the burned hand over and showed it to Bolan. The flesh was charred in the center, still smoking around the crisp circle. It looked as if a small comet had struck his palm. 'That is loyalty, Sergeant Grendal. The type your kind will never fathom. That's because with us, loyalty is repaid.' She lifted Hermann's damaged hand lovingly to her mouth and kissed the blistered wound. Then she lowered it again, slipping it under her open blouse and pressing it itgainst her firm breast. Despite his intense pain Hermann stared greedily at her open blouse. Tanya smiled at him and patted his cheek. 'Now go get this bandaged.'
He left quickly.
'Naturally I used his left hand so as not to jeopardize his fitness with a rifle for tomorrow's assault.'
'How thoughtful.'
She replaced the glass bell on the hurricane lamp and turned back to Bolan.
'Your sarcasm does not bother me, Sergeant. I have been very good to these men. I have slept with most of them at least once. Does that shock you?'
'No, it bores me.'
She stood staring at Bolan for a full minute without moving. Her face was a fixed mask etched in ice.
Bolan returned her stare without blinking. He tried to penetrate the frosty exterior to understand what went on inside her head. From observation he had determined that both the twins were certifiably crazy.
Thomas Morganslicht was probably born that way, or at least acted as if he'd always been nuts. But Tanya Morganslicht seemed to have chosen craziness as a life-style. And that made her the more dangerous. Finally she broke off her stare, though Bolan figured she could have kept it up for hours had she wanted to. She buttoned the front of her blouse and walked to the door, pausing only to say. 'You will need your rest for tomorrow.' Then she closed the door behind her.
Bolan stretched out on the surviving cot he tried to formalize a plan to free the hostages, foil tomorrow's mission, and devastate the Zwilling Horde until they were nothing more than a smoking hole in the ground. Simple, sure. The situation was an arousing one for the Executioner.
Thomas Morganslicht had hated him from the start.
After his humiliating beating, Rudi Blau would probably try to kill him at first opportunity.
And now he had alienated Tanya Morganslicht until tonight his only ally. Yeah, things were heating up all right. And tomorrow they would boil over. The question was, who would be scalded most?
18
General Fordharn 'Cruiser' Wilson tightened the belt of his bathrobe as he walked down the long staircase. It was barely 05.00 but the bright morning sun was already seeping through an early fog all over Germany. He loved these crisp, clear German mornings, remembering fondly how many of their sunrises he had witnessed when he was younger. A smile spread across his face and he shook his head like a proud father at the young man he used to be. Ah, well, never again. Not with these kinds of responsibilities.
He tightened his bathrobe again and wandered through the living room into the kitchen. He was surprised to find his houseguest up already, fully dressed, shaved, sipping freshly brewed coffee while he read the morning newspaper.
'Up early, aren't you, Mr. Grimaldi?'
Jack shrugged. 'Not for me.'
'I see,' the general said. But he knew better. He had seen the concern and worry on this man's face ever since he had returned from Munich without the remarkable Colonel Phoenix.
The general was intrigued by the devotion this mysterious colonel seemed to inspire. Hell, he'd even found himself willing to follow the man's orders. The general too had inspired men to fierce loyalty, back when he was a commander in Korea. Despite heavy casualties and biting cold, his men had followed him into the hell jaws of battle after battle. That's where he'd picked up the nickname 'Cruiser,' because he and his men plowed through the enemy like a runaway battlecruiser. Medals, sure, and plenty of citations, but the one thing he had earned there that really mattered was his men's respect.
That was all that counted. Well, now it was time to let some of the younger men take over the fight.
'You read German?' General Wilson said, pointing at the local newspaper Grimaldi was leafing through.
'Nope, I just look at the pictures and wonder why the people in them look as dopey as the people in photos back home.'
'Just guess it's the nature of newspapers to capture people at their worst.'?
'Maybe so.' Jack toyed absently with the spoon in his coffee cup.
'Look, Grimaldi,' the general said, pouring himself a cup of coffee, 'I don't know much about this Colonel Phoenix of yours except that he's got a top secret clearance that runs all the way to the White House. And I know a couple other things about him that I didn't get from any report.'
'Yeah, what's that?'
'I know from the way he handled Sergeant Grendal that he's a tough man. I know from the way he staged that fake shooto-ut here that he's a smart man. And I know from those reports about the Zwilling Horde massacre of the Black Sunday group that he's got them running in circles chasing their tails. My God, what kind of man convinces one group of terrorists to attack another group?'
Jack Grimaldi grinned.
'Yeah, I just wish I were in there giving him a hand.' The general ran his palms through his thick gray hair and sighed. 'We all do, son. Believe me. But any man who can do what he's accomplished already, probably doesn't need our help. His methods are the best yet.'
Jack Grimaldi nodded. Sure, it was a hell of an achievement, to get as far as Colonel Phoenix had gotten, but it was stretching the odds to the tearing point to hope he could get much further alone. But where to look? How to get him that help?
19
'Hit the dirt! Hit the dirt!' The two Zwilling Horde terrorists dived over the wall and landed face-down in the hard snowbank on the other side.
'Fine,' Bolan said in English-accented German. 'Now the next two. Go!'
Two more hardguys hefted their new Uzis and charged across the campground, leaping the short wooden wall near the cabin. Then each stood up and brushed the snow from his clothing.
'Forget your damned clothing!' Bolan yelled at them. 'Protect your gun. Tuck it close to your body when you go over the wall, then cradle it when you roll. Next two!'
Thomas Morganslicht watched from the porch of his cabin, raking his thick black hair into place with his fingers, then absently chewing on his finger-nails again.
Something was not right. He didn't know what it was exactly, but he had this sour, dizzy feeling, almost like seasickness. Perhaps just the excitement, he wondered. After all, today was the day. The day when the Zwilling Horde would demonstrate to the world its brilliance and commitment. In a few hours they would have their deadly prize. Then, within a few days, hundreds would die. Perhaps even thousands. But still his stomach churned and twisted. Especially in the presence of this American. Last night had been particularly bad. He had not been able to relax more than a few minutes at a time, and when he did fall asleep the nightmare returned. A hooded figure, face of granite, fire shooting from his fingertips, horrible flames. Even thinking about it now caused his stomach to a chew and he could feel the slick film of sweat coating his skin. It was absurd to think that this hooded figure had anything to do with this American soldier. Dreams were only dreams, a shuffling of images and fears. He had learned about them in the university, though he had not done well in that course. Tanya had to do some of his homework so he would not fail.
Yes, Tanya. Sweet, ever-present Tanya. She had always been there to help him, to explain things, to
