break. I can make you glad you did.'
Bolan grabbed an outstretched hand and jerked her to her feet, then pushed her towards the door. 'Downstairs,' he muttered.
She planted her feet at the door and looked back over a soft shoulder at him. 'Like this?' she asked weakly.
'That's right,' Bolan growled. 'You walk straight through the hall and down the stairs, and don't you say a word, not one word.'
'Wh-what do you want me to do?' she asked dully.
'I just told you. I'll be watching from up here, so don't get cute.'
The blond opened the door, then turned back to Bolan in obvious confusion. 'But Ralph and his boys are down there,' she protested. 'Shouldn't I put something on first?'
Bolan placed a hand between her shoulder blades and gently shoved her on out the door. 'Just do what I told you to do.'
'Johnny'll kill you when he finds out what you did to me.'
'And when will he do that?'
'Soon as he gets back from this trip.'
'What trip?'
The blond swivelled about and regarded Bolan with a curious stare. 'Say . . . who
'I'm Mack Bolan.'
The girl's eyes flared wide. She wet her lips nervously with her tongue, said, 'Well I'll be,' and went on toward the staircase in a wooden walk. She threw a final look over her shoulder, smiled archly and, seemingly finding something perversely comforting in the sudden twist of circumstances, began humming lightly and swinging her hips in a provocatively swaying descent of the staircase. As soon as her head dropped from sight, Bolan trotted back along the hallway to the bedroom, stepped across the lifeless body, extinguished the bedlamp, and moved to the open window.
When he heard the girl's shrill voice proclaiming the presence of 'a nut, upstairs,' and the ensuing bedlam, he stepped quickly out the window and dropped to the ground. The two front men were staring curiously toward the house when Bolan touched down directly in front of them. One of them reacted immediately, clawing toward a shoulder-holster. He took Bolan's first muffled shot squarely between the eyes and fell over backwards without a sound. The other man was sprinting toward the rear of the car and jerking to free a revolver from a holster on his hip; Bolan's second shot tore into the back of his head and sent him sprawling face-down on the driveway.
Bolan added a fresh clip of ammo to the Luger as he ran for the front entrance to the house. The door was locked. He seized an iron lawn chair and heaved it through the picture-window, following closely with his own diving body. The blond stood at a far wall, gawking at him. A pair of feet hesitated on the stairway, then hastily descended. A heavy man, big pistol in hand, bent low to peer back into the living room, grunted an exclamation, and quickly swung in against the railing for firing position. Bolan got there first, however, firing from the prone position with three rapid shots up the stairwell. The heavy body jerked and sagged as two more men charged down, became entangled in the crumpled body, and slid the remainder of the descent with guns roaring wildly.
Bolan had regained his feet and was whirling to the attack, the Luger phutting unnoticeably against the louder concert of exploding weapons. The firefight was brief, and ended with a tangle of bodies at the bottom of the stairs. Bolan was inspecting them with a probing foot when a fourth man appeared at the top railing and sent a new volley spraying down. Bolan fired twice. The man fell back with a moan and his pistol crashed onto the floor below.
The blond woman, still nude, had sunk to her knees and was trembling violently. Bolan crossed to her, knelt and gripped her shoulder. He clamped down hard with the hand and said, 'About that trip . . . where is Portocci?'
'G-god I d-don't know,' she stammered. 'I th-think I'm sick. Yeah I am, I'm sick.'
Bolan moved the heat of the Luger close to her glowing flesh and said, 'I can make you a lot sicker, doll. I want some words about Portocci.'
'I told you, I don't know,' the girl moaned. 'Flying. He's flying somewhere. Some meeting. I don't know.'
'Private plane?'
'Huh?'
'How's he flying? Does he have his own plane?'
'Naw, he had reservations, that's all I know. God, I'm sick, mister, I'm sick. Let me get out of here, huh?'
'In a minute — if I get the right words. Are you Johnny Portocci's woman?'
The girl grimaced ruefully. 'Yeah, I guess — one of 'em. I got some clothes upstairs. Please let me-'
'You recognized my name a while ago when I mentioned it. How?'
She laughed shrilly. 'God, I ain't heard nothing
'But you've heard it very recently,' Bolan persisted. 'Tonight. Right?'
The girl miserably nodded her head. 'A guy called in a while ago, some restaurant, some truck stop, out east of town. Said you was eating in his joint. Freddie sent a car to check it out.'
Bolan nodded. 'And just who is Freddie?'
'He works for Johnny Musician. Fred Apostini. He's dead, you killed 'im. And all his boys. You killed 'em all.' A crafty thought reflected in her face. 'But there's a car — full out looking for you right now. You better get outta here.'
'They found me,' Bolan told her. 'They won't be coming back.'
She crumpled again, under that news. 'God, you killed them all then. Look, I'm not no moll. Johnny Musician keeps me around for kicks, that's all. Let me go, huh?'
'I want the rest of them first,' Bolan said, carefully measuring the amount of strain the girl could bear.
'God, there ain't any left! I told you! They all went off with Johnny. God, you killed all the rest o'them!'
'If I find out you've lied to me,' Bolan said ominously, 'I'll be looking you up, doll.'
'I ain't lying! Please, mister. I got my clothes upstairs. Let me get out of here, huh? Before the cops come?'
Bolan was satisfied. He said, 'Sure,' patted her shoulder, and made his exit through the shattered window. He circled to the rear and went back the way he had come, over the back wall and across the adjacent property to the side street. Houselights were coming on up and down the street. A man stepped out on his porch and curiously watched Bolan as he stripped off the black jumpsuit and got into his car.
Ten minutes and several miles later, Bolan stepped out of a public telephone booth, his face dark with speculation. The airline reservations clerk had most helpfully given him some food for thought. 'Mr. Portocci and party' had departed Phoenix earlier that evening on a flight to Miami. This information, in itself, held very little interest for The Executioner. Added, however, to several other items of intelligence he had accumulated on his trek of the past few days — and with the blond woman's disclosure; 'He's flying somewhere — some meeting . . . ' — a picture was beginning to form in Bolan's inquisitive mind, an image of palm trees and bikinis and a swank playground onto which were descending top-goncho
As he stood beside his car, pondering the possible implications of his suspicions, a police car screamed by a block away, followed closely by an ambulance. Another siren could be heard in the distance. Bolan smiled and climbed into his car. The time had come for The Executioner to take leave of the desert scene. Miami, he was thinking, should be entirely pleasant at this time of year. If he could line up a quiet air charter, he reflected, he could even get there in time for the hunting season — and, if his suspicions were correct, the Florida playground would be teeming with big game.
Bolan turned his car around and headed it toward the airport. He had tried to smash up the middle in Phoenix and it had proved at least momentarily successful. Perhaps he could smash with equal success right through the middle of the Mafia ruling council. Discovering that he was breathing very shallow, he chuckled to
