"Zitter?" Bolan called out softly.

"Zitter," came an immediate reply. "That you, Mack?"

"It's me." Bolan was rolling slowly as he spoke. "You okay, Zit?"

"Yeah. There's three of 'em. You get all three?"

"Check—three," Bolan replied. He sighed and got to his feet, returned to the door and found the light switch, then closed the door and turned on the lights.

Three men were lying about the small room like grotesque statues of death. Zitka sat in a corner on the floor, ropes binding his wrists and ankles. Bolan produced a pocket knife and cut the ropes. "You should have told your buddies the password," he said, grinning.

"Buddies hell!" Zitka muttered. "What'd you do to your hair?" He was rubbing the circulation into his hands and feet.

"Bleached it," Bolan said. "Cute huh? Tried the mustache route too but couldn't stand the filthy thing. What'd you let them tie you up for?"

Zitka growled an unintelligible response and reached for a pack of cigarettes on a nearby table. A dark man, heavily built, he moved with surprising grace. He was dressed only in a swimsuit.

Bolan had moved to one of the dead and was busily searching pockets and laying the contents out for inspection. "How'd you know they weren't cops?" he asked off-handedly.

"Cops don't slap you around and tie you up like a turkey," Zitka growled.

Bolan nodded. They're Maffios," he reported.

"Dammit, I told you to stay clear."

Bolan smiled and moved to the next body. Thanks for the tip. But the ambush at Kwang Tri was a helluva lot hotter than this one."

These bastards ain't playing games, Mack."

Bolan was still smiling. "Weren't much of a match for a couple of old jungle fighters, were they? Pretty cute the way you tipped me, Zit. Of all places to go for R and R. Kwang Tri, for God's sake."