Before long, the two leaders were egging their men on to achieve greater accuracy.

"A bonus of a hundred rupees for every bull's-eye you get," Neelan announced to his troops.

Konamalai stared at him, then turned to his men and offered double that each time the center of the target was. .h.i.t.

Neelan smiled at him. In a sarcastic tone of voice, he asked, "You don't really believe your men could beat in a shooting contest one of the men I have trained?" "These are men I have personally picked. They would die for me. Your men are trained like the cobra that kills for the pleasure of killing.

Loyalty will always win in the end." "Willing to put your money where your mouth is?" "As much as you care to lose." "Let's make it a friendly bet," Neelan said, sounding confident. "You name the amount." "Five thousand rupees, if you're not afraid to lose that much," the other Tamil chief growled.

"It is a wager." Watching them, Thamby turned to his aide.

"Sooner or later their men are going to become tired of being used as p.a.w.ns in a personal feud. Then I will step in." He looked around. "Right now we need some more magazines." Lalith turned to the guard, took his ring of keys and walked into the warehouse.

Bolan had paused in his efforts, listening to the gunshots from outside the warehouse. He looked at his wrists. They had become swollen from the constant rubbing against the cuffs, and the dried blood that filled his open wounds felt like sandpaper every time he moved his hands.

He could hear the footsteps of someone approaching him and slid to the ground. If the Tamil came close enough, perhaps he could trip him, then take him out of action.

Breathing deeply, Bolan closed his eyes and let his body relax. Then he opened his eyes and glanced at the man walking in his direction. Closing his eyes again, Bolan pretended to be asleep.

Lailth glanced at the chained figure slumped on the floor. The cases he was looking for were stacked just behind the sleeping man. The aide started to step over the figure when he felt himself losing balance.

Bolan had locked his legs around the right knee of the terrorist and twisted quickly. As the aide tried to struggle to his feet, the soldier rammed the tip of his left foot into the man's crotch.

Grunting with pain, the Tamil reached for his injured genitals. The big American knew the man would start to shout for help, so he had to quickly silence him.

He locked his feet around his adversary's neck and began to squeeze.

He lifted his head and watched his enemy's face flush as Bolan's feet crushed his windpipe. The rebel tried to tear Bolan's vise-like feet from his throat, fighting for survival.

The soldier's feet were like clamps. Nothing could force them to release their hold. Bolan saw the man's face darken into a thin purple color, and the Tamil suddenly gave up the struggle. His head lolled to one side.

Exhausted, Bolan let himself fall backward and rested for a moment.

Thamby shouted into the warehouse, "We need those magazines out here." Using his feet to pull the body of the dead man closer, the soldier twisted his own body so he could use his manacled hands to search through the Tamil's clothes.

He found a key chain in one of the rear pockets of his pants. Bolan picked it up and searched through the various keys until he found the one he knew would open his handcuffs.

Twisting his arms, he carefully inserted the key into the handcuff opening and tried to push it in.

The set of keys fell to the ground. Frustrated, he tried again, this time twisting his hands to make it easier to reach the handcuffs' keyhole. He forced himself to ignore the excruciating pain of the raw wounds around his wrists as he again inserted the key.

Turning it carefully, he felt the subtle click that meant he was free.

Quickly Bolan opened the other cuff and stood.

He searched the immediate area for a weapon. He needed something powerful. He looked into an open crate and grabbed one of the M-16 A-2's. A full case of M-203 grenade launchers had been opened.

Bolan fit one of them under the a.s.sault rifle and picked up a half-dozen 40 mm frag grenades. Loading one into the M-203, the Executioner shoved the rest into the baggy pockets of his battle fatigue uniform. Continuing his search, he found four empty clips and a case of metal-jacketed 5.56 mm ammunition.

The soldier knew that somebody would be coming to look for the missing terrorist, but he knew he had to take the time to fill the clips if he wanted to survive.

One by one he pushed the rounds down on the spring inside each clip until all four were fully loaded. Grabbing a handful of ammunition, he pushed one into the firing chamber and shoved the rest into one of his pockets, then clicked a magazine into the a.s.sault rifle and moved to the front door.

Now he was ready. He wasn't sure how many men there were outside, or how well they could fight.

