“Just to talk. About noon.”
“I don’t know. Damn arm still hurts.”
“Take some pain pills. A long drive in the country’ll do you good.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll be there. Just be sure you come alone.”
“Right, Franconi, alone. See you then.”
It was eleven o’clock when Bolan arrived at the little race course. There was a dirt track. There were rickety stands for about two hundred people and pits with no garages. A summer operation. The gate to the track was open, so he put the rented Chevy around the oval at a leisurely pace, figuring to shake loose somebody in charge.
A grease-marked man wearing only shorts and running shoes waved the car into the pits. The Executioner stopped.
“You run the show here?”
“Me and the bank.”
“Hear you got some hot destruction derbies going.”
“Now and then.”
“You got a car I can buy for the destruct?”
“Might. Cash?”
“Right on the radiator. It’s got to have a good solid rear end and reverse and low forward.”
“Any make?”
“Most of them are several makes.”
The man laughed. Bolan figured he was thirty. The Executioner got out of the car and extended his hand. “Scott’s the handle. Where is this bucket of bolts?”
The man said his name was Castile and that he owned the spread. He led Bolan to a battered car and outlined its history.
The destruct racer had started life as a ‘69 Chevy, had outlived three engines and six radiators and all its fenders, but it still owned both low and second and reverse.
“Got a V-8 in there right now that can snarl your pants off. I won the last two destruct derbies we had here with that little cranker.”
“How much?”
“Well, I got six seventy-five in her and she’s a winner. Purse goes two hundred. Eight-fifty and she’s yours.”
“Sold, if I can use your track this afternoon for a couple of hours. You’ll have to clear out. Want the place all to myself and this guy who challenged me.” The Executioner took out his wallet and counted out nine one- hundred-dollar bills. “Close enough,” he said.
“You own it,” Castile said.
Bolan found what he needed in the shop after Castile left. He put strands of strong wire in six places around the front bumper, and looped them for quick use. Then he wedged some sheet steel between the steering wheel and the dash — a perfect shield, in case he was fired upon. The pliers went in his back pocket.
He fired up the Chevy and backed it around the track. A giant X-shaped roadway marked the infield, where the close-clearance races were held. He soon got the knack of driving in reverse, putting the battered hulk exactly where he wanted it.
It was eleven-thirty by the time Bolan was ready. He put two weapons in the battered veteran — the “flesh-shredding” .44 AutoMag and a French infantry rifle, the 5.56 FA MAS, which is easy to handle, has great balance and keeps on target even when firing fully automatic. It spits out 3-round bursts or full-auto and holds a 25 -round magazine. Four loaded mags were on the seat beside him.
The Executioner counted on Franconi bringing at least two cars full of armed soldiers. He figured The Beast would talk first, size him up and plan some diabolical end to the man who had humiliated him before his peers.
Satisfied with the weapons and the battered Chevy, Bolan drove to the small shack that served as office, ticket booth and living quarters for the owner. He nosed the vehicle into the shop section backward so he could race it into combat. He climbed the open steps to the upper floor and opened the window to check his field of fire. Perfect. The enemy crew wagons would probably not stop until they were directly below.
His only problem was getting Franconi alone inside the shack. The upstairs window would be a good firing point to fall back on. He checked the Chevy destruction monster and removed the weapons. If he stood at the front door, he should be able to lure Franconi inside. He knew the Mafia hit man would not be satisfied with a quick kill. And he would not let any of his men do the killing except in an emergency. This would be Franconi’s show, and that would be his fatal mistake.
Bolan waited at the front door. At five to twelve, two black crew wagons rumbled off the side road, then swung into the dirt lane toward the shack.
The Executioner wore no weapon. Big Thunder lay on one side of the door and on the other the French chatter-gun was hanging on a nail.
He wiped his hands on a rag as the Mafia rigs came to a halt twenty feet from the door.
A six-foot-six-inch-tall goon got out of one car and walked with apelike strides to the shack. He was big, ugly and mean looking.
“Boss wants to see you,” the Cro-Magnon said, jerking his thumb toward the car.
“Soldier, you tell Wally I don’t like the inside of wagons with twenty guns in my nose. Have him come over here and you guys stand guard.”
The goon stared in surprise. Usually people did exactly as he suggested. He shook his head and returned to the car. The door was still open. He said something, then repeated it, and Wally Franconi, scowling, slid out of the back seat. His left arm was in a cast to the elbow.
Franconi took a deep breath and stepped within three steps of Bolan.
“Okay, wise-ass, we talk. Who the hell are you? Where you from? What can you do?”
“Name is Mike Scott, from L.A. I’m a wheelman, bodyguard, persuader and action man.”
“And you use your feet — I remember that!”
“Yeah. I’m ready to show you how I can wheel. Want to look at the inside of this place? Got my destruct derby car in here and it’s a beaut.”
Franconi’s face lit up. “Mean where those assholes back up and try to kill off all the other cars? Last one running wins?”
“That’s the contest. She’s mostly Chevy. Got her nosed in here. Want a look?”
“Always wondered how they beefed up those things. Always wanted to try it.”
“Hell, try mine. Come on in.” Bolan stood to one side. Franconi made up his mind, gave a hand signal and walked into the shack.
When Franconi stepped out of sight of the crew wagons, the Executioner slammed the big silver .44 AutoMag down on his head. Bolan dragged the unconscious body to the front of the destruction derby car, hoisted it to the front bumper and, using the positioned wires, tied it securely lengthwise along the bumper. Bolan put boards under the wires before cinching them up so the wire would not cut into flesh. When the mobster was solidly fastened to the bumper, Bolan grabbed both weapons, put them in the car and fired up the V-8. It popped and snarled, and then he roared from the shack in reverse, turning so the hoodlums could plainly see their boss.
Leaning out the window, he fired one AutoMag flesh-shredder into each crew wagon, then raced to the far end of the dirt oval and waited. One of the crew wagons moved slowly along the edge of the track.
Bolan put the rig into low and ground forward toward the nearest crew wagon, with the Beast leading the way on the front bumper.
He could imagine the confusion and shock in the crew wagon as the men tried to figure out what to do. At last someone decided the destruction derby rig must not hit the crew wagon and raced it away. Bolan fired three rounds from the French army rifle and watched the Cadillac soak up the bullets. He wondered how far they penetrated. One shattered the rear window, turning the safety glass into ten thousand small granules.
Bolan chased them halfway down the track, then stopped and punched ten rounds into the front tires. Two or three found their mark, the right front tire blew and the rig slowed to a stop. Handguns came out the windows, popping at him. Then all was quiet. The goons were afraid they would hit the boss on the bumper.
Slowly Bolan accelerated in reverse. He could hear someone screaming. It was Franconi.
