Bolan jogged through the snow, unzipping his whites as he ran. The Weatherby was nearly empty, and he didn't have time to reload. Pulling his .44 AutoMag free, he ran toward the flames.

Some of the trees were already burning, and heavy smoke from the chopper fuel billowed into the sky. Through the glare that filled the cockpit, he could make out the bodies. Then the swirling smoke closed in, and the chopper was obscured for good. A hundred yards from the holocaust, Bolan saw a small white 4xbled, just off the service road that ran along the outside of the fence. Two men, armed with SMG's, were rushing toward it, and toward Mack Bolan. Toward certain death.

The men had nearly reached the 4xbled. They were laughing. Laughing as if the burning wreck of the chopper was nothing more than a holiday bonfire.

Bolan reached the rear of the 4xbled just as his quarry reached the front. He stepped quickly to the right, his AutoMag locked in both hands. As the passenger door opened, Bolan fired once, blasting bits of bone and brain right through the mud-streaked window glass. The driver didn't have time to react. Bolan squeezed gently, almost tenderly, and Big Thunder bucked once. And again.

Then Mack Bolan was gone, as suddenly as he had come. There was still too much work to be done.

2

The office was tastefully appointed. And anonymous. Hal Brognola didn't much care for its lavishness and was obviously ill at case in the borrowed surroundings. Brognola chewed on his cigar as he paced before the large picture window.

Outside, the snow was getting heavier, and Bolan was already two hours late.

Idaho was a state the Fed rarely visited.

If he had his way, he wouldn't be coming back.

Sure, the mountain view was gorgeous. But he was used to buildings, pavement, the sound of traffic. It was so damn quiet here that he could hear his heart beat.