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  "I'm sure," Bolan said.

  "What about you?" Brognola asked.

  "I'm almost there," he said. "How certain are we that this tip is legitimate? I don't see how it could be possible."

  "We have several witnesses," Brognola said, "and the surveillance photos I'm looking at here would seem to back that up. I'm not sure how he managed it, but given where he is, it must have come at a serious price. The place isn't cheap, either, so he must have untapped resources."

  "I'll see if I can get anything on that," Bolan offered. "It wouldn't hurt to have a few more dollars in the war chest."

  "It's my job to worry about that," Brognola said.

  "I know," said Bolan, "but every little bit helps." He cut the connection after a brief goodbye.

  Bolan closed the phone. The GPS unit indicated that he wasn't far from his destination. It sat on a private stretch of California beach, which was in rare enough supply. Particularly beautiful stretches like this one were that much pricier. Bolan hoped that his jeans, cotton shirt and light windbreaker wouldn't make him hopelessly underdressed. He didn't want to stand out too badly.

  The services of the Ferrara Institute were among the best money could buy. The clientele of the small, exclusive facility was international, and had been rumored — according to Aaron Kurtzman's cyberteam — to include, from time to time, big names in the criminal underworld. Kurtzman reported that the clinic was currently treating only four patients, and three of them were women.

  Bolan guided the Malibu up the drive and parked in the lot outside, between a foreign-made sports car and a silver Rolls-Royce. He examined the directory posted outside the clinic, then chose the left fork of a faux-stone path. The building was of Spanish design, complete with simulated stucco exterior.

  Bolan checked in with the receptionist.

  "Whom are you visiting, sir?" she asked.

  Bolan flashed his Justice Department credentials. The woman looked unsurprised. "I don't know what name he might be using," Bolan said. He showed her a photograph.

  "The man you want is in the garden," the receptionist said. "Through there, sir." She pointed. "Thank you."

  Bolan entered the large, enclosed garden, sliding the translucent glass doors closed behind him. A doctor and several nurses milled about. The three female patients were lying on lounge chairs in the sun, bandages wrapped around their faces. This was, after all, the nation's leading and most exclusive plastic surgery center.

  Bolan surveyed the area and found the man he was looking for, lying in a wheeled lounge chair next to the pool. A chart was attached to a peg at the end of the chair. Bolan stood over the man and picked up the chart, reading through it.

  "You're blocking my sun," the familiar voice said.

  "Don't worry," Bolan replied. "We'll be leaving in a moment."

  The single bloodshot eye visible beneath the bandages went wide. "You!" Dumar Eon gasped.

  "Me," Bolan said. He looked down at the former cult leader. The man wouldn't be going anywhere under his own power; his chart indicated that he could barely move without assistance, and that every moment he tried would bring him exquisite agony. His face had been burned almost beyond recognition, and he had sustained considerable damage to the rest of his body. There was a litany of broken bones listed as medical history, relevant but unrelated to the various skin grafts and other repair procedures he had undergone or was scheduled to undergo.

  "You didn't really think I'd just forget about you, did you?" Bolan asked.

  "You are death," Eon whispered.

  Bolan didn't answer. He found an orderly and made arrangements.

  Twenty minutes later, a very uncomfortable Dumar Eon was strapped into the passenger seat of the Malibu. Under the disapproving glares of the orderlies, Bolan drove away. He headed back down the coast road.

  "Where are we going?" Eon said through the haze of pain, as every bump in the road sent spasms through his body.

  "You have a lot to answer for," Bolan said. "And I intend to see that you do. We're going to prison, Eon. It's no ordinary prison, either. It's the sort of place international terrorists go when we want to make sure they don't get out again. It's not someplace where your money will make one damned bit of difference. You won't be able to escape. You won't be able to bribe anyone. You won't ever see daylight again, Eon. You're going away, and you're going to stay there."

  "That is not what you do."

  "No," Bolan admitted. "But killing defenseless human beings is not something I do, either."

  "Defenseless?" Eon said. "Defenseless?" His voice took on something of its former strength. "Do you think I was blown clear of that explosion, my body aflame, my mind screaming, my bones shattered, to be considered defenseless by one such as you?"

  The former cult leader emanated raw fury; he was obviously of unsound mind, and that didn't surprise Bolan. "Do you think I allowed myself to lie in that gutter, dreaming of revenge, dreaming of the day when I would regain my strength and recommit myself to my mission, only to be dismissed?" Eon was screaming in his seat now. "I will have my day! I will bring my gifts to the world! I will not rot in your secret government jail! I will not go peacefully! I am Dumar Eon, and I will execute all humanity! I will execute them! I am an exterminator!" From within his bandages he snatched a front-opening switchblade. The blade came up fast.

  Bolan was faster. He slammed on the brakes and whipped up the .44 Magnum Desert Eagle before Eon's knife could come into play.

  A single shot to the head ended Eon's ravings.

  "You may be an exterminator," Bolan said. "But I'm the Executioner."

  Table of Contents

  Don Pendleton's Silent Threat

  The Mack Bolan Legend

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