Battlefields changed, sure—tactics evolved and weaponry improved—but the basic ingredient of all warfare remained pretty much the same. It all boiled down, finally, to a contest between gladiators... Warriors did not supply the reasons, merely the means. Their only goal was victory; their only hope, survival. Men did not make wars. They simply fought them...No man had ever died in combat who truly understood why he must be there and why he must kill and be killed. The effective gladiator did not cloud his mind with such abstracts. He simply stood and fought, with all his mind and heart and body. The universe itself took care of the rest. So, no—Mack Bolan did not question why he was here, on this haunted battlefield between Chattanooga and Atlanta. He asked neither why he must kill nor if he must kill. He knew the ways of warfare. And he knew what must be done. The grim-eyed warrior final-checked his weapons...he muttered to the wind: “Here we go again, guy.”
The time was precisely midnight when he gained the low knoll that had been selected as fire base for this mission...The Southern skies were reflecting the far-off lights of the queen city, Atlanta, about twenty miles down country. At his left hand, Marietta slumbered quietly; at his right, the dark shadow of Kennesaw Mountain rose into the night. Directly ahead, in a cluster of muted lights, lay the target— collection of warehouses and service buildings, at a range of about five hundred meters. It looked innocent enough, much like any other trucking terminal...The main difference here was the high chain link fence topped with barbed wire, the manned gatehouse, uniformed security patrols. But Bolan had been in there twice already—once in a casual daylight recon from the cab of a truck and again in a quiet nighttime infiltration for a prolonged scouting mission. And, yeah, he had their numbers. The “security guards” were genuine Mafia hard men, captained by one Thomas Lago, née Lagossini, an old hardhead from the New York wars. The full force numbered twenty men, with the normal shift staffing no more than three guns, beefed up to six to eight during critical operations...knew what was moving through those warehouses: contraband of several varieties, including drugs, guns, untaxed cigarettes, and whiskey.