"We don't use lever-actions in the Army," Bolan replied soberly.

"Uh- huh." Weatherbee took a drag from his cigarette and exhaled noisily. "I've had a couple of Telex conversations with a friend of mine in Saigon. You know a Major Harrington?"

Bolan shook his head negative.

"Military Police in Saigon. Knew each other back when. Told me something interesting about you, Sergeant." The detective's face hardened somewhat. He dropped the cigarette into an ashtray and raised probing eyes to the soldier's face. "Said they have a nickname for you back there, in your old outfit Said they call you The Executioner.' Why would they call you something like that, Sergeant?"

Bolan shifted his weight in the chair and let his eyes wander about the police officer's face for a brief moment. Then, "If you're playing games with me, sir, shouldn't I at least be told the name of the game?"

"The name of the game is homicide," Weatherbee snapped.

"Every man I killed in Vietnam was in the line of duty," Bolan replied lightly.

"This isn't Vietnam!" Weatherbee said. "And a sniper cannot walk the streets of this city deciding who should live and who should not!"

Bolan shrugged. If you're trying to connect me with that shooting the other night-just because I'm an expert marksman..."

"Not just because!" the policeman retorted. "Now look, Bolan-you were in here the other day raising hell with Captain Howard over this Triangle outfit, claiming they were responsible for your old man going berserk! You-"

"Aren't you the one who headed up that investigation?" Bolan broke in. "I mean, the deaths of my family?"

Weatherbee opened his mouth, then closed it and gave his head a curt affirmative nod.

"Then you saw," the soldier said simply. "And you know why it happened. And nobody made a move against the leeches. Until last night. Somebody finally made a move. So who's to complain? The papers call it a gangland tiff. Who cares who did it, so long as it got done?"