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the Lincoln, pulled onto the service road and sped off toward the perimeter highway.
    Inside the private terminal, a charter pilot was ruefully relating his "weird experience" to the flying service manager. ". . . and chartered me to Miami, see. Then ten minutes out of New Orleans, he decides he wants to go to Jax until he makes this phone call, and then he gives me this precise schedule to Miami, see. I got to come in at a such and such time . . . well, hell, I guess it's okay, I picked up an extra hundred for my trouble, plus the deadleg fee . . . but did you
see
that guy who picked up the package? Brrr, there's a Murder Incorporated type if I ever heard of one. I'm wondering what the hell I got myself into, see, and I'm wondering if a hundred bucks is worth it, but I . . ."
    On a parapet overlooking the fast-awakening international airport, a pair of disgruntled "photographers" were hastily packing up their gear and preparing to depart. Down below, anxious-eyed men in hand-tailored suits were spreading energetically throughout the facility, inspecting restrooms and lounges and waiting rooms in a final, almost frantic search for an illusive quarry.
    In an airporter bus just then clearing the terminal area, the members of an obscure rock music group, bound for a music festival in a Miami suburb, were discussing their "adventure" in solemn and dignified elation.
    A round-eyed girl, still a bit breathless with suppressed tension, said, "We should've, you know, found out who he was and why he was hiding. I mean, wow, he could be anybody. I mean it was groovy, sure, but wow! He could be anybody."
    "Sometime you just have to go on instincts," their bearded leader observed. "Like with chicks, you know. You just have to like the look in their eyes and like take it from there. I mean I just looked in those eyes, dig? — and I said, 'sure, man I'll let you carry my guitar.' And the cat fit, didn't he? I mean, he was a real cool Aquarian, wasn't he?"
    The real cool Aquarian was, at that moment, pacing along at a discreet distance, following a Mafia motorcade to Miami Beach. For The Executioner, it had been a highly successful soft sweep.

Chapter Four
Sandbagged
    Mack Bolan did not regard himself as a superman. He knew who and what he was. But he had learned, in the school of life-and-death, that knowledge coupled with action and wedded to total commitment would elevate any ordinary man into the ranks of the extraordinary. Superman, no; extraordinary weapon of war, yes — this was Mack Bolan. Sgt. Bolan was a craftsman. His craft was warfare; a particular type of warfare in which a man became either extraordinary or dead. The sergeant remained alive. He had learned his lessons well in the do-or-die theaters of Southeast Asia — and he had brought his diploma home to ply his craft in the untidy junglelands of America.
    He did not think of himself as a crusader, nor even a patriot. He felt no grand exaltation in his self-appointed role as nemesis of the American underworld, and he did not have time or inclination to wonder if his sacrifice would have any meaning in the ultimate outcome of this highly personal war of his.
    In speaking of Bolan and his pre-Mafia days, friends invariably described him as a friendly, thoughtful, and kindly man. Aside from his programmed forays against the enemy in Southeast Asia, there exists no evidence whatever to indicate that he possessed a violent nature; even in Vietnam the record reveals again and again that he was respectful of the Vietnamese people, responsive to the suffering of the children of that war-torn land, that he inspired lasting friendships and fierce loyalty from his comrades.
    Bolan would not alibi his Vietnam "specialty" to anyone, newsmen and war historians included. He would, and did, tell them simply that he had not chosen this war; it had chosen him. He had not requested permission to kill the enemy; he had been trained to do so. He did not war
against
men but
for
ideals.
    And