Screaming with pain, the street tough went down on his knee and lashed out.

Bolan stiffened his hand and slammed it into his adversary's collarbone.

The snapping sound echoed in the darkness of the street as the other two youths stared in astonishment.

The enraged youth jumped up despite the searing pain in his leg, and threw himself at Bolan. The soldier easily stepped out of his reach, then grabbed his wrist and threw him over his shoulder. The tough crashed on the pavement and was suddenly still.

The two youths rushed at Bolan from different directions.

"No, get the girl," the fallen leader yelled.

Bolan was torn between stopping the teenager who was racing toward the small woman, and the punk who was charging at him with a large knife in his hand.

There was no time to weigh the options. He'd get to her after he'd disarmed the attacker who was almost upon him.

Moving to one side slightly, the soldier let the knife arm start to move past him, then grabbed the wrist and let the teenager's forward motion help him.

He flipped the attacker over his shoulder, then kicked the side of his head. Blood trickled from the fallen youth's mouth.

Bolan waited for the young man to move, but he was unconscious.

The Executioner turned to a.s.sist Sirindikha and was surprised to see the third youth lying on the ground, moaning in agony and clutching at his crotch.

He tried to grab one of the woman's ankles, but dancing a few inches to one side, she kicked the pointed front edge of her shoe into the fallen youth's ear. Screaming at the sudden pain, he rolled onto his face and started to weep.

Bolan stared at his companion. She didn't appear winded or upset. If anything, she appeared almost serene, as if nothing of consequence had taken place.

"A self-defense cla.s.s at a community college in Fresno," she explained, straightening her clothes. "I'm glad I didn't forget everything I learned." Dasilva was sweating profusely.

First the four men he had hired to follow and kill the American were killed in a restaurant blood-bath. He a.s.sumed the American agent was responsible. They were supposed to wait outside the building where he was staying and shoot him at the first opportunity.

Now the three youths he'd hired to pick a fight with Belasko had called him from the Colombo General Hospital emergency room. The leader of the trio was supposedly an expert at killing with a blade, which was what Dasilva had hired him to do.

Only he was supposed to make it look like the byproduct of a street fight.

At.w.a.ter wouldn't be pleased.

He would have to find replacements for the men he'd sent. Fortunately, he reminded himself, he hadn't yet paid them for their services.

Searching desperately through his memory, he remembered a local group of collection specialists who worked for whoever paid them. He skimmed through the yellowed telephone book on his night stand and found the telephone number of his contact. It would reduce the amount he kept for himself, but half of something was better than nothing.

He decided it was time to lead the men personally.

Dasilva didn't know why they wanted to kill the man named Michael Belasko, nor did he care. It was their business, not his. All that mattered was that he'd been promised a bonus of an additional five thousand by At.w.a.ter if he was successful.

Compared to some of the jobs he'd been given, this one was a breeze, and a lot more profitable.

He shut his thoughts off as he spotted the local men he had hired. There were almost a dozen. Gripping the cheap plastic gym bags that contained the Skorpion SMGS he'd provided, they were trying their best to blend into the crowds that jammed the streets.

He had checked their credentials as best he could on such short notice.

It was supposed to look like a terrorist attack, an indiscriminate ma.s.sacre ordered by the Tamil Tigers or one of the other rebel groups. The a.s.sault would kill more than just the American, but the resulting panic and confusion would make it easier for all of them to escape.

Finding the American hadn't been difficult.

Several of his men had canva.s.sed the area around the Pettah and learned that a big American had been asking Chinese restaurant owners if they knew where to find a Chinese importer named Chen.

There were several restaurants on Chatham Street, and the American hadn't yet come here to ask his question.

A red Nissan pulled into Chatham Street.

Behind the wheel was a large, hard-faced man.

Excitement coursed through Dasilva. It had to be him.

Belasko.

The man stood and signaled with a gesture of his hand for the gray Toyota at the curb to start moving, then took a position against the outside wall of a small tourist shop and knelt to open his bag.

Staring intently at the faces on the streets, the Executioner didn't notice the car that had pulled out and fell in behind him until the Toyota Corolla deliberately rear-ended him.

