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the New Age Center, where his intel had said Parelli kept shop most every evening.
    It was a close call for the Executioner on that stretch of beach off Lakeshore Drive.
    It took Bolan almost half an hour to pull away, so tightly had the police cordoned off the area, but the night was on Bolan's side, as were his experience and expertise.
    He passed within a dozen feet of one police car, and closer than that past some rifle-carrying cops who did not see the wraithlike shifting of shadows as the night-hitter blended in and through their ranks.
    A cab ride had brought him to the safe drop.
    Then directly to this snoozing stretch of millionaires' row in suburban Lake Forest.
    The fortress that was the Parelli mansion looked to Bolan like some medieval castle across the frosty street. The ghostly scene shimmered through the lenses of the NVD goggles in the chilly November night.
    Head weapon for tonight's hit: an Ingram Model 10 submachine gun equipped with a MAC sound suppressor for night work. The short, compact weapon hung on a strap across his left shoulder and under his right arm so that it could ride free when he wasn't gripping it. The SMG could be palmed into firing position instantly with one flick of the wrist.
    He had parked his second rental car, another Corvette, a quarter of a mile away and approached his position, slightly south of the Parelli acreage, for a quick recon of the fortress he now knew he would have to penetrate.
    Objective: termination of a Mafia high-ranker named David Parelli.
    The Executioner had missed on his visit to the New Age Center.
    Parelli had been lucky so far tonight, but Bolan intended delivering the guy some bad luck real soon, even if he had to tear the Windy City apart to find the punk.
    At first, the Parelli property did not look too different from any number of similarly walled estates in this neck of the woods. The rich like their privacy.
    But the aura of respectability ended when you got a closer look at the main gate, which reminded Bolan more of a penitentiary than of a millionaire's manor.
    The drive to the gateway was angled so that any vehicle seeking forceful entrance could not pick up enough speed to ram through. Entrance onto this property was not gained; it was permitted.
    Two sentries could be seen strolling back and forth just inside the gate.
    From his vantage point, Bolan observed that each man toted a rifle slung over his shoulder. Those two sentries looked as if they were the only ones at the gate, and they did not seem particularly keyed-up or jumpy as a car happened to pass by while Bolan watched.
    He read this one of two ways.
    Either word of the attack on the New Age Center had not yet reached Parelli, which seemed highly unlikely, given that it had happened more than an hour ago and Bolan had served notice of his presence in Chicago by leaving one of the Executioner's calling cards, the marksman's medal; or, far more likely, the lack of beefed-up security here meant Parelli was not at home.
    This did not deter Bolan.
    He had to penetrate the Parelli mansion, find Parelli.
    The wraith in blacksuit started to move out from cover of the line of leafless oak trees, then checked himself.
    Headlights splashed across the wall of the estate as another car approached.
    This sedan moved slowly enough for Bolan to get the license plate number.
    He watched the car pull over and park alongside the wall about midway between Bolan's position and the front gate.
    The driver, whoever he was, killed the headlights and engine of the car.
    Bolan wondered what was going on. A new player in the game?
    He eased himself past a collection of garbage bags that had been set out for the city truck the next day. He wanted a better look at this new arrival.
    It seemed to him too soon for another run-in with the mystery lady who called herself Lana Garner, but the way this bloodhunt for a Mafia target was unraveling, Bolan could not be sure about anything.
    He gained the southwest corner of