Through the thinning mist, Bolan saw the vague shadows of buildings.

Jaffna. They'd be there shortly.

The captain stood near the door to his cabin, smiling as he heard one of the crew whisper a complaint to the man standing next to him.

"All we do is sail back and forth from Tamil Nadu to Sri Lanka. I signed on to fish, not transport illegals. If the border guards catch us, we could spend years in some stinking prison." The captain decided it was time to share some of the fifty thousand rupees he'd been promised by his Tamil contact for killing the American.

Perhaps he'd give each of them a thousand rupees, more than either earned in a month. And that would leave him with forty-eight thousand to add to his small but growing bank account.

He turned his head and signaled his mate, a stocky man with a huge black mustache.

"Keep an eye on those two," he said quietly. "I'm not sure we can trust either of them." The taciturn mate nodded and returned to coiling a length of rope on the deck.

The captain had a signal to send. He had promised the man who had hired him to notify him when the target was aboard.

Glancing at the American, he wondered if the man knew how little time he had left. Since he'd first transported the man a few days earlier, he wondered what was in the canvas bag sitting at the man's feet. Perhaps money.

Or expensive weapons. Or both.

It didn't matter. The contents would be his when the American was dead and floating in the gulf.

Making sure he wasn't being followed by either of the two crewmen or the American, the captain slipped into his cabin and turned on the small shortwave transceiver sitting on a table.

While it was warming up, he checked his wrist.w.a.tch for the time.

Perfect. Only a minute remained before he was due to send the message. He counted the seconds as the hand moved slowly around the face of the clock, then leaned forward and spoke into the small microphone.

The message would be received in Malivadi, on Mannar Island, from where it would be forwarded to Jaffna.

The captain turned off the set and leaned back in the chair, feeling relaxed and satisfied. He reached into his pocket and treated himself to a rare pleasure, one of the British cigarettes purchased in India.

As he inhaled the delicate perfume of the tobacco, he became too preoccupied with thoughts of how he would spend the money to hear the door behind open until it was too late.

Spinning in his chair, he saw the shadow of a man holding a silenced submachine gun. Before he could grab the fully loaded Tokarev pistol on the table near him, the shadowy figure squeezed the trigger and sprayed the captain with a continuous wave of lead until the walls of the small cabin were stained with blood and torn bits of tissue.

Carefully working his way past the widening pool of blood that covered the floor, the mustached mate held the subgun ready to fire as he leaned over and turned on the transmitter. He changed the setting on the dial, then squeezed the b.u.t.ton on the microphone and gave his report in the soft accent of Indian Tamils. He listened for the brief acknowledgment, then turned to leave, knowing his message would be pa.s.sed along until it reached the Tamil chieftain.

The sour-faced sailor didn't know why Thamby wanted the captain killed.

He really didn't care. Rajiv Thamby was the leader and made the decisions.

All he did was carry out the orders.

Now he had to take care of the American. The mate checked his weapon's magazine. It was almost empty. He dropped the clip to the floor of the cabin and snapped in a fresh one. Now he was ready to complete his a.s.signment.

Rajiv Thamby was expecting his two co-leaders to arrive at his camp the following morning. The prospect infuriated him. He had done all the legwork, contacting suppliers, finding money to pay for the arms, and now Neelan and Konamalai wanted an equal share of the weapons and ammunition stored in the camp warehouse.

It had been a week of h.e.l.l so far. The death of Madi Kirbal still angered him, and the cruelty that preceded his sister's suicide had opened scars of hate for the Sinhalese and their alliesa"such as the American diplomat locked in his cell, and the other American, the one who had come to rescue him.

They and others like them would do anything to appease the Sri Lankan government, even provide them with the tools to murder many more innocent Tamil men, women and children.

At least the mercenary sent by the Americans would soon be dead. His own man would make sure of that.

And if the American government didn't ransom their representative with arms, he would be buried next to the other American.

He had made that point again when he had the negotiator dragged from his cell several hours earlier.

"Your time is running out," he had warned. "Our patience is coming to an end, American." Filthy from the dirt that hung like a dark cloud in the cell, John Vu had no answer to give.

All he wanted was a bath and sleep, neither of which he'd had since being taken prisoner.

"I wish the three of you would understand that I came here on my own to help you find peace," the exhausted man said quietly.