Bolan started to get out of the car when he spotted an ancient Datsun parked at a nearby curb, with its engine running. He looked at the three men standing next to it, staring at the entrance. A fourth man sat behind the wheel. Bolan recognized them for what they werea"professional hit men.

One of them spotted him, then gestured to the others.

The soldier turned away. Reaching under his jacket, he unleathered the.44 Desert Eagle and slipped it inside his waistband.

He left his car at the curb and started to stroll toward the men, then burst into a run.

The hardmen standing beside the Datsun were stunned that Bolan would be racing toward them instead of trying to flee. The nearest thug whipped out a Skorpion submachine gun, a compact weapon that could pump out a full 30-round clip of 9 mm parabellum rounds in seconds. Leaning the weapon on the trunk of the car, he started to squeeze the trigger, spraying hot lead at the fast-moving American.

Yanking the big.44 pistol from his waistband, Bolan stopped and a.s.sumed a two-handed gun stance and squeezed off two shots.

The first round punched into the shoulder of a thug with deep facial scars, causing him to spin a half turn. The second slug ricocheted off the metal trim of the rear windshield and slammed into the gunner's face, gouging a crater next to the bridge of his nose. The Skorpion fell to the ground as the man tumbled out of sight.

The other two gunners dropped behind the gray sedan. One gestured for his partner to move to the right while he moved left.

Inside the Datsun the terrified leather-jacketed youth behind the wheel slid down in his seat. He reached to grab the AK-47 a.s.sault rifle he had put on the seat next to him. Shaking with fear, he dropped the carbine to the floor, then nervously bent to retrieve it.

The soldier moved to his left and fired at the second man, the hollowpoint chopping into his adversary's side. Screaming with pain, the would-be killer turned, and washed the area around the Executioner with a continuous burst of lead.

Even under expert control, the compact weapon wasn't very accurate at distances greater than fifty feet. And in the hands of a wounded man, the bullets ricocheted off the cars, the brick walls and asphalt, slamming indiscriminately into terrified restaurant patrons and pa.s.sengers in pa.s.sing cars.

Bolan fired another round at the hit man's chest, shattering his collarbone.

Enraged, the a.s.sa.s.sin loosed a sustained burst of 9 mm death. Two of the slugs chewed through the Executioner's jacket and shirt, drilling into his Kevlar vest with a brutal force.

The punch of the lead projectiles saved the soldier's life, hurling him to the ground and, for the moment, out of the sight of the hit men.

Winded, Bolan waited until the breath returned to his lungs before leaning down and scooping up his weapon.

Despite the blood that covered his face, Bolan's adversary was still standing, still holding his weapon. Suddenly he collapsed and disappeared from sight.

Keeping his body close to the ground, Bolan carefully worked around the bullet-fractured vehicle.

One of the Sri Lankan hit men wasn't dead.

Covered with blood from the lead that had torn into his face and chest, the mercenary waited, then jumped to his feet and exposed the Skorpion. He concentrated his rage on killing the American.

But the Executioner beat him to the pull and pumped out a pair of rounds that chewed through the gunman's flesh and into his heart cavity. The man died before his body slid to the ground.

The driver realized he was now the only one of the group left alive. He panicked and threw the car in reverse, then jammed his foot down on the gas pedal. He rammed the vehicle into a handful of hypnotized patrons who had huddled outside the restaurant entrance to watch the gun battle.

Two women were shoved back into the brick-framed entrance and crushed between the heavy vehicle and thick wooden entrance door. Several others threw themselves to the ground, trying to crawl out of the murderous path of the vehicle.

Filled with terror, the driver braked, then raced forward toward the empty road.

Hunched over the wheel, he spotted the man who stood between him and escape.

At the last possible moment, Bolan jumped to the side, simultaneously pumping two rounds at the driver of the fleeing vehicle.

The ancient sedan smashed into a parked Mercedes 450 SEL, the force of the crash destroying the Datsun. The driver was slumped over the wheel, blood streaming down his face.

Bolan rammed a fresh clip into the Desert Eagle and turned his attention back to the Toyota.

The hardmen near the j.a.panese import panicked as they heard the gunshots and saw their a.s.sociates fall to the sidewalk. They'd huddled behind the Toyota, hoping the other hit men would stop the American before he turned his attention their way.

But now there was no choice, and two of the gunners pointed their submachine guns at the soldier, venting their rage with continuous bursts.

