He was drinking cognac.

Relief, temporary though it was, automatically relaxed his taut muscles. His body went limp.

Fractionally, perhaps without acting consciously, the attackers also relinquished a small percentage of their hold.

It was then that Bolan saw the light glinting on the hypodermic syringe.

And the killer straddling his hips made his first and fatal mistake.

Bolan was still swallowing brandy, gasping for breath between each swirl of the fiery liquor. The man with the syringe shuffled himself up from Bolan's hips until his knees were thrusting against the Executioner's armpits. His captor raised the syringe, directing the flashlight downward with his other hand.

But although his arms were still pinioned by the first man, Bolan's legs were now free of the killer's weight.

Galvanized into action, he kicked away the covers, brought up his legs and scissored his ankles around the guy's head. He jerked his legs savagely down onto the bed again, knocking the intruder with the syringe backward. The hood's own legs shot upward, knocking the man who was kneeling on Bolan's shoulders off balance.

The funnel fell from the Executioner's mouth. Cognac splashed over the sheets as the bottle spun from the attacker's grasp. The beam from the flashlight swung crazily across the ceiling.

For the moment there was a frenzied tangle of limbs on the alcohol-soaked bed.

Then Bolan had thrown off the two intruders and was crouched by the night table, ready to spring. He feinted toward the first hood, who was still sprawled on the pillows with the gun beneath him... and then swung violently the other way.

He seized the hypodermic, tore it from the hardman's grasp and plunged the needle with lightning speed into the guy's left eye, ramming the syringe home with the heel of his hand.