on one knee, he sprayed his own death stream into the room like an angry fireman hosing down a three-alarmer.

The two remaining men had taken refuge behind a standard-issue steel desk. Bolan slammed a new magazine into the Ingram. He drilled the desk with cold fury, working his fire in a wavy line. Hole after deadly hole opened in the flimsy sheet metal. The desk shuddered, slowly sliding back toward the wall.

Bolan entered the office as Eli retrieved his weapon. Eli walked to the desk and pushed it aside. His shoulders arched, and with a rush he spewed the contents of his stomach. He shook his head as if to clear it, spitting to rid his mouth of the bilious aftertaste. "I don't think I'll ever get used to this," he said.

But Bolan was transformed. His large frame seemed made of harder steel. The set of his jaw was something Cohen hadn't seen before. The Executioner was all business. He crammed a new magazine into the Ingram and tossed the empty one over the ruined desk. It clanged once and was still.

Cohen recognized the sound. It was a death knell.

"So where the hell are they keeping her?" Bolan asked the question as if the walls should answer him.

"There are a few more rooms down here," Stevens said. "If she's on this level, we should be able to find her."

"We'd better."

Cohen said nothing.

"Let's hit it then."

Bolan started down the hall, moving away from the elevator bank. He tried the first door, banging it back against the inner wall with a dull echo. He clicked on the light, but the room was empty. Stevens moved on to the next. It, too, was deserted. Cohen came up empty on the third.

On the fourth try, the door was locked.

"Check those bastards, Eli. One of them might have a master key." Cohen sprinted back down the hall to the scene of the firefight. In a minute he was back, dangling a key on a heavy metal ring.

The intricately etched key ground in the lock. The door opened with a cavernous boom. Bolan flicked the light. The room seemed as empty as the others.