The Executioner stepped outside into the night. The air was clean and cold after the rain, and it was a welcome relief after the stink of sweat, brandy and cigarette smoke inside. He glanced up at the moon through the parting clouds. Boots crunched in the gravel behind him, and he turned.

The big man came toward him, holding one hand low and close to his side. Bolan gave him a big friendly smile and waved his hand obviously. "Hi!"

As the man's eyes went to the Executioner's waving hand, Bolan drove the heel of his boot into the man's solar plexus. The Serb grunted explosively and doubled over in pain. A Russian Makarov pistol fell from his hand and clattered to the wet gravel. Bolan grabbed him by the hair and yanked him back upright. The Beretta cleared leather, and Bolan screwed the muzzle into the man's temple as he put his back to the wall. The Executioner peered over the shoulder of his human shield. A voice shouted from behind a truck.

"Freeze! Let him go!"

Bolan waited.

The voice shouted Again. "Let him go!"

The Executioner smiled and spoke calmly. "Come out where I can see you."

There was hushed whispering, then a command in Serbian. Three men came out from behind the truck, and two men appeared from around each corner of the building. All were armed. A tall thin man spoke with the unmistakable tone of command. "Let him go."

Bolan shook his head. "Not yet." The big man wheezed as he tried to bring breath into his lungs. "What do you want?"

The tall man folded his arms across his chest. "We want some answers."

The big American nodded. "So do I."

Beside the tall man stood a stockier, more powerfully built individual. He had short blond hair and a deep scar on his chin. His fatigues and wool cap were of local manufacture and nondescript. His physique and his bearing screamed special forces. He peered at Bolan inquisitively. "Why do you ask about a giant?" he asked, speaking with a Russian accent.

Bolan shrugged. "I want to find him."

Both men frowned. The Russian changed his tone and looked at Bolan condescendingly. "Why are you chasing rumors? Is there not enough real bloodshed for you?"

The Executioner came to a decision. It was time for the honest approach. He locked gazes with the Russian. "Igor Baibakov isn't a rumor. He's an old friend of mine."

The Russian gaped openly, and the tall man blanched. "Perhaps it's time we were honest with each other."

The tall man recovered his composure. "Why do you seek the giant?"

"I'm going to kill him."

The tall man lost his composure again. "You are American Special Forces, yes?"

Bolan considered that. Technically he operated under the auspices of the Justice Department, except that they didn't know it. Bolan countered without answering. He looked the Russian up and down. "Spetsnaz?"

"At one time."

"Baibakov isn't under your command." It was a statement, not a question.

"Captain Baibakov is under no one's command."

The men flanking Bolan fingered their AK47s and looked back and forth between Bolan and their commanders. The tall thin man shook his head at them, and they lowered the muzzles of their rifles. The leader drew himself to his full height. "I am Captain Milan Grohar. My a.s.sociate is Mr. Constantine Markov." He gestured toward Bolan's captive. "Please release Sergeant Simic. I promise we shall take no offensive action. I do not wish war with American forces. I believe we have matters to discuss."

Bolan released Simic and lowered the Beretta. "Let me guess. Igor Baibakov is a mutual problem." The men's stony faces revealed the answer. The big American holstered the 93-R. "Why don't we step back inside? I'm buying."

CAPTAIN GROHAR SIGHED over his drink. "Baibakov is everybody's problem."

Bolan raised an eyebrow. "How so?"

Markov grimaced. "I take it you are aware of some of his recent activities?"

"I've seen some of his handiwork."

Markov spit. "Then you know that he is a butcher, a disgrace to Spetsnaz, a disgrace to Russia."

Grohar nodded. "It is worse than that. I will tell you something. Not all Serbians fight for the same goals. Some fight to save Serbians in Bosnia-Herzegovina. Others fight to see a united, sovereign Serbia ruling all the formerly occupied regions. Others will say they fight for these things and really fight simply for revenge. Others, simply for looting and killing. Baibakov has found a home with a radical group called the Order of the Red Falcon. They are terrorists."

"What's he doing with this group?"

