White Heat

  A miniature sun illuminated the Florida sky.

  A gust of hot wind hit the Executioner full in the face, and he turned his head aside to protect his eyes from the brilliant flash.  The landscape was bathed in bright light that revealed every tree, every rock--and Bolan's position.

  He darted behind the cypress again just a split second before a gunner opened up with an Uzi.   Dirt spewed in his wake, and slugs thudded into the trunk.  The instant the firing ceased, he galvanized into motion, continuing his dash to his car.

  The warrior pressed his injured arm to his side to minimize the jarring.  If his memory served, there was a narrow swampy area directly ahead.  Once past it, he'd have a clear run across a flat field to the gravel road.  He was almost home free.

  At that moment a flashlight beam stabbed out of the darkness and caught the Executioner in its glare.

  Silence greeted Bolan as he cracked open the door.

  Throwing it wide, he sprinted toward a wooden fence and stared over the top at a pair of bodies sprawled in an alley.   Policemen judging by their uniforms.  Glancing up, he spotted a lone figure fleeing toward the mouth of the alley.

  The man looked back once and kept going.

  In that brief moment the figure's stocky silhouette gave Bolan a clue to the killer's identity.  Only one member of the Black Hand had that build--Orhan Mithat.

  The Executioner slowed as he neared the street and cautiously peered around the corner.  Mithat was a block away, just entering a park.

  As sirens blared in the distance, Bolan realized the peril of pursuing a terrorist in Turkey.  Any Turkish cop, unaware of the situation, might shoot him down, mistaking him for the murderer.

  The warrior was almost to the park when he detected movement in his peripheral vision.  Even as his mind registered the motion, a submachine gun opened fire.