To Bolan it should always be that you could take one look at such a uniform and know that the man or woman in it had a code of honor and justice that would not ever be compromised. And the big guy had seen too many of his buddies spill their guts into the stinking swamps of Indo-China in defense of their uniform, and what it stood for to let scum like this dishonor it. That was going to cost them.

Yeah. They were gonna pay that price in full.

Bolan checked his watch again. Fifteen seconds left. He unsnapped the Beretta and slipped it out of its holster. The solid weight felt, as usual, appropriate in his hand. Good and right. The muscles in his legs tensed like coiled snakes as he rocked onto his toes, waiting.

The loudest sound to him now was the thumping of his own heart, so anxious to act.

As he counted off the final three seconds, he felt the predictable cold spurt of adrenaline spearing through his stomach.

Three.

Two.

One.

Go! Go! Go!

Bolan sprang through the closed window, an unleashed, lashing-out body of muscle. His head was tucked down. His Beretta was tight in his right hand.

Glass exploded everywhere. Bolan had burst into the room like some avenging angel, or devil. The startled men at the table gasped in shock and horror.

The violent appearance of the warrior with the black grease smeared over his face, his shape all clad in black, was the coming of their fate.

As planned, Bolan's action had distracted them long enough to allow Cleveland and Tandy to bust open the hotel door and cover the three prisoners with their rifles.

""Don't move!" he heard Corporal Cleveland command.

Sergeant Grendal was first to recover. Aware of what grim punishment the army would have in store for him now, he obviously decided to take a chance. A desperate chance.