"The three of us?" "I meant the other two men with whom you command the Tiger movement," Vu tried to explain.

"I run the LTTE," Thamby snapped.

Something in the American's att.i.tude had angered the Tiger chieftain.

"The other two you refer to are not important. It takes a strong, dedicated leader to stand up to the world.

Do you understand?" Thamby waited for the American to reply. When he remained silent, the Tamil signaled for a guard to return the prisoner to his cell.

"If in twenty hours we receive no commitment from your government, you will die," he threatened.

The American government would give in to his demands. It was just a matter of letting them find some face-saving way to do it.

He had more pressing things on his mind such as the cavalier att.i.tude of the other two Tamil chieftans. The following day they would drive in with their men and expect Thamby to fill their trucks with the precious inventory in the warehouse.

Perhaps, he began to believe, it would be better for the Tiger cause if there were only one commander, instead of three.

Something was wrong. Bolan could feel strong warning vibrations every time the mate pa.s.sed him.

The captain had been missing for almost a half hour. In response to his question about where the skipper was, the mate had said the captain had suddenly become ill, and offered his a.s.sistance if Bolan had some need.

Even with the breeze masking noises, the soldier knew someone was creeping up behind him. Crew member or first mate, the Executioner got ready for 1 him.

Easing the razor-sharp blade from its sheath, he wrapped his hand around the flat handle and let his arm hang by his side. He could hear m.u.f.fled breathing directly behind him, as if someone was unsuccessfully trying to hold his breath.

Whirling, he saw one of the crew raise a small ax. Bolan locked a foot behind the man's leg and pushed him backward. Suddenly off balance, the a.s.sailant fell to the deck, then struggled to his feet.

The Executioner rushed to him and slid the blade between two ribs before the man could push him away. Then he twisted the knife and pushed it up until he felt a momentary resistance. Pushing harder, he felt the resistance collapse.

Beneath him the crewman stiffened for a few seconds, then relaxed and stared past Bolan into s.p.a.ce.

Looking up and past the body, the soldier saw the second member of the crew charging at him with a shouldered AK-47.

Throwing himself behind a bulkhead, Bolan retrieved the.44-caliber Desert Eagle from his belt, then moved out into the open and pumped two shots at the advancing attacker.

The rounds tore through s.p.a.ce, then ground into the charger's midsection.

A stunned expression washed over the crewman's face as tissue and splintered bones gushed from his body in a sudden river of blood. Two down.

One to go.

The Executioner started the search for the rest of the crew.

The deck was empty, except for coils of rope and unswept garbage. He gripped the Desert Eagle and cautiously opened the door to the captain's cabin.

The floor was covered with blood, and lying on top of the drying pool was a body. The soldier kneeled beside the body and turned it over. The expressionless face of the captain stared up at him.

"Now it is your turn, American," a voice called out.

Bolan turned his head and saw the first mate holding a subgun.

"The gun. Drop it," the first mate ordered.

The big American obeyed and let the weapon fall to the floor.

"Now out on the deck." The soldier got to his feet and preceded the armed sailor to the open deck.

"Who hired you?" Bolan asked.

"Not that it matters, but no one hired me. This was the a.s.signment my commander gave me." There were few options available, the Executioner decided, and only one that had even the remotest chance of success.

Moving backward toward the rail, he waited for the right moment, then threw himself over the side.

Surprised at the suicidal move, the Tiger hit man rushed to the railing and leaned over.

Just below the railing, the Executioner was gripping the anchor rope with one hand. Infuriated, the first mate leaned out farther and pointed his subgun at the American.

Summoning all his strength, Bolan pulled himself up and grabbed the sailor by the throat. The man tried to pull away, but the soldier kept increasing the pressure.

Dropping the gun into the water, the Tiger a.s.sa.s.sin grabbed at Bolan's hand and tried to tear it away. The Executioner continued to increase the pressure, forcing a thumb against the carotid artery.

The American began to become a blur as the first mate found his hands less willing to fight back.

Suddenly his body gave up its efforts to fight.

Falling to the deck, the first mate saw the huge foreigner follow him and wrap his arms around his head, then twist until the bones inside his neck exploded. After that the first mate saw nothing.

Chandra Sirindikha refused to budge. For more than an hour she had argued with the amba.s.sador about providing her with transportation. For an hour he kept refusing.

