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the rain to his Thunderbird. There was no one around to observe the drenched figure in the twilight.
    It was time to chat with Lieutenant Dunbar about the arms shipment. As one of the Law Enforcement Agencies that received briefings, the PPD might have some late information to share. Bolan stopped at a phone booth in a filling station and called Dunbar.
    The detective answered.
    Bolan did not identify himself, just asked a question.
    "What do you know about a large shipment of illegal weapons headed for the West Coast right now?"
    Dunbar knew the voice. "Nothing. Are the arms coming in here?"
    "What I heard. Don't your people read their LEA notices?"
    "I never see them."
    Mack hung up, suddenly tired. He drove to his hotel on the west side, flopped on the bed and did not hear the phone when it rang four times about midnight.
    * * *
    At six A.M. Mack Bolan was sitting in his rented Thunderbird across from Northwest Guns, Inc., watching the parking spot labeled Reserved-Manager.
    It had stopped raining. Gray clouds still moved overhead on their way to eastern Oregon and Idaho.
    Bolan left his car and jogged to the Cadillac that was pulling into the reserved spot. He leaned both hands against the door and stared at the small man behind the wheel. He was about forty, and a touch of fear flamed in his eyes as he looked up.
    "You the manager?"
    "Yes. Nate Enright. May I get out?"
    "Yeah, sure." Bolan backed up, playing the country bumpkin.
    "What can I do for you?"
    "Fire-insurance investigator. Need to look around. See if you sell black powder, how you handle it, the usual."
    "We just sent our policy payment in."
    "Right, but our new corporate owner has made some changes. I'm sure you know how that is."
    "No, I don't know how it is. The insurance agent is my brother. His company has not changed hands. You're lying about this whole insurance scam."
    "Who owns the gun shop?"
    "I do."
    "You run the warehouse in back of your store?"
    "No, I rent the front half of the building."
    "Who do you rent from?"
    "Northwest Warehouses, Incorporated, a local outfit."
    "Which is owned by Gino Canzonari. You don't know who he is?"
    "Never met him. I hear he's associated with organized crime. But that doesn't paint me with the same stripes. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."
    "I'm sorry for any inconvenience. My mistake."
    "No problem." Enright marched off to the front door, where two employees were waiting.
    No wonder the front part of the store looked so damn legal. It was! Bolan checked the time. A little after six. At the phone booth down the block he called Johnny.
    "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
    Mack hung up and wheeled the Thunderbird downtown.
    * * *
    The Executioner did not intend to make mistakes. In his occupation, they meant death. Bolan had learned this early in Vietnam.
    It was in Nam that he was nicknamed "Executioner," and the name clung to him as his kill total mounted and he became known and respected from the Mekong Delta to Hanoi.
    The other side of the Executioner was not so well-known. The common people of Vietnam, caught between a grinding war machine and the desire to live at peace, often found this Executioner to be a merciful friend.
    He put his own life in danger time after time to rescue children and women in the line of fire. To these people he became known as Sergeant Mercy.
    Bolan found no contradictions in the two labels. He did each part of his job with equal determination.
    He performed his duty as he saw it, and was proud of the job he did.
    Until that terrible tragedy that yanked him from the jungle and thrust him on a plane with an emergency leave in his pocket, to return home to find the members of his family either dead or hospitalized.
    Bolan discovered the reason behind his family's tragedy and at once began to set the matter right. His first engagement was the Mafia loan sharks in his hometown, Pittsfield. Soon Mob families all over the country were feeling the Executioner's wrath as he