Come on, let's get it done." He was bending for his pack as Bolan zeroed in on him. The target hoisted the heavy pack and shrugged into the shoulder straps, then reached into his pocket. He pulled out a piece of paper, unfolded it and looked around, as if trying to get his bearings. "One-oh-seven-B ought to be around here somewhere." He surveyed his surroundings for a moment. Satisfied, he stuffed the paper back into his pocket and pointed to his left. "It's right over there. Let's move it."

Bolan wanted to take him out first. He seemed to be the leader of the group. Without him, the other two would be disoriented, easy pickings for the Executioner. Bolan kept the man in his cross hairs and waited as the group moved forward. Soon, all three were visible in his sight. Bolan squeezed off the first shot. The boom of the big Weatherby Mark V echoed through the still night as the target's head shattered. The bloody spray was dark and shadowy against the freshly fallen snow. Bolan squeezed off another round before the body of his first target had reached the ground. This time he aimed a bit lower, drilling his man through the chest. A dark stain spread across the saboteur's arctics, and he flew backward, his arms windmilling as his nearly lifeless body fought to keep its balance.

But these guys weren't amateurs. The third man had dived into the snow at the first shot, and now he started to scramble back down the slope. Bolan fired a round into the guy's pack. The dull thud of the slug hitting home goosed the guy into a frenzy. He swung his submachine gun into action and sprayed his fire up and down the snowy hill.

Bolan knew the man had no idea who, or where, his target was. Still, the big guy knew a wild shot could kill just as easily as a well-aimed one.

Bolan moved off to the right, angling down and away from the line of fire. There was a low mound of snow about thirty feet away. It wouldn't provide much cover, but it meant Bolan was not out in the open.