"I don't know who you think you are, Ms.

Sirindikha, but we do not provide employees with government equipment just because they ask for it." The young woman had antic.i.p.ated the reaction. The message she had left for her superior in Washington, D.c., should have reached him by now.

The phone on the amba.s.sador's desk rang, but he ignored it. "I believe Sri Lanka is your first a.s.signment out of the United States. You have a lot to learn about how a State Department employee is expected to behave." The phone rang again. "We will continue this conversation after I take this call," the elegantly dressed man sitting behind the large desk said, signaling her to leave.

Frustrated, Sirindikha left the office and went back to her small cubicle in the communications section of the emba.s.sy. A few minutes later the amba.s.sador, his face flushed with embarra.s.sment, stood near her small desk.

"I didn't know," he began haltingly, trying to frame an apology. "Would you come back to my office?" The woman felt vindicated. Her superior had to have responded to her call.

Bolan eased the fishing boat against the wooden dock. Dropping his canvas bag on the warped planks, he opened it and found what he was seeking, then returned to the vessel.

The engine was still running. The soldier swung the boat around, pointing it toward the open water, then anch.o.r.ed the wheel with a rope.

The bodies were still where he had left them, but not for long, he reminded himself as he pressed a wedge of C-4 plastique to the main fuel tank.

He then attached a detonator and timer, set to trigger the plastic explosive in an hour.

Bolan rammed the engine lever to its top speed, then raced to the bow and jumped onto the dock as the fishing boat began its last voyage.

Watching until the vessel vanished into the mist that hung over the Gulf of Mannar, the soldier turned away and lifted his canvas carryall.

There was a small, elderly Tamil waiting at the end of the dock. He looked different than the others Bolan had encountered. This man wore the black garb and collar of a Roman Catholic priest.

"Mr. Belasko?" Bolan nodded. This had to be Sirindikha's contact.

"I am Father Tomas. I have a car parked nearby." Without waiting for acknowledgment, he turned and led Bolan down a narrow alley.

The parked car was ancient. It had once been a British-built Armstrong, a pre-World War II relic of a time when England had a thriving automotive industry. Sixty years later a great number of mechanics had been inventive in their efforts to keep the vehicle functional with body parts scrounged from auto wreckers. It looked more like a cartoon caricature of a car than an actual automobile, and Bolan wondered if it really ran.

The priest saw the soldier's skeptical stare.

"Yes, it does run," Father Tomas said, smiling. "Sometimes I think it is a miracle that it does. But miracles do happen." Dropping his bag on the back seat, Bolan got in on the pa.s.senger side and waited for the priest to start the engine.

A small series of m.u.f.fled explosions rumbled from beneath the hood as the small man pumped the gas.

Finally the engine surrendered and kicked over.

"Where is the woman who contacted me? I thought she was coming with you." "It would take too long to explain," Bolan replied.

"We can talk when we get to my humble home," the priest said, then added, "The woman asked if I could find you transportation." He shrugged.

"Unfortunately we no longer have car-hire agencies in Jaffna. But you are more than welcome to use my humble vehicle." "Thanks." He had driven worse. Not much worse, but worse.

This had been Sirindikha's first field a.s.signment. It was different than when she'd been in training. Shooting guns at fixed targets wasn't the same as firing at people who were shooting back.

Until she arrived in Sri Lanka, she a.s.sociated death with old age, illness and accidents. Since Belasko arrived, she had met death in a dozen or more forms.

Still, there was something about the man that was both appealing and frightening at the same time. She felt compelled to help him, even though he'd ordered her to stay in Colombo.

A question from the amba.s.sador brought her back to the present. "What is it you need?" he asked.

"I'm not sure whether a powerboat or a helicopter would be more useful," she replied, thinking aloud. "Or perhaps both." "To do what?" "To rescue Bel-was She caught herself. The big American might need help, but she didn't think he needed to be rescued. She subst.i.tuted another name.

"To rescue Mr. Vu." The amba.s.sador looked surprised. "You know where he is being held?" Nodding, she answered, "Yes, I think so." "Shouldn't we wait for Washington to tell us what to do?" "Not if you want to see Mr. Vu alive." Disturbed that he was being asked to actively partic.i.p.ate in a nondiplomatic action, the amba.s.sador reluctantly made a decision.