And to the executioner's certain knowledge, he had found no victory at Pittsfield. He had become a man marked for death, sought by every law-enforcement agency in the nation and with every resource of the worldwide Mafia organization geared to his destruction. Bolan left Pittsfield with the feeling that he was setting out on his last mile—but he was determined to stretch that final mile to its highest yield, to fight the war to its last gasp. Mack Bolan's last mile was going to be a bloody one. The Executioner would live life to the very end.

Chapter One

The game

The Executioner arrived in Los Angeles on the evening of September 20 without fanfare or prior announcement. Approaching from Las Vegas, he followed the freeways across the city, exited into Santa Monica, and angled southward along the coastal highway. Several minutes later he pulled alongside a telephone booth at a service station, consulted the directory, then thumbed a dime into the coinbox and dialed the number of an ex army buddy, Vietnam veteran George Zitka. A cautious voice answered the ring. Bolan grinned and spoke crisply into the mouthpiece. "Early Bird, this is Fireman. What is your situation there?"

A startled gasp, then momentary silence. Then a voice of quiet emotion replied, "Situation normal, Fireman. Suggest you bypass and proceed direct to Kwang Tri."

"Negative," Bolan replied, his voice stiffening somewhat. "It's time for R and R, and I'm coming in."

"Suggest Kwang Tri for R and R," the voice responded in controlled urgency.

"Negative, I'm coming in," Bolan clipped. He hung up, stared thoughtfully at the dial for a moment, then returned to the car, drove to the rear of the service station, and again descended to the pavement. He removed his coat, reached into the glove compartment and produced a snub-nosed .32 revolver and shoulder holster, slipped it on, tested the breakaway several times, then loaded the revolver and snapped it into place. "Kwang Tri, my ass!" he muttered as he drew on the coat.



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