This part of the city was eerily quiet and almost muffled in the characteristic black-gray wetness of early-morning San Francisco, the fog and the silence blending into an entirely new dimension of time and space. The world seemed to be wrapped tightly around this tiny oasis of sight and sound, the lighted coffee house in the next block and the occasional passing vehicle along the street belonging to an entirely different reality.

But the China Gardens was the only reality Bolan needed, for the moment.

It was to be a very direct tactic, sure — but it was the only one available. Bolan had to take what he could get, pull whatever handle happened to fit his hand, walk through the doors that opened to him.

And a war needed an opener.

The Executioner moved out of his surveillance position and crossed over to the combat zone, a gliding shadow upon the night, and came into no-man's-land via the parking lot, halting slightly uprange from the darkened rear entrance to the central building and directly opposite a lighted upstairs window.

Shadowy images were playing upon that rectangle of light. The "boys" were no doubt having a business meeting — posting records and splitting profits and laying plans for the next day's cannibalistic activities.

Bolan muttered into the night, "Well, for openers..." and swung the satchel charge one full revolution in a softball windup, then let it go in a high, arcing pitch.

The game plan was simple... hit and fade... and he was back-pedalling rapidly in the follow-through when he saw her in his corner vision.

She was a real live China doll, hurrying out of the darkness from the back side of the pagoda and heading directly across his path, and apparently she had not even seen him yet.

Consciousness froze for an agonizing instant — with that shipment of high explosives poised midway between Bolan's hand and the impact point — the girl rushing blindly into the blast zone.