The entry was completely noiseless.

It was perhaps some infinitesimal alteration in the atmospheric pressure, an exhalation of breath felt rather than heard, that brought the Executioner instantly awake, every nerve tingling with anticipation, his whole body tense as a coiled spring.

He held his breath.

No shape passed across the strip of half light showing between the drapes.

No current of air fanned his face. No board creaked. Bolan's right hand slipped beneath the pillows; his fingers curled around the butt of the Beretta.

A brilliant light blinded him; a high-intensity beam that shafted from a powerful electric torch at the foot of the bed. Clutching the gun, he rolled violently to one side.

That was when the second intruder struck.

A flurry of movement from behind. A heavy body leaped, pinning him to the bed. Hard knees crushed his shoulders, a muscular leg trapped his gun hand before he could withdraw it from beneath the covers.

The flashlight advanced. The knees clamped vice-like on either side of his head, pinning him. Bolan heaved, threshing desperately from side to side. But the man with the light was now kneeling on his hips, immobilizing his body, too.

A hand with an iron grip closed over his jaw, fingers on one side, thumb on the other, forcing open his mouth. The end of a plastic funnel was jammed between his teeth.

Bolan bucked and writhed more violently still, but the combined weight of his assailants held him down. There was a gurgle of liquid.

He gagged as it rushed through the funnel, flooding his mouth and throat.

A second hand squeezed shut his nostrils. For one of the few times in his life he was entirely helpless he had to swallow the fluid or suffocate.

There was no other choice.

He swallowed.

Fierce heat fired the membranes of his gullet. He experienced an instant of panic when he feared they were forcing him to drink some caustic acid. Then came realization... and with it complete bewilderment.