Markov scowled bitterly over his beer. "Baibakov is enjoying himself, and getting paid to do it."

Bolan ignored the comment. "Who are the Order of the Red Falcon, and what do they want?"

Grohar shifted uncomfortably. "The gray falcon is a very old symbol of the Kingdom of Serbia. This group has changed the color to red, to symbolize the blood of Serbians martyred in this war. They wish the unification and ethnic cleansing of a Greater Serbia."

Bolan looked at Grohar without saying anything. The men shrugged. "They are fanatics. Their leader is a man named Branko Cebej. His wife and three children were killed soon after Bosnia-Herzegovina declared itself a Muslim state. He and his followers wish to kill or drive out all Muslims from Bosnia-Herzegovina. Then, with a reunified Serbia, they wish to resubjugate Croatia. They will accept no negotiated peace that falls short of these goals, and they will commit any act to attain them. They consider the United States and NATO enemy powers on our soil. They consider Serbia to be at war with them."

Bolan leaned back in his chair. "They believe this is a war they can win?"

Grohar smiled crookedly. "Not with tanks and planes, but through attrition, public opinion and terror. Branko believes if they kill enough NATO troops in a guerrilla war, through ambushes, bombings, snipings and the like, that public opinion in the peacekeeping nations will call for the withdrawal of foreign troops. Then their goals can come to fruition." He leaned forward. "This is not outside the realm of possibility, you agree?"

Bolan nodded soberly. For a small faction of determined fanatics, it wasn't an unreasonable gamble. He looked at Grohar hard. "So why don't you support them?"

"Because I have a family. I do not want war with the United States and NATO. Serbia would pay a terrible price in blood, win or lose. Too many have died already. I will be plain with you. Under the right conditions I and many others in our ranks would settle for a negotiated peace."

"But this group will do anything to prevent that."

Grohar nodded. "This is true."

"So why don't you put an end to them?"

Grohar's face grew unreadable, and he was silent for a long moment. "He and his followers are Serbians. They have fought as I have. We are still at war, with the Bosnian Muslims, as well as the Croatians. The Red Falcons have fought bravely, often at impossible odds. Their missions have often succeeded where others have failed. Many among us do not agree with their goals or their tactics, but many respect them as soldiers and as patriots. Many consider the Red Falcons a necessary evil of this war. Others openly support them and their goals. Some consider Cebej a hero. They are a small group at the moment, but their ranks grow. If I ordered my men to attack them, I am not at all sure I would be obeyed. And I will not order Serbians to kill Serbians when we already fight a war on two fronts. Besides, I am but one captain of a militia unit. I am not a general to make such decisions."

Bolan turned to Markov. "What about you? Baibakov is one of your own."

Markov grimaced in distaste. "I am not here as a Russian officer. Technically I am a mercenary adviser with my government's blessing. However, I would gladly kill Baibakov as a matter of honor. But he is difficult to find, and when he surfaces, he is surrounded by these Serbian fanatics. He trains them, teaches them the Spetsnaz way of warfare and then leads them in their butchery. They call him Red Giant and fear him as much as they worship Cebej." Markov shook his head. "Even if I could get close enough, I am not at all sure I could kill him before he killed me." The Russian stared distantly at the wall. "Sometimes I do not believe he is human."

The Executioner folded his arms across his chest. "If you can tell me where I can find Baibakov, I'll kill him."

Grohar snorted. "By yourself? He always has at least a squad around him."

Bolan's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I can find some volunteers." The Serb sat up in his seat in alarm. "Muslims?"

Bolan nodded.

The captain's face took on a distinctly unhappy look. "You want me to allow you to come behind our lines with Muslim troops to kill fellow Serbs."

"I want you to tell me where to find Baibakov and then stay out of the way."

Grohar's brow furrowed as he contemplated the idea. Markov looked at Bolan in hard speculation. "You will try to kill Baibakov whether you get permission from us or not?"

Bolan nodded. It was simply the truth.

Markov sighed. "Then I will go with you."

Grohar looked back and forth between the two men. "This is insane. I do not like it."