But he was determined that John Vu would be rescued.

The sound of rifle fire frustrated the State Department Intelligence agent. She wasn't sure who was doing the shooting, the American or the Tigers.

Sirindikha checked the magazine in the P-5, which was full, and decided Belasko needed help.

Then she looked at the autoloader in her hands.

It didn't seem as if it was enough firepower to help the man fight off a couple dozen or more guerrillas.

What else did she have?

She saw the canvas bag Belasko had brought with him. Perhaps there were things inside she could use.

Digging through the bag, she found several grenades cl.u.s.tered in one of the corners. She grabbed three and shoved them into her pockets.

The M-16 a.s.sault rifle caught her eye.

At a little over three feet in length, the powerful gun looked intimidating. But when she lifted it, the weapon felt lighter than she'd expected.

Raising it to her shoulder, she found she could lean her cheek against the stock and aim with the aid of the simple sights. It wasn't her first choice. She would have preferred to carry the stubby Uzi Belasko had carried.

But the M-16 was the most powerful weapon she could find.

Grabbing some clips, she snapped a 30-round magazine into the M-16 and shoved the remaining three into her work-shirt pockets, then set off on foot to join the battle.

As he watched the shooting match from the cover of the shaded entrance to the warehouse, Bolan knew he was no match for thirty trained and armed guerrillas.

He needed a distraction, something that would send the terrorists running in panic.

He looked down at the combo weapon in his hand, then aimed the launcher at where a dozen of the men were involved in a shooting compet.i.tion and squeezed the trigger.

The soldier watched as the grenade twisted a path toward the cl.u.s.ter of armed men. It landed just in front of them, scattering bits of fury-driven metal in every direction.

Two men fell to the ground as slivers of metal sliced through their skulls and into their brains. Three more terrorists screamed with pain as shards of metal tore into their stomachs and chests. Clutching their wounds, they fell to the ground.

Panic took over the competing riflemen. The seven who hadn't been killed or seriously wounded kept turning to see where the grenade had come from.

They didn't have to wait long. Bolan released another missile, aiming this time at where the vehicles were parked.

Flames burst from ruptured gas tanks. The only escape for the gunmen would be on foot.

Some of the Tigers had already begun to edge toward the far end of the camp.

The soldier worked his way around the warehouse until he was fifty yards away, then reloaded the launcher.

He released the bomb, aiming for the wide-open doors of the warehouse, and covered his head as the m.u.f.fled rumblings became a ma.s.sive explosion that threw chunks of the roof and metal siding thirty feet up into the sky.

Explosion followed explosion as detonated ammunition and grenades ignited more ammunition and grenades. The ground rocked as flames and explosions consumed what was left of the storage building.

For fifteen of the terrorists, the disintegration of the warehouse was the final push. Taking off on foot, they began to race in a panic down the dirt street, in the direction of the farmland north of the Tiger base.

Bolan moved into the open, spraying 3-round bursts at the men in front of him. Two soldiers fell before they could turn their weapons on him.

The eagle-beaked Tamil whom Bolan recognized as one of the Tiger leaders rallied three of his men to charge the Executioner. They fired wildly, their shots tearing into huts and burning vehicles.

Bolan had twisted out of the path of the bullets.

One of them barely missed the fleshy part of his upper arm as he snapped off a pair of rounds at the Tamil leader.

Two of the bullets shattered the other man's shoulder and shoved the guerrilla leader back into a pile of metal fragments from the decimated warehouse.

Staggered from the wound, Konamalai turned and ran behind a wall of terrorists, all trying to target the attacker with slugs from their a.s.sault rifles.

Bolan dived to the ground and kept his head down as lead tore through the air inches above him. Resting the M-16 on the ground, the Executioner waited until the five gunners who rushed him got closer, then hosed them with a continuous stream of lead.

Two rounds stole the life of their leader, Neelan. With a look of surprise permanently imprinted on his face, the Tamil sank to his knees, then fell on his face.

The five terrorists stopped in their tracks and made the fatal error of looking back as their leader fell to the ground. The Executioner took them out of play with one sweeping burst.

Bolan pulled himself to his feet, then saw Thamby standing in front of him, his face twisted by anger, his hands locked around a 9 mm Skorpion subgun.

