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very place and give an answering call。 In due course they would be collected； lie for hours in the back of a juddering van hidden by a pile of blankets until they reached their destination； that place where there were no buildings； just trees and rolling meadowland； where tiny creatures scurried to and fro in the dead of night。 And only then would they be afraid。
They moved silently in single file； the heavy rubber soles of their boots masking every footfall。 Stopping to listen； moving on again。 When they reached the lighted streets they made full use of the shadows； but there was nobody about because it was well past midnight。
They saw the shape of the house； its small shrubbery offering ample concealment； and here they waited again。 For there was no hurry。
Sabat knew that they would e tonight。 In some ways he weled the presence of Quentin's soul for evil detected evil； gave him more warning than if he had to rely solely upon his own acute senses of perception and intuition。 Now Quentin was silent as though he； too； had received his orders from some unknown source。 The time was nigh。
Shortly before dark； Sabat locked the doors and made sure that the windows were secure。 The intruders would find a way in because of that extraordinary training which the Disciples of Lilith appeared to have received but he did not wish to arouse their suspicions。 Only one thing worried him … did they have any supernatural powers or did they rely simply on mando…like tactics？ If the former； then his preparations were inplete and he should have taken refuge within a pentagram to repel the powers of darkness。 If the latter； then the element of surprise was in his favour； and with no small degree of satisfaction he checked the 。38； slipped it back into his pocket holster。 His features hardened as he remembered Ilona； Jackie； and Emma again。 His creed； a life for a life； meant that he must kill three of them。 And afterwards he would set about Finding the blood gorged spider which spun this crimson web of evil。
He switched off the lights one by one； his bedroom last after an interval of a quarter of an hour or so。 Then he went back downstairs。
And now for Sabat it was a time of waiting。
Briefly； the three youths were illuminated by the glare of an orange street lamp as they crossed the short gravelled drive。 Identical clothing and hairstyles； shabby denims with the swastika displayed prominently on the left arm； trousers turned up to a ridiculous level revealing heavy； oversize boots。 Even their features bore a marked similarity。 Eyes that had a glazed appearance； lips tight and bloodless； the unmistakable stamp of cruelty overall； and a total stranger may have been forgiven for believing them to be brothers。
A rear window offered little obstruction to their purpose； the pointed tip of a syringe gun cutting through the glass as efficiently as a diamond cutter； a hole just large enough for the sash to be reached。
All three of them were inside； the window closed again。 Waiting。 Listening。 Total silence。 Then they moved like wraiths gliding through the house； searching each room with scarcely a sound； the study； kitchen； cloakroom； going on upstairs。 Here they were more wary； fingers resting on the butts of their deadly weapons for surely they must find the man they sought on this floor。 But no； even the bedrooms were empty； no evidence of any of the beds having been used that night。
Five minutes later they gathered at the head of the stairs again； a huddled； puzzled trio； not knowing what to do。 Eventually they went back downstairs； beginning the search all over again for the training inbred by their fanatical leader told them they had been careless and overlooked something。
After another five minutes they found the door which they had missed； set alongside the stair cupboard as though it formed part of a double entrance to that place where brooms and other cleaning equipment were kept。 They pulled it open； saw by the faint light of the street lamp shafting in through the hall window that steps led down to some kind of basement。
Cautiously they descended； the last one through clicking the door shut behind him。 Pitch blackness； not a glimmer of light。 They stopped； realised the futility of blundering about in this tomb…like place where they might knock something over and give their presence away。
An outstretched hand brushed against a lightswitch。 The youth hesitated； remembered the rule of 'darkness at all times'； then decided to risk it； just enough to get their bearings。
All three blinked in the brightness of a flickering fluorescent tube； gasped at their surroundings； a kind of gymnasium with a shooting range； so neat and orderly； a well…used look about every item of equipment。
They saw the vaulting horse with its polished leather top； the large rush mats； the climbing ropes； the sandpit with its splintered pegs and crushed bullets。 And then they saw Sabat！
He was sitting astride a trapeze bar directly above them； some eight feet from the ground； as casually as if they had e upon him relaxing after a strenuous workout。 But his expression had them stepping back； his pallid face like some death's head emblem on the black skull and crossbones； the muscles beneath the dark clothing； steel springs coiled ready to unleash him upon them； eyes that burned as fiercely as the Fuhrer's and Lilith's。
'You filthy verminous bastards！' the hiss of a deadly snake about to strike； swinging gently； cradle…like。
Then without warning Sabat was airborne； a flying black angel of death ing at them； a Hawk diving on its unsuspecting prey！
His feet struck two of them crushing blows in the face； mule kicks that splintered bone and tore flesh； hurling them to the floor。 And with the agility of a jungle monkey Sabat landed upright in a crouching stance； a fighter moving in on an opponent。 The third skinhead showed surprise but not the slightest trace of fear； squashed ugly features creasing into a snarl of hate。 The killer barely glanced at his two panions writhing on either side of him with bloody faces for none could withstand the weapon which he was already tugging free of the holster sewn on to the inside of his denim jacket。 Not even Sabat！
The skinhead had practised that draw a thousand times； peted with an army of Disciples for split second superiority； and none had bettered him。 Now suddenly his movements seemed leaden； stilted； a jerky tug that had the nozzle snagging on the holster。 Yet it was swift but that swiftness was overshadowed by the bunched fist which came up at him from somewhere in the region of Sabat's waist and blasted his jawbone with unbelievable force。 A crack like that of Sabat's 。38； a metallic clang as the blood gun hit the quarry tiles and skidded across the highly polished surface。
The youth had the impression that he was a spinning top whirling crazily； faster 。 。 。 faster 。 。 。 losing his balance； crashing to the floor in a shower of multi…coloured sparks。 Lying there； the room tilting like the deck of a channel ferry that