Bolan fell into a forward roll and came up near the vehicle, firing, while the slugs from the Chinese-made automatic rifles carved into the ground.

The nearer gunner roared in anger as he felt the burning sensation of the.44 slug cutting a deep groove across his forehead. Turning his weapon on the American, he squeezed the trigger and sprayed the area in front of him with metal-jacketed rounds.

Bolan did a side flip and landed two feet away from where he had been standing. In one smooth motion he raised the Desert Eagle and fired two more slugs at the gunmen, taking out both with head shots.

Momentarily shocked, the last surviving a.s.sa.s.sin, a stout, balding man, could only stare at the bodies.

Bolan took advantage of the situation to duck behind a nearby British-built Ford, narrowly missing the hail of hot lead unleashed by the hit man when he snapped out of it.

There was no way to reach the Sri Lankan without exposing himself, but it was a risk he would have to take.

Ramming a fresh clip into the Desert Eagle, he jacked a round into the chamber and stood, firing rapidly at his enraged adversary.

The round drilled into the hardman's abdomen, tearing into his pancreas.

Bits of b.l.o.o.d.y tissue and splintered bone exploded onto the ground.

Screaming curses in his accented English, the a.s.sa.s.sin triggered his weapon, unleashing a wild burst before he collapsed to the ground.

A young woman, dressed in a stylish gray suit, was shoved backward into the crowd and cut in two by the lead burning from the dead man's weapon. The slugs cut through her and into the men and women behind her, who had been shoving their way back into the nearest doorway.

Bolan heard a noise to his right and spotted a tall young man who was vomiting. The pedestrians nearby rushed forward and tore into him, like dogs tearing apart a rag doll.

Turning, he saw an older gray-haired man ramming the muzzle of the Skorpion he held into the back of a terrified Indian woman.

Confusion and terror raced through the street.

Panicked men and women grabbed the hands of their families and pushed and shoved their way into open doors to restaurants and shops, trampling anyone who came between them and escape.

Bolan focused his attention on the gunman and his now-hysterical hostage.

With constant prodding from the lethal weapon in the small of her back, the weeping woman kept moving toward the big American.

He stood still until the hostage was almost next to him. The gunner then shoved her aside and braced his body as he triggered the Skorpion.

The Executioner had waited until the killer had committed to firing before he took action. With the ease of years of practice, he lunged forward in a shoulder roll. Above him he heard the burst of gunfire and the screams of the woman, then he sprang to his feet behind the hit man.

The cold-eyed killer twisted to face the big American. He tried to loose another sustained burst, but the soldier pumped a.44 round into the surprised man's throat before he could aim the SMG.

Bolan searched the corpse's pockets. In his wallet was his Sri Lankan driver's licensea"Fernando Dasilvaa"and a slip of paper: See Clay At.w.a.ter for money.

Dasilva had to have been given the contract by At.w.a.ter, who was the Executioner's next call.

The soldier got into the borrowed emba.s.sy Nissan and sped from the scene of the ma.s.sacre.

He knew that sooner or later someone would remember to call the police.

It was time for him to leave.

Clay At.w.a.ter's business address turned out to be a shabby two-story building on a side street at the other end of the city. The streets were bordered with small warehouses and factories.

On the street level of At.w.a.ter's building was a now-closed Oriental medicines shop. A metal door stood at one end of the building, with nothing painted on it. Bolan tugged at the handle, which opened.

As quietly as he could, he climbed the narrow flight of stairs, illuminated by one dim ceiling light on the second floor.

Five frosted-gla.s.s doors lined the corridor. The first four bore names: Gandaya Indian Freight Forwarders, G. D.

Medical Supplies, Sri Lanka Travel Bureau. One was painted in Sinhalese, which Bolan couldn't read.

The last door was bare.

There was a light on inside. Bolan reached underneath his jacket and loosened the Beretta 93-R from its snug holster.

The handle turned when he tried it. Bolan eased it open, then waited for some reaction. When there was none, he cautiously entered a shabby reception room. It was dark and empty, except for an old metal desk and a few folding chairs.

The only light came from the inner office, and Bolan peeked inside.

Everything was covered with dust, and papers and empty beer cans were strewed everywhere.