Quickly Bolan made his decision. If he could get into position on the opposite side, they could squeeze Glinkov like a walnut. Cross fire wouldn't be a problem, because they were on two different levels. It was a three-dimensional assault.

Bolan slid forward on his belly, clinging to the broad, round surface of the pipe. He had to lift himself over each joint without losing his grip. His progress was slower than Rachel's but she had farther to go. If it worked, they'd reach their goals at the same moment. So far the stalking figure below had remained motionless. Either he hadn't noticed Bolan's ascent or he was biding his time. Rachel nipped in beside a broad stone column that supported the building above. Bolan was directly opposite her position, but five yards higher.

He unzipped the anticontamination suit and unholstered Big Thunder. The .44 AutoMag felt cold in his hands. Its familiar weight was comforting after the feel of the MAC-10. One by one, he sought the positions of his opponents. Straining to peer into the darkness, he checked their locations relative to himself, to Rachel, to Eli and Parsons, and to one another. When he pulled the trigger the first time, he wanted to know where he was going with his second shot. And his third. Rachel had settled on a risky firing position. Unless she nailed two men immediately, either of them would be in a position to fire back. Bolan made his target priority dependent on Rachel. She didn't seem to realize the second of the two men was there. She sighted in on the first guy, who was hunkered down out of the stray fire coming from Eli and Parsons. Bolan drew a bead on the second man. With a little luck, no one below would even realize he was there and firing.

And it was getting late. He was due for some luck.

More than a little.

Rachel opened up, and Big Thunder bucked in Bolan's hands almost simultaneously. His shot plowed into the crouching target, striking him in the forehead just below the hairline. The impact of the heavy slug drove him down and backward. The AutoMag's roar was lost in the cavernous, echoing firefight raging below him.

The stalker had moved again, this time placing a pillar between himself and Bolan. The man seemed intent on something other than the firefight. And Bolan was the only one who had seen him. He moved once, then again. It seemed as if he were more interested in escaping than in engaging in combat.

He moved farther still. And finally Parsons saw him. The old man gave a start. He thought at first they had been encircled, but a nervous scan showed that no one else had moved. He called to Eli, but Cohen didn't hear him. Eli was moving forward now, pressing Rachel's advantage.

Bolan moved another five yards along the conduit. He reached the point where it penetrated the stone wall, then swung down to the concrete, landing on the balls of his feet at the base of the wall.

Ahead of him, the remains of Glinkov's attack force was firing frantically. Bolan sighted in on his first target. A squeeze, and the AutoMag moved on. Another squeeze, and two were down.

One of the terrorists realized Bolan was there.

Turning, the man sprayed Kalashnikov fire in a jagged line that swept the wall just behind the Executioner's diving form. Bolan squeezed off another round, but the gunner ducked away from Eli's fire. The Stony Man warrior's slug slammed into the column a scant three inches above the gunner's head.

Four terrorists formed a line and pressed forward.

Their heavy fire drove Eli backward.

Parsons seemed to have disappeared. As the charge advanced, Bolan realized it had to be halted at once. If they drove Eli back far enough, two of them could turn back toward Rachel, cutting her off and pinning her against the wall with minimal cover.

Eli would have his hands full. He wouldn't be able to help her.

But they didn't realize the Executioner was also behind them. The diving gunner was a problem that had to be solved first. Bolan moved in, deliberately exposing himself to the hidden man's position the guy took the bait. He raised himself carefully, sighting in with deliberation. A look of celebration slipped over his heavy features. It was premature.

Bolan drilled him just above the left eye. The explosive force of the AutoMag's 240-grain projectile ruptured the gunner's cranium as if it were a ripe pumpkin. The splattered gore on the stone behind him was as dark as death. And just as silent.

Now for the four horsemen, Bolan thought.

Eli was holding his ground. Occasionally he searched the area to his right, looking for Parsons. But there was no sign of the old man. There was no time to look for him now. The men were making a push, although none of the four seemed aware of the deadly presence behind them. They were alternating their fire, two shooting and two advancing, then switching. Suddenly the four of them surged forward in unison. Their deadly fire poured in, and Cohen had no choice but to run.

Pinned down, the advance pressing him too hotly for escape, Eli sprayed fire without looking. His SMG chattered and then went silent. It was too soon for a new clip, Bolan thought. He heard Eli tug on the empty magazine, but it wouldn't budge. A stray slug had struck the weapon. It was jammed. Bolan was pressing in now. He fired twice, taking one of the four just above the left shoulder blade. The gunner fell like a sack of wet cement. His three buddies pushed on. They were in the open and had no choice. Bolan moved forward, pressing his advantage. When the goons realized Eli wasn't firing back, two of them turned to the threat from their rear. The third continued in Eli's direction.

Rachel rushed forward, calling out to her brother.

She reached an opening just as the onrushing gunner flanked Eli's position. She closed her eyes and sprayed .45 caliber poison in a broad figure-eight pattern. The hellish spray nailed her target from head to hip. Blood spurted from his neck, and he fell forward heavily.

Drenched by the bloody spray, Eli caught the failing corpse in his arms.

The remaining two belonged to Mack Bolan. He reholstered Big Thunder and relieved his last victim of a Kalashnikov and two magazines.

He slipped a new one into place and dived to the right, hitting on his shoulder and rolling on to regain his feet behind a thick stone column.

He was acutely aware that thirty odd lives hung in the balance, trapped in a room just behind him.

Rage at such intentional barbarity gave a manic edge to his movement. What Glinkov was trying to do was beyond loathsome. For Mack Bolan it was beyond all comprehension. Now Bolan was close to pulling the plug on it. He wanted desperately to do it. Do it now. He wanted to shut Glinkov down, but there was a succession of gunners and slugs to go through first.

Each one made him a little more angry.

He raised the Kalashnikov and squeezed. The two men in front of him dropped in their tracks.

The relentless fire seemed like the voice of outrage as it chattered and roared. And then was still. The gun was empty.

The last two gunners lay in their own blood.

Bolan wanted Glinkov.

He wanted him bad.

And he would have him.

Eli and Rachel hurried the hostages back to the surface. The elevator was running on emergency power, and there were too many people for a single load. On the way, Rachel explained what she knew of the situation. It was decided that the first group to go up should be technical people. Without them there was no chance to reverse the process Glinkov had set in motion. With them, there was precious little, but even a slim chance was worth taking when it was all you had.

Stevens was still in the control room. There had been no attempt to break into it. Everyone else in the plant had gone to Level 4 — the hostages at gunpoint, Glinkov's men prodding them like wayward cattle, and the others in pursuit. And Stevens had waited. He was determined to get even with the bastards who had killed his friends.