"Where to?"

"I swear to God I don't know! Santos... took her. Libya? Business finished here... Thatcher was aboard last night... paid and gone..."

Time was running out. But this man was talking. Too much.

"You're not Jericho."

"Let me live, please, I beg you!"

"I'm here to collect dues from Jericho."

"I'm not Jericho, you're right... you said it yourself."

Surprise.

Jack Grimaldi was hovering at two o'clock off the Traveler's port bow. The bubble-front of the Hughes 500-D chopper reflected the rays of a new Bahamas day. A secured rope ladder dropped from the copter's side door.

Fourteen seconds to detonation.

Bolan could not allow the talkative Jericho imposter to die here. He was invaluable now for the information he could give about the boss cannibal. And about Eve, which is where Bolan came in.

The guy was losing plenty of blood. A tourniquet in the chopper, a quick airlift to medical help, and he would be fine for some hard questions.

Suddenly the guy went for broke and rolled his dice one last time. A Colt .38 snubnose was in his fist, yanked from concealment and zeroing in on Bolan.

Eleven seconds.

The Executioner darted to the right. The AutoMag and the guy's .38 fired as one. The wounded man's slug went wild. Bolan's did not.

Ten seconds.

Whoever the impostor really was, his meat was nailed to the boat's deck by a .44 headbuster that had ended his life forever.

His stupidly untaught-out course of action had confirmed for sure that he was not Lenny Jericho.

Bolan leathered Big Thunder and sidestepped the latest dead man. Timing was everything now.

He climbed the railing of the Traveler's side and dived. It was a dive that expertly knifed the glassy waters of Exuma Cay to propel him down deep.