Doomsday Disciples

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, i

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 ca

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 gu

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 gu

The first parabellum round pi

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, sca

The numbers were ru

Bolan tuned the volume, making certain the voices wouldn't carry beyond his own position as he listened in.

"Tommy... you reading me?"

"Right here."

"We got some company down here at the checkpoint. Three dudes in a Lincoln. "

"So, who are they?"

"'One of 'em's a senator.''

Bolan cursed softly in the darkness. The guy called Tommy hesitated, calculating the problem in a hurry. Most of a minute passed before he got back to his sentry at the gatehouse.

"Pass 'em on, " he said. "We've got it covered."

"Right."

Bolan could almost hear the numbers falling now, like the tolling of a funeral bell. He didn't care to wonder for whom the bell tolled. The senator had made his choice, and from there he would have to take his chances.

Moments ticked away before a long, black car with U.S. government plates pulled up in front of Minh's mansion. Three men unloaded from the Lincoln. One of Minh's "elders" appeared on the steps to greet them. He ushered them inside and the broad front door was firmly closed, but not before Bolan's Nitefinders picked out the senator's familiar profile.

A group of eight or ten gu

He was rethinking his attack, allowing for the wild card — new civilians in the line of fire — when the walkie-talkie blared out another rush of voices mixed with static. There was no mistaking the excited message.

It was trouble, right. The two dead sentries were no longer a secret.

At the house, the "elders" reacted to the message, weapons coming out from under topcoats. One clearly had a walkie-talkie of his own, and they were ready to respond if the enemy could be identified.

On the radio, other harsh voices were chiming in, clamoring for information. Bolan knew he had to act fast, before the enemy could organize counteraction. Before he lost the edge.

Thinking fast, he lifted the walkie-talkie from his belt and cut in, overriding frantic voices, speaking rapidly.

"All sentries!'' he snapped. "We've got an intruder by the bungalows. Respond at once."

Some gu