Another man ran into the scene from the front of the building. He slid to a confused halt, then began a flatfooted, backwards dance, crouching and firing at the apparition in black with a snubnosed revolver.

Bolan calmly stood his ground and zipped the guy with a short burst from the greasegun, the firetrack sweeping up from ground level, splitting the target up the middle and punching him over onto his back.

The Executioner went on, advancing across the bloodied body, and he met another pair at the corner of the building with a blazing criss-cross burst that sent them rolling along the walkway. A third man from that same group scampered back through the main entrance, evidently preferring the inferno in there to die hell outside.

And then a new and familiar element was added to the chaotic environment — a police siren was screaming up from the Fisherman's Wharf area.

Bolan checked his impulse to follow the fleeing Mafioso into the pagoda and instead whirled about and returned to the parking lot. He paused there long enough to press a marksman's medal into the limp hand of a fallen gunner, then he fell back along the flagstoned walkway.

A secondary explosion occurred somewhere inside the joint. A portion of the roof fell in and the flames leapt higher.

More sirens now... coming in from every direction... and Bolan mentally tipped his hat to the quick reaction by the city — but his numbers had never been more critical, and he knew that a successful retreat was becoming less likely with every step he took.

A line of automobiles had come to a halt just up-range from the disaster area and a collection of people were standing around in tight little groups and gawking at the spectacular fire.

One of the onlookers spotted the armed man in black, and he reacted visibly. Bolan stepped back and went the other way.