There was no time to wonder where the Tiger chieftain had been hiding during the battle, and barely enough time to try to fight back.

"You will die, American, and the man you came to save will die after you do." The Tamil leader glanced at the still forms of the two men who had been his partners. "I was planning to kill them anyway, so you did me a favor.

There never was room for more than one leader in the movement." Bolan knew there was nothing he could saya"or wanted to saya"to stop the Tamil from trying to empty his weapon into him.

"Sooner or later," the Executioner said coldly, "someone will come along and take you down." There was movement behind Thamby. Bolan had tried to keep Thamby distracted. Now the soldier looked beyond the Tamil chieftain.

"An old trick," the terrorist leader commented cynically. "There is no one behind me." "Yes, there is," a voice replied from a distance.

Chandra Sirindikha squeezed the trigger of the M-16 A-2 and kept firing until the recoil pushed her backward to the ground.

The Tamil terrorist half turned to stare at his killer, and raised his subgun to fire back.

Despite the large piece of flesh missing from his right side, chewed away by 5.56 mm rounds, Thamby began to fire the Skorpion at the fallen woman.

The pain he felt made his aim less accurate. Lead tore into the dirt until finally two rounds carved their way into the female fighter's midsection.

Bolan raised the rifle in his hand and squeezed off a round. The hollow clicking of metal on metal was ominous.

Fear replaced the expression of anger on Thamby's face. Despite the blood running from his side, he was able to turn and run.

Bolan took off after him, searching his pockets for a replacement magazine as he did. Finally the soldier had to stop to eject the empty clip and replace it.

The sound of an engine starting up disturbed the quiet. The Tamil was behind the wheel of a Land Rover, focusing his attention on escape. Bolan tried to use his body to stop him, but Thamby twisted the wheel in panic and raced around him and down the street in the direction of Jaffna.

The Executioner turned to check on the young woman when he heard someone call from inside the cell.

The accent was American.

Bolan shattered the lock of the door with a round from his M-16, then kicked the heavy wooden barrier open.

The man who emerged looked exhausted and frightened.

Even though the man had a three-day growth of beard, Bolan recognized John Vu.

At least one part of the mission was over. There still was one thing he had to do.

Bolan examined the diplomat with his eyes. "You okay?" "Yes." Vu smiled and commented in a soft drawl, "I'd recognize that accent anywhere. New England?" "Used to be," the soldier answered. "Want to stop to shave and change clothes before we head home?" "Do you think we've got time?" "We've got time. After we drop someone at the nearest hospital."

Bolan and the rescued American diplomat supported the young woman between them. Squeezed in the front seat of the priest's Armstrong, she let her head slump on the Executioner's shoulder. He kept a.s.suring her they'd be at the hospital soon, but she didn't respond. He repeated the promise.

Finally the woman opened her eyes. "Okay, okay. I heard you the first time." "How do you feel, young lady?" Vu asked.

She tried to smile at him, but felt too weak to move her lips. Slowly turning to Bolan, she shook her head. "I don't think I like this part of the job," she said before fainting.

Stopping long enough to have his wrists bandaged and his scalp wound cleaned up, the Executioner left Sirindikha and Vu in the care of the doctors at Jaffna General Hospital.

He had to look for someone, and he had an idea where he might find him.

After parking the ancient car at the curb outside Father Tomas's church, Bolan grabbed his retrieved Uzi submachine gun and checked the front door of the rectory.

As he suspected, it was locked. The old priest wouldn't have had time to return yet.

Walking around to the rear, he found a small window and forced it open with the edge of his combat knife.

He eased his way inside and found himself in a tiny bedroom. Except for the crucifix on the wall above the narrow bed, the room was bare.

The door to the living room was ajar. The strong scent of curry spices filled his nostrils, reminding him of the potent meal the priest had served him.

A tall man sat at the tiny dining table, his back to Bolan. Dishes of curry and bowls of rice sat in front of him.

The soldier was tempted to end it now, but a personal moral code stopped him from shooting a man in the back.

"Thamby," he called out.

The figure continued to eat.

"It's all over," he shouted.

The man seemed frozen. Bolan moved closer.