Bolan accepted it and took a careful drag, favoring the raw lungs, watching intently a countdown to the destruction of some men's dream, some men's nightmare.

It was a weird blow. Things moved down there, as in an earthquake and by no other means — no fire, no smoke, just movement. Three buildings collapsed and disappeared momentarily, then spewed forth upon trumpeting streamers of fire and smoke — the sound wave arrived along with that and rocked the whirlybird — a long series of rumbling explosions hurling all manner of debris high into the sky. Then a cloud of smoke began forming, to overhang a bowl-like depression in the earth still rumbling and belching flame.

The bungalows were gone, the big house was gone, the pier and its new building were gone — there was nothing down there but scorched earth and an artificial volcano.

Grimaldi whispered, "Man oh man. That's hard to believe."

Many things, Bolan could have told his friend of the Terrifying Flying Service, could be hard to believe.

But not that.

It was the hardest touch of Bolan's war against the mob. He believed it. A lot of discarnate souls were right now believing it. Damn right. And those that were left would believe it — and might think two times around before trying it again.

"Take me home, Jack," the Executioner said tiredly.

There was, thank God, still a home to return to.

Epilog

Leo Turrin was standing outside the warwagon, awaiting the return of the warrior. He turned away, keeping his face down, until the chopper lifted away, then he came forward to hug the man about the waist and speak gruff words about heroic deeds.

"Go home, Leo," Bolan told him, grinning.

"Fast as a four engine jet can take me," the double-lifer replied. "Hal is welcome to what's left around here. You go, too, Sarge. Quick and far."

Bolan said, "Sure," still grinning.

"Well. Jocko's waiting patiently just down the road. Better go before he gets nervous and comes looking."

"Don't blow it now, guy. Good times are just around the corner."

Leo Turrin turned his back to that and went away, laughing like a crazy man.

Bolan stepped into his infernal machine and lit a cigarette, cranked the engine, and set his sights for somewhere "quick and far."

Nice town, Seattle. Nice people, too. Even the too young and too natural, especially artfully mature and ethically balanced.

But this warwagon was "home" for the warrior. Wherever she traveled, he would find war and nice people.

Quick and far.

That would be the. next battle line. Always too quick and never quite far enough.

But that was Bolan's world, and he was stuck with it.

Worse still, perhaps, it was stuck with him.