The huge brown circles made an interesting mosaic when viewed from the high slope. Heavy snow underfoot hampered the lone figure's descent as he headed toward the deadly brown scars. He paused to listen and to look when he reached the bottom of the hill. But there was only the wind swirling flakes of snow about him.

Somewhere out there in the bone-chilling cold, he knew, were three men. And Mack Bolan wanted them badly. He wanted them dead or alive.

Dunford, Idaho, was a godforsaken place. It was five hundred square miles of nuclear nightmare: plutonium reactors, waste recycling plants, high— and low-level facilities for waste storage. Dunford had it all. The large dead circles, so perfect from above, were signposts. Under each was a storage tank, some holding a million gallons of boiling radioactive liquid; tanks that were too hot to get close to, and too hot to stand a blanket of snow. And right now, as the moon slipped behind a lowering cloud bank that threatened to dump still more snow, three men were preparing to blow one of those tanks sky-high.

The boiling death that would be released by the explosion would kill every living thing it touched. The plant would be contaminated for thousands of years, permanently shutting down one of the keystones of America nuclear defense system. Bolan couldn't let that happen.

He had to find those men. Now.

But where the hell were they? he wondered. Which tank did they want to hit? In his arctic whites, Bolan was well camouflaged, but Dunford was too big for him to cover on his own. There were nearly two hundred tanks, and his prey wasn't likely to be too particular. Any tank would do, just as long as it was full of hot water. Bolan had a list of the full tanks, but so did the men he was hunting. Even knowing which ones were empty, which were full of salt cake, still left him nearly a hundred to watch. He had to move, and keep moving.