The Russian shrugged. "You do not have to like it. It must be done. You cannot allow Baibakov to start a war with the United States. As a Spetsnaz officer, I will not suffer him to go on living." His voice went cold. "You will tell me when Baibakov surfaces. Then we will kill him."

Bolan looked at Markov, trying to read him. He didn't believe the man was telling him everything. The Russian poured himself a drink and stared back. "This is acceptable to you." It was the best deal the Executioner was going to get. "It's acceptable."

5.

Viado Sarcev looked up at Constantine Markov with open suspicion. The Russian looked down at the little man with obvious reservations. Both men turned and looked at Bolan as if wondering if he were joking. They were two men on opposite sides of a very unpleasant war. Their only bond was Mack Bolan, and a seven-foot-tall killing machine named Igor Baibakov.

Bolan looked again at the photographs on the folding table Sarcev had set up in his bas.e.m.e.nt. Captain Grohar had been reluctant, but he had come through. As a captain in the Bosnian Serb militia who had distinguished himself in battle, he had connections. Baibakov had surfaced. He and his men occasionally used a small ski chalet up in the hills forty kilometers outside Sarajevo. Grohar's connections had told him that food and supplies had been delivered to the chalet that morning, and the driver had identified Baibakov and Cebej. They had at least twenty men with them.

The Executioner figured they had a twenty-four-hour window of opportunity.

He glanced at the photographs. He had put the full resources of Stony Man Farm on the situation, and Kurtzman had gotten him satellite photos of the chalet and the surrounding area.

Bolan turned to Sarcev. "How many volunteers do we have?"

The militiaman folded his arms. "Fourteen."

He nodded. "How soon can they be ready to move?"

The little Bosnian grinned. "They are ready now."

"I need at least two snipers, and two RPG7s."

"It is already done."

Bolan turned to the Russian. "And you?"

Markov shrugged. "Five minutes, whenever you say." The Russian reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a photograph. "Grohar gave me this."

Bolan glanced at the photograph. Two men in camouflage fatigues stood together outside a tent. Between them stood a short dark-haired woman. Both men were smiling and held AK47 rifles. The woman grinned and held an Uzi submachine gun above her head as if in victory. The man on the right was Grohar. The other man was only slightly shorter and more powerfully built. His hair was cropped close to his head, and he had a thick handlebar mustache.

Markov jerked his head at the photo in Bolan's hand.

"The man next to Grohar is Branko Cebej. I thought it would be best if you knew what he looked like. The woman's name is Madchen Krstic. She is Branko's woman. She fights beside him." The Russian grinned crookedly. "I believe you will have no trouble recognizing Baibakov when you see him."

Bolan examined Branko Cebej's face. He looked formidable. To lead an extremist group like the Red Falcons, he would have to be. Bolan wouldn't underestimate the woman, either. In civil wars women were often the first victims, and could become the most dedicated fighters. He looked at the smiling face of Grohar. It seemed that at one time Grohar and Cebej had been comrades in arms. Now the captain was going to betray his fellow Serb to their sworn enemies. Bolan looked up from the photo at the grim-faced Russian in front of him. Igor Baibakov was a countryman of his, and a fellow officer of the Spetsnaz elite. Both men were advisers to the Serbs in this conflict. Constantine Markov was here with Bolan this night to kill him.

The Executioner's face tightened. Civil wars were always the ugliest of conflicts, and the lines always twisted and became vague.

Bolan handed the photo back to Markov and glanced at his watch. It would be dawn in two hours. There was no use delaying any longer. "We leave in forty-five minutes." He stabbed a finger at the satellite photo on the table. "This is how I want to do it."

The Executioner moved through the predawn mist. Light snow covered the ground and frosted the trees in monochromatic greens and grays through Bolan's night-vision goggles.

