Goddammit, he told himself, I did all I could. I got him into the hospital. I checked out everyone who might come near him, doctors, nurses, LVNs, even the scrubwomen and male hall orderlies.

Yet, something kept nagging at the back of Leo's mind. He cursed himself for having been a Special Forces officer, and having spent too much time with the CIA on special assignment. Having infiltrated VC and NVR lines, penetrated the enemy's innermost secrets any way he could — women, dope, liquor, catering to bestial tastes and human perversions.

Afterwards, Leo wondered why!

Why he'd said, "Yes," and meant it, when a certain highly placed government official asked him to become a double after serving with the Special Forces in Southeast Asia.

In the beginning, Leo's reasons had been simple. He loved his country. He'd fought for it and learned to love it all the more, because during the fighting he'd learned how excessively inhuman the alternative of communism was, and upon his return to civilian life he found great similarities between communistic and Mafia philosophies — namely, the end justified any and all means, treachery, terrorism, death, tyrannical rule. The best example Turrin could remember had occurred when he was only a child.

An innocuous little man named Arnold Schuster spotted the notorious bank robber Willie Sutton and notified the police. Sutton was arrested, and even though he had no connection whatever with the Mafia, a ferociously bloodthirsty Mafia underboss named Albert Anastasia ordered one of his soldiers, Fredrick Tenuto, to kill Schuster. This would serve as an object lesson to all would-be "squealers" — Mafia or ordinary good citizens. Then to cover himself, Anastasia had Tenuto murdered, and so well disposed of that twenty years later Tenuto's body has never yet been found.

Also, Leo Turrin had enjoyed some degree of formal education, so his decision to become a "double" had an intellectual basis, as well as moral and patriotic. So it was that Leo found himself helping Bolan out when he called, knowing the consequences if he was caught.

Turrin delivered Bolan's "tools." Then he got the hell out. He had no desire to witness what was about to happen, and his absences from Pittsfield had become increasingly harder to explain, the Mafia being a subculture constantly beset by undercurrents of intrigue, deceit, and murderous treachery. If Leo didn't stay home and take care of his business, one of his underbosses would start getting the idea he no longer needed Leo, and Leo would find himself wearing concrete coveralls at the bottom of Onota Lake west of the city.

"Okay," Turrin said, dropping the heavy canvas duffle bag on the foot of the bed. "Everything's here, info about the homeland, plus a bonus. I turned the Maserati over for fifteen grand, minus my commission."

"Commission!"

"Goddam right. I don't contribute my professional services free of charge. Besides that, I have to keep my head right, my thinking, you dig, Sarge? I stop thinking like a capo, first thing I'm not acting like a capo, and my ass is stuck out a mile. That, my friend, I don't owe you." Leo grinned like a wolf. "It wasn't all that easy, either. The Talaferi Family had a notion it should inherit their hitman's Maserati when you brought Cavaretta down."

"Okay, you earned it."

"And I'm taking it." Leo patted his hip where his wallet rested. "I won't ask your plans, because you would lie or not answer at all. Just do me one favor. Make your next blitz as far from me as you can get."

"That's a promise."

"You're kidding."

"I never joke about what I'm doing."

Leo stared at Bolan, curious and puzzled, but he knew better than to ask any questions. While Bolan dressed in his black combat garb and armed himself with the silencer-equipped Beretta and the silver .44 Automag, four frag grenades and extra ammo clips for both guns, Leo kept watch at the door, and told Bolan:

"I only saw four, but there were two cars, both with wheelmen, set at the northeast and southwest corners. I figure at least six and maybe more." Matter-of-factly, Leo added, "You know the nurse is in on it?"

"I figured it out."

"She's a hype, among other things."

"I'll get the pedigree later. You better haul ass ... and thanks."

Warmly, Leo said, "Arrivederci," and stepped out into the hall closing the door behind him, leaving the room in darkness.

Bolan waited. He found the waiting neither hard nor easy, but a neutral something he had long, long ago learned to endure. Waiting was as much a part of warfare as trying to stay alive. Waiting for chow, for mail, for relief, to leave for some new place or arrive after a long journey. Except that now, for Mack Bolan, the man in black, The Executioner, waiting had become an occupation with singular purpose; he was waiting for the enemy to show himself.

The room was in almost total darkness, door closed, shades drawn. A sliver of light came from under the bathroom door, just enough to back-light them when they came. Bolan had figured the geometry of the room and then positioned himself.

The woman came first.

Bolan expected that. They would want him alive. They wanted no more mistakes, no more wrong heads delivered to collect the bounty.

Minnotte entered soundlessly and crossed to the bed with stealth a cat could envy. She stopped, and Bolan knew she was letting her eyes grow accustomed to the dark. After a long minute, she reached forward with her left hand and peeled the covers back as she leaned toward the bed, syringe ready in her right hand.

Bolan took her then.

He clamped one big hand over her mouth and nose and at the same time plucked the syringe from her hand. He held her fast with all his strength, immobilizing her except for the soft scuffing of her rubber-soled white shoes. He brought the syringe up, and sticking the needle in the side of her neck, pushed the plunger.

Bolan had no idea what he'd hyped her with, but the virtually instantaneous effect of the drug frightened him. In seconds the nurse became a slack, unconscious weight and he let her fall forward on the bed, picked up her feet and rolled her over on her back, laid out straight. Quickly, he wiped the syringe with a sheet and put it into Minnotte's right hand. Then he stepped back into the shadows, waiting again. He drew the Beretta, eased back the slide and checked with his finger that the gun had a round chambered and ready to fire. He checked the safety: off.

Two men came next, throwing open the door and rolling in a wheeled stretcher, quickly closing the door behind them, snapping on the light. "Okay, Minnie. What the — "

The soldier reached under his phony white hospital orderly coat and Bolan shot him between the eyes. He dived across the bed as the other man ducked low and pulled the stretcher over as a shield. Bolan pulled off three shots, spacing them along the length of the stretcher's underside. Both the second and third phutts from the silenced pistol brought screams of pain.

That meant two down of a probable six, and maybe more.

And Mack Bolan was trapped inside a hospital room five stories above ground. No going out the window here on sheets tied together, especially if the soldiers had been stationed properly. He'd be a target so easy, pasted against the wall, the soldiers would have time to send home for their wives to come share the victory.

Bolan jumped back over the bed, jerked the stretcher aside, fell to his knees as the wounded soldier snapped off a shot Bolan felt clip through his hair. The blast resounded like a cannon shot in the small room, even loosening plaster and raising dust.

Bolan shot the man through the bridge of the nose.

He righted the stretcher, opened the door, heaved the first dead onto the punctured sheets, face down, then shoved the stretcher out into the hallway.