"What the hell to..." the corporal cried, covering his cheek with both hands. "What'd you do that for, Sarge?" he whined.

Grendal leaned back into his chair again and tossed another card across the room. Ten of hearts.

It dropped neatly into his cap. "You're fuckin' with the merchandise, boy. This ain't no little deal like you're used to makin' with your grunt buddies. This is big business with big bucks, and I don't want no shit-kicking punk like you treating it lightly. Get my meaning, boy?" The corporal stayed sullen, still pressing his hands against a swollen cheek. Two small drops of blood trickled out of a nostril. He smeared them away with the back of his hand.

"I didn't mean nothing."

The sergeant's voice was taunting. "You never do, Billy boy. So just try to sit still and be good like Gary here. Right, Gary?"

The redheaded PFC smiled weakly. "R-right, Sarge," he stammered. Bolan felt rage throb thickly into his brain.

These "soldiers," especially the bloated Sergeant Grendal, they were prepared to deal in the death and terror of innocent victims for nothing more than a handful of paper dollars. Bolan cursed such people even more than the actual terrorists themselves, because cynical bastards of this ilk did not even have a phony political slogan to hide behind. Except "me first". And before his eyes here, they were wearing the uniform of the United States Army. Mack Bolan was aware that to some soldiers the uniform was just an outfit you had to wear, nothing more. But to the Executioner and a few damn good men he knew, the uniform meant a million things more. Symbolic, in a word. It meant you stood for something good and right and you were ready to show the world you'd do anything to protect certain important and selfevident values.