The forest was fairly thin up on the hillside, and the lights shining from inside the chalet seemed as bright as headlights as the goggles amplified them. During their approach Bolan had noticed a number of small objects shifting underneath his boots. On examination he had found that they were spent sh.e.l.l cases. The ground was littered with them. Someone had been firing a lot of weapons on that hillside. They were well behind Serb lines, and Bolan knew the spent cases could only mean one thing. Someone had been doing a great deal of weapons training. The Executioner crouched with an M4 Ranger carbine-grenade launcher combo across his knee. He peered through the trees at the chalet.

Constantine Markov knelt at his side. The Russian carried an AK74 rifle with a grenade launcher mounted under its barrel, and a Stechkin machine pistol was thrust through the front of his belt. His Russian-made night-vision goggles made him look like a visitor from s.p.a.ce. The two men's weapons and equipment mirrored each other eerily. They were two sides of a coin marked East and West.

Sarcev and the rest of his squad had split into two sections and flanked both sides of the chalet. Bolan had checked their positions and was relatively pleased. The militiamen were nervous about being so far behind Serb lines, but they were also well motivated. Each man was a volunteer. The Red Falcons had been striking at will, and had been elusive as ghosts. Too often Sarcev's men had been left to clean up after the Red Falcons' slaughter. Now the Bosnians finally had a chance to strike back hard. Three of them crouched behind Bolan and the Russian and cradled their rifles as they waited.

Bolan continued to scan the chalet. Sarcev's men had been in place for five minutes now, and they had the chalet in a deadly cross fire. A moment earlier Bolan had seen a silhouette move past the second-story window. Other than smoke curling from the chimney, there had been no movement since. The Executioner calculated. Outwardly nothing was amiss. They had encountered no sentries, but Branko Cebej and his men were well behind their own lines and had little reason to expect any kind of trouble. Igor Baibakov was another matter. He was hunting Bolan, and the giant knew that Bolan was hunting him.

Markov's whisper mirrored the Executioner's thoughts. "I do not like this. It does not feel correct. Something is wrong."

"Would Grohar give us up?"

The Russian's lips skinned back from his teeth in a scowl. "I do not believe so. I have been with Grohar's unit for some time. He is well respected, and he has expressed his concern about the Red Falcons' activities for some time. I believe he speaks the truth when he says that they are a liability to establishing peace. I believe he is a man of honor. If he decided to tell Cebej we were coming, I believe he would tell us he had done so, as well, to avoid conflict entirely."

Bolan considered that. It fit with his estimation of Grohar. "So what do you think?"

The Russian's goggled stare stayed on the chalet for long moments. "I think something is wrong. I do not like it."

Bolan took a long slow breath. He was tempted to scrub the mission; something was wrong and he could feel it. But this was likely to be the only clear shot they would get.

Sarcev's voice spoke in Bolan's earpiece. "What is happening?"

Bolan spoke quietly into his mike. "Something is wrong." There was a moment of silence. "Do we attack?"

The Executioner looked at Markov, who shrugged. "Baibakov must die."

If there was something wrong, they would recon it by fire. "We attack, on my signal."

Sarcev echoed him across the receiver. "On your signal."

Bolan raised his M4 carbine, and Markov raised his AK74. Both men's fingers rested on the triggers of their grenade launchers. The big American heard the Bosnians behind him shift into readiness. The Executioner spoke into his microphone. "RPGs. Now!"

The woods lit up with yellow fire on either side of the chalet as RPG7 rockets sizzled out of their launch tubes and hissed toward the second-story windows. The M203 recoiled as Bolan squeezed the trigger and arced a 40 mm grenade through the chalet's front window. Markov's weapon thumped a split second after, windows shattering as the grenades flew inside. Upstairs the rockets tore through the windows, and the chalet shuddered as the warheads detonated. A second later the two grenades detonated downstairs and lit the shattered windows with the orange flash of high explosive.

Bolan rose and moved toward the chalet at a run. Behind him Markov barked a command in Slovene, and the Bosnians followed, pouring fire into the sides of the chalet. Bolan opened the smoking breech of the M203 grenade launcher and shoved in a personal defensive round. As he slammed the breech shut, he took the stairs to the porch in three strides and put his boot into the door, which flew open on its shattered hinges.