Day of Mourning

chain, the Executioner had time to consider the strange, violent odyssey of this day and night.

In the beginning, it was like any of the other missions in this government-sanctioned new war against world terrorism: Mack Bolan, The Executioner, racing toward another confrontation with dark forces.

The Atlantic.

Terrorists.

The Dragon.

But this was only the beginning.

The stepping stone from then to now.

An odyssey to stun anyone's senses.

From an Oval Office briefing with the president to the cathouse depths of sewer city.

And between those two points?

The Mafia.

An old enemy, growing stronger again, probably overdue for attention from John Phoenix. If there would be a John Phoenix in the future.

Tonight, a lapse into automatic behavioral patterns from that past war against the Mafia: a Black Ace appeared from nowhere and right now the commissione in New York would be madder than hell, shaking up everyone on the scene for an explanation of why a headcock named Pepsi Giancola got capped along with some street soldiers when it was Pepsi who was supposed to be snuffing out Armenian jerks.

It was almost like the old days when Bolan was alive. Yeah, exactly like an Executioner hit. But of course, Bolan is dead.

Armenians.

The CIA and the CFB and Lee Farnsworth and a murky world of clandestine espionage operations that Bolan never felt comfortable with.

Farnsworth was right, in a way.

Bolan was a soldier.

A combat specialist.

His place was on the front lines, like he'd told the president.

Striking at the enemies of the Phoenix war.

Tonight, the war came home.

At this moment, top priority continued to be who!

Who was Bolan's real enemy this night?

Somewhere in or around this city of lies, double dealing and treachery, a killer sat smug, thinking he was safe, that his trail was covered, that he could go on with whatever else he had planned for the Stony Man operation, tonight and anytime in the future. Someone who knew all the workings of the U.S. intelligence system from top to bottom.

This someone was Konzaki's killer and the true saboteur of Stony Man Farm as sure as Grover Jones and Miller and whatever other hired hands, hired death, were doing his bidding.

This was the one Bolan wanted more than any of these vermin. The one who pulled the strings and bartered in souls and sent people to their deaths when the whim moved him, hiding it all behind a cloak of influence.

This someone was evil moving among the good, indistinguishable, making him that much more dangerous.

But The Executioner was in town.

And that made all the difference in the world.

15

Bolan found the county road he wanted and began an initial recon to set the terrain of this action firmly in his mind.

At first glance the property owned by Al Miller was not unlike any number of similar ones in the area.

This was horse-estate country.

Miller had to be doing all right for himself, whatever his scam was.

Or he had solid backing.

Bolan guessed the latter.

The millionaire set liked its privacy. Formidable brick walls about ten feet tall surrounded many of these estates. There were huge expanses of uninhabited acreage in between.

Miller's guise of respectability lasted no longer than a closer visual as Bolan's rental vehicle glided past. The Executioner hoped that those inside viewed it as just another car passing in the night.

The main entrance to the grounds was set midway in the face of the walled perimeter that bordered the paved road.

A brick guardhouse sat behind an iron gate.

Bolan saw two sentries; they wore side arms and there was undoubtedly heavier artillery, out of sight but close at hand.

When he reached the far end of the property line, Bolan continued to drive another quarter mile until the looming walls of the estate were blocked from view by a mild dip in the undulating Maryland terrain.

Bolan parked his car well off the blacktop, concealed from casual glances by a cluster of stately oak trees.

He strapped on Big Thunder.

This would be a hard hit.

He jogged back toward the walled property of Al Miller. He stayed off the road, approaching the side wall that connected with the one fronting the county road.

He was not ideally togged or rigged for a night hit. His dark sweater and slacks helped him blend into the night but his black combat grease had been lost when Sam Datcher and Jimmy Lee Brown blew up his rented Mustang at the Interstate Loan shoot-out.

Bolan hoped the moon would not break through the heavy clouds overhead, but that did not seem likely.

The Beretta 93-R rode ready in its shoulder holster and the AutoMag was fast-draw ready. Heavy artillery, sure, but it would be no heavier than the arsenal on the other side of those walls. His other instruments of death, such as the stilettos, garrotes and high-explosive grenades, so important on an assault like this, had also been destroyed in tonight's car blast.

The hell with risks.

The Executioner was blitzing.

He negotiated the wall with ease, landing on the other side without a sound.

He palmed the silenced Beretta.

He hoped Big Thunder would not be needed at all or only as a last resort to blast his way out.

He remained in a crouch, the 93-R ready. He scanned the darkness, his icy gaze encompassing the deserted grounds of the estate.

He saw no one.

Several lights illuminated a massive main house about eighteen hundred meters across a rolling, gradual incline.

Bolan padded cautiously toward the main house. The nightfighter kept to the shadows of the evergreens trees that dotted the landscape.

The Executioner met no interference.

Miller's place was guarded tonight by only a skeleton crew for some special reason. Or the man had nothing