Soon after, the taxi that Bolan had ordered arrived.

On the way into town he scarcely noticed the bleak, treeless coastline, the vivid green mosses that covered the black lava soil of the lowlands.

Too many questions were jockeying for position in his mind. Who were the would-be assassins? Why here, of all places, would anyone want to take him out?

He wasn't on any kind of mission; it wasn't even a recon trip. He'd never been to Iceland before. It was less than forty-eight hours since he had made up his mind, reserved his ticket and hired the kayak and the ULM.

Yet someone knew he was coming and they didn't like it.

If they hadn't known, he must have been recognized at the airport and hasty plans made to dispose of him.

In either case, one thing was clear whoever it was must believe that he was on a mission, some kind of search-and-destroy operation.

It followed that there were facts to find out, incriminating facts important enough to risk murder to keep quiet.

Some person or persons unknown had something going that the Executioner if he had really been working on it could have loused up. What could it be?

Drugs?

Prostitution? Some kind of Mafia racket?

Unlikely. A terrorist plot then?

In Iceland? He dismissed the thought.

Someone had done their best to eliminate him nevertheless. Of the two possibilities, he favored the second that he had by chance been recognized at the airport and the wrong conclusion drawn. The attempt to run him down showed all the signs of a hasty, spur-of-the-moment plan. Otherwise, if they knew anything about him, they would have been armed.

Bolan shrugged as he stared at the white houses with their multicolored roofs on the outskirts of Reykjavik. Okay, someone carrying a load of guilt was prepared to kill to protect his investment. But what the hell it had nothing to do with him; he was on vacation, dammit. The heat would presumably be off once they realized he was not on their trail.