remained, lurking behind the veil of civilized sophistication. Even well-rested warriors felt it — the drowsiness and lethargy preceding sunrise — and it was not by accident that military action was so often timed to coincide with the gray hour before daybreak.
Mack Bolan understood the phenomenon, and used it against his enemies whenever possible. It honed a biological edge on the advantage of surprise.
The Executioner could use any edge available this time.
He was still rigged for night combat, decked out in blacksuit and blackface. The Ingram was replaced by a new head weapon — the deadly M-16/M-203 combination. The assault rifle offered him selective fire, and the 40mm grenade launcher mounted under its barrel provided stunning double-punch capability. The bandoleer of preselected ammunition for the launcher gave Bolan the appearance of a Mexican bandit on a border raid. The military harness housed hand grenades and extra magazines for the autorifle.
He was going in hard, ready to level Minh's palace, bring it down around his ears. This time, the game was for all the marbles.
Gadgets Schwarz had the girl in a safe place, and a flying squad of federal marshals would be waiting at the waterfront warehouse to welcome Minh's boat when it arrived. He would leave the disposition of the crew to them.
All that remained was for Bolan to burn out the viper's nest — crush the serpent's head, right, and make damn sure there was no life left in its slimy carcass.
Search and destroy was the name of the game — this time, every time. He was carrying the fire, a cleansing flame to purge the cannibals.
Scorched earth, yeah.
But it would have to be accomplished with a great degree of caution. At any given time, there were fifty or more members of the Universal Devotees in residence at Minh's retreat. None was a soldier, as far as Bolan knew. He would treat them as civilians, unless they proved him wrong and he would leave their cars and handling to those who followed him.
Even as civilians, though, Minh's disciples might complicate the action. Bolan was anticipating panic and confusion once the strike began, and he couldn't guarantee the safety of bystanders, innocent or otherwise.
The Executioner had planted several shaped plastic charges at strategic points along the outer wall. Each charge was fitted with a radio-remote detonation fuse, ready to blow on Bolan's signal. It was a simple but effective backup system, useful for diversionary purposes — or to clear an avenue of retreat if the 'elders' cut him off inside the walls.
Mack Bolan was a cautious warrior, all the way. He tried to think of everything, cover all the bases before the battle. Grim experience had taught him that preparation was the frequent dividing line between living warriors and remembered heroes.
While the choice remained, he intended to stay among the living.
Bolan scaled the wall and perched atop it, balanced like a great hunting cat, sweeping the ground below with his Nitefinder goggles. He knew the fog would lift with daybreak, but at the moment it was even thicker than before. Night jealously clung to every moment, reluctant to relinquish its domain. The grounds were shrouded, ghostly, and it took the warrior several moments to pick out his enemies and chart their patterns.
He watched and timed the perimeter patrols, noting the 'elders' walked in pairs as before. If his first penetration had taught them anything at all, it didn't show.
So much the better, then. If they were cocky, overconfident, it could work to his advantage. It was another edge.
Bolan let a pair of walking sentries pass by, ticking off the numbers as they disappeared from sight. He dropped down inside the wall, landing in a crouch, holding the autorifle ready, just in case.
There was no such thing as too much caution in the hellgrounds. A canny warrior expected the unexpected.
Like voices in the fog, for instance.
Two voices were coming Bolan's way. Off schedule.
The warrior saw his choices in the space of a heartbeat. He could slip away, let them miss him in the fog — or he could take them now. Start the ball rolling here, and reduce the odds by two for openers.
He slid the black Beretta from its armpit sheath, thumbing back the hammer. There was no time like the present.
He waited, never moving from his combat crouch, the silent Belle locking on imaginary targets. He used the sound of voices to track his enemies. They were moving on a dead collision course with his position. Another moment...
Twin figures materialized in the mist, moving casually, taking their time. One carried an M-l carbine; the other held a flashlight, keeping any hardware hidden under his jacket.
Bolan didn't waste time trying to determine why the sentries were off schedule. They were here and now, and that was all that mattered.
The rifleman presented a greater threat, and Bolan took him first, lightly stroking the Beretta's trigger. A pencil line of flame chugged from the muzzle, lancing toward the nearby murky silhouette. A hot parabellum exploded in the gunner's face, mushrooming on impact, ripping flesh and bone, finding the rotten brain.
Bolan's target folded, legs turning to rubber as he died on his feet. He hit the ground before his partner realized what was happening, the carbine clattering beside him on the rocky soil.
The second gunner recognized the danger and reacted to it. But the move was too little and too late. His flashlight blazed on, sweeping onto target, while his other hand reached for a holstered side arm. Bolan let him reach it, but that was all. He wasn't giving anything away.
The first parabellum round pinned the gunner's arm against his chest, punching through, mangling vital organs. The second bored a 9mm channel through his forehead, exploding from the rear in a frothy crimson shower. The guy touched down beside his comrade, two discarded mannequins, silent and immobile.
Bolan left them there, pausing long enough to strip the carbine of its long banana clip before he melted into darkness, moving toward the manor house. The night enveloped him, covering his tracks. He moved swiftly through the trees, a gliding shadow in the fog.
The shadow of death, yeah.
He went to ground fifty yards from the big house, scanning with the Nitefinders, noting the light in the office window. From his vantage point, he had a view of several bungalows behind the house. They were still darkened and under guard. If the cultists were awake back there, they gave no sign of it.
The numbers were running now, and even with the fog it was only a matter of time before those bodies on the south perimeter were found by other sentries. Bolan was prepared to launch himself against the main house when the captured walkie-talkie crackled to life at his hip, metallic voices clamoring for his attention.
Bolan tuned the volume, making certain the voices wouldn't carry beyond his own position as he listened in.
Bolan cursed softly in the darkness. The guy called Tommy hesitated, calculating the problem in a hurry.
