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people who were more than capable of murder.
    "I tried to contact you several times over the weekend to reschedule," Botros said, "but I couldn't reach you. I assumed you were indisposed."
    "I was fishing," Bolan said. Botros' smile wavered momentarily at Bolan's reply, but returned more sickly sweet than ever.
    "Well, Mr. Cooper, I hope you won't disappear on a fishing expedition this week. Musa bin Osman, Free Flow's vice president of racing, is flying in from Kuala Lumpur. He will be in San Francisco this evening and would very much like to meet with you. Our recent difficulties have been problematic for him. Free Flow's CEO is starting to question the expenses of racing, especially after the unfortunate incident last week. Getting sponsorship from your company would help smooth over the situation."
    "You don't think this will create friction with Arexpo?" Bolan asked, referring to Team Free Flow's primary sponsor.
    "Arexpo is an oil exploration company, not a refining company. They do not provide us with fuel. We purchase that," Botros said, referring to an Italian fuel company. "Of course we would have to analyze your fuel at the factory, then conduct extensive testing before we could come to an agreement. You really must discuss these details with my superior."
* * *
    Bolan arranged to meet with bin Osman that night.
    Following the meeting, Bolan rode over to the Ducati garages in search of Eddie Anderson. Perhaps his supposed proof of his brother's murder might help him find the missing plutonium. It was a long shot, but right now it was the best shot Bolan had. No one at the Ducati garages had seen Eddie. The soldier overheard Daniel Asnorossa remark to his crew chief in Spanish, "Maybe he's off getting drunk, like his older brother."
    Bolan walked around behind the garage area to where the riders' motor homes were parked. When practice got underway the following day, security in the area would tighten up, and by race day he knew he wouldn't get near the motor homes without an official escort, but this early in the week the area was practically deserted and security was lax. Only about half a dozen truly driven riders like Anderson and Asnorossa had shown up this early; everyone else would drift in later that night or early the next morning.
    He found Anderson's motor home with the door wide open. The latch had been broken, and there were signs of some sort of struggle having taken place within the vehicle. Cushions had been knocked off the sofa and a broken cup and saucer lay on the floor in the kitchen area. A burner was still on under a stainless steel espresso pot on the stove and finely ground coffee was spread all over the counter and floor. Small drops of blood mixed with the coffee grounds and left a trail leading out the door. Bolan looked out the window above the stove and saw three men trying to stuff a struggling figure into the back of a Chevrolet Impala.
    The Executioner exited the motor home and in several long strides he was almost to the car. The sight of the big man charging them momentarily distracted the kidnappers. Anderson took advantage of their paralysis, driving his knee into one of their crotches so hard he felt soft tissue rupturing in the man's groin. He may not have been a physically large man, but what mass he had consisted of strong bones wrapped in corded muscles, the result of constant training, years of wrestling the most powerful motorcycles on Earth around racetracks and good genetics. The wounded man collapsed to the ground, only to be replaced by two others, the driver and the front-seat passenger.
    Bolan reached the melee at the moment the driver stepped out of the car and pointed an AK-47 his way. He had no time to draw his own weapon but from the angle at which the man held the rifle against his hip the soldier could see that the shooter's aim was high. The Executioner dived into the grass beneath the stream of bullets, sliding into the shooter's legs and knocking him back into