"Do we know each other?"

Mack Bolan, in the driver's seat, glanced over at his passenger.

"We've never met," he answered.

They had never met face to face, but in the early days of Bolan's war against the Mafia their paths had crossed. John Hannon was a captain of detectives then, determined to abort the latest efforts of a hellfire warrior who was taking on the Mob alone. The captain had led the riot squad, responding after Bolan had dropped in uninvited on a syndicate convention in Miami. But the police skipper had come too late, arriving just in time to help pick up the pieces from a strike that left the mafiosi reeling, locally and nationwide.

The man who sat beside Mack Bolan now was different, aged. It showed around his eyes, in graying hair and in the hard set of his mouth. He was a man with troubles, right, and Hannon's problems were a part of what had brought the Executioner back again to southern Florida.

"You saved my ass back there," John Hannon said. "I owe you one."

"You owe me nothing."

"Well, I'd like to shake your hand, at least." They shook, and Hannon's grip was solid, firm. "At the risk of sounding like an ingrate... why'd you do it? I mean, who the hell are you?''

Bolan had the answer ready. "Frank LaMancha. And you seemed worth saving."

"Are you federal?"

"Not exactly," Bolan answered, skating in as close to candor as he dared. "I think we have a common interest."

Hannon chewed on that a moment staring out the window, finally deciding not to push it.