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  Bolan studied the winding path the road took to the beach and noticed the seaplane already warming up alongside a dock. Knowing he wouldn't be able to overtake the vehicle by staying on the street, he pulled the motorcycle off the road and fought the handlebars as he chose the straightest path possible.

  Trees whipped at him, and he dodged them as well as the volcanic boulders that suddenly seemed everywhere. The motorcycle became inspired with a life of its own, wanting to slip, slide and jump with every heartbeat.

  But he was gaining on the limousine.

  The motorcycle left the ground again, rear tire spinning dirt when it landed. He geared down, shot around the spreading pine tree that suddenly loomed in his way and brought the front wheel up as he jumped a ditch.

  The motorcycle's engine whined as it flew through the air, startling a small flock of birds from the trees. Less than a thousand yards from the shore something caught in the motorcycle's wheels. Bolan flew over the handlebars.

  * * *

  Sacker turned toward Winterroad, and the agent saw an easy grin spread across the man's face. Blood covered Sacker's shirt, dripping down the barrel of his gun. He spit out a mouthful of blood, not taking his eyes from Winterroad's.

  "I thought it was you," Winterroad said softly. His own gun felt solid in his hand. He kept it pointed at the floor. So far no one had noticed that he'd left the group.

  "You turned on me, too, John?" Sacker asked. He laughed. "Damn, I must be losing my touch. Getting soft. I get bamboozled by a broad for the first time in my life, outfoxed by a kid young enough to be my grandson and sold out by somebody whose politics I thought I knew."

  Winterroad didn't know what the man was talking about. He watched Sacker's eyes. "It isn't about politics," he said. "When it came down to the wire, it was about me doing the job I knew I was supposed to do. All the wishing in the world isn't going to make it what I want it to be."

  "A man's got to have vision," Sacker said. "He's got to believe he can take on the world and win."

  "You took it on," Winterroad commented, "and it kicked your ass."

  Sacker grinned again. "Not yet it hasn't." He steadied his grip on the gun.

  "It doesn't have to be that way," Winterroad warned.

  "Yeah, I guess I could give myself up, right? How long do you think I'd last in a cage?" Sacker shook his head. "No. it has to be this way." He lifted the blood-slick gun.

  Winterroad fired from the hip, putting two bullets squarely through Sacker's heart, watching the man fall back across the sink, then crumple to the floor. He holstered his gun and looked down at the dead man, not knowing exactly how he had turned out different from Sacker after being brought up in the same mind-set at the Agency, but glad he was.

  * * *

  Bolan spilled across the rough terrain, losing skin from his face and hands. The motorcycle died behind him. He pushed himself to his feet, walked gingerly to the bike and found that the front wheel was now in the shape of a half-moon.

  He looked down the slope, seeing Yemon Hosaka's limousine had less than a half mile of road left before it let him out near the seaplane.

  The warrior shrugged out of the sling for the Steyr and raced down the slope, losing sight of the limo from time to time as the trees swept it from his vision. Thoughts of what Yemon Hosaka intended to do with the consortium, that even now the United States Justice Department and Japanese Foreign Affairs might not be able to wade through everything that had happened over the past few months, dogged him. Visions of the kind of pandemonium that would overtake America if the stock market suddenly crashed again, with no hope of recovery, flashed through his mind. At worst, such action might give birth to a whole nation of savages with no future. At best… He drew a blank. There would be no "best."

  He ran and vaulted over a boulder, resting one bloody hand on it for an instant. He shed more gear, getting rid of the weight. Within seconds he was stripped of all equipment other than the sniper rifle.

  Rotors beat overhead, letting him know Brognola and Fujitsu had sent at least one of the helicopters in pursuit. A figure stepped out of the seaplane and raised something to his shoulder. There was a puff of smoke, then a loud explosion overhead as the helicopter blew apart. Pieces rained to the ground.

  Bolan ran, never glancing away from his target and the path that would take him there. Blood seeped into his eye, but he didn't take time to brush it away. He tripped over hanging lianas on a jump that didn't clear the necessary distance, rolling and shoving himself back to his feet.

  The limousine sent sand flying as it skidded to a stop on the beach.

  Knowing the numbers had ran out on the play, Bolan dropped to a prone position, stretching the rifle out before him. It felt impossibly heavy. He wiped the blood out of his eyes, squinted through the telescopic lens and found at least one of them broken from the motorcycle wreck.

  He loosened the screws holding it in place and threw it away as Yemon Hosaka opened the back door of the limo.

  Steadying his arm, the Executioner took a full breath, facing the lightening sky in the east, and let it out slowly, following Hosaka with the barrel through the open sights from at least three hundred yards out.

  The seaplane continued to bob on the ocean's surface. White sails coasted slowly across Bolan's field of vision. He shut them out, narrowed his field of focus to the back of his target's head. Hosaka zigzagged as he ran, presenting a difficult target.

  Bolan waited, knowing he would have the opportunity when the man climbed down the ladder to the waiting seaplane. The Executioner watched intently as Hosaka grabbed the top of the wooden ladder, took up slack on the Steyr's forward trigger. Hosaka started down, his movement now constant.

  The rifle banged against the Executioner's shoulder as he touched the rear trigger.

  A heartbeat later Hosaka's body left the ladder like a leaden weight jerked by an invisible string, sinking under the ocean surface ac the morning's red sun rose and scattered a baleful glare over the azure sea.