But he would get Demoines. Bolan made himself that promise. Now was not the time, not with so many guns pointed at him and the others, not with the KGB plot still unresolved. Right now he would act the role of the soldier, but sooner or later Clip Demoines would know him for what he really was, the Executioner.
'You bastard!' Shawnee screamed and sprang at Demoines.
A beefy goon in a red sweatshirt grabbed Shawnee by the arm. She snapped a knee into his crotch and he doubled over. Breaking away from his grip, she continued toward Demoines.
Demoines raised his gun.
Bolan leaped at Shawnee, clamping his arms around her chest and lifting her off her feet. She struggled against him, arms and legs flailing with grief and anger.
Bolan hugged her close, pinning her arms to her sides. 'Easy,' he whispered. 'Wait.' He could feel the fluttering of her heart where his wrist was pressed against her chest. Slowly, she calmed herself down, finally nodding to him to release her.
He did.
Her breathing was still ragged as she glared at Demoines, but she didn't move.
'See what I mean?' Demoines said. 'You can't expect me to believe that women are the Savannah Swingsaw. Look how emotional you got just because I killed one of your friends. If it wasn't for the big guy there, I'd have had to kill you, too.' Demoines stepped over the splayed legs of Belinda. Her short blond hair was sticky with blood. 'Now, I'll ask again. Where is the rest of your group? Who do you work for? Another syndicate? The Gallano brothers from Memphis?'
'She told you the truth,' Bolan said, keeping his voice flat and toneless. 'This is the Swingsaw. They just broke me and my buddy out of jail. Check it out.'
Demoines smiled. 'I don't know why, but people never take me seriously. Even though I went to Harvard. When my parents got killed in a car crash, I got sent to my Uncle Dom. He was younger than Dad, hipper. Wanted me to learn the new ways, but not forget the old ones, the ones that got us the money and power in the first place. So he sends me off to Harvard for my MBA.' He stepped up to Bolan, his face solemn. 'Maybe that's why you aren't taking me serious.'
'Oh, I take you serious,' Bolan said. 'Dead serious.'
Demoines smiled. 'Yeah? Well, we'll see.' He nodded at one of his men, the one whom Shawnee had kneed. Without hesitation the man opened the closet door. Inside, Bolan could see boxes of ammunition, the black outfits complete with hoods, axes, a couple of chain saws. The goon lifted one of the chain saws up and handed it to Demoines. The Executioner looked at the pile of guns, the bike pack with grenades that had been taken away from them when they'd entered the cabin.
Too far away; too many guns pointed at them.
'We told you what you want to know,' Bolan said. 'Using that won't get you anything more.'
'No? We'll see. Hell, even if you're right, I'll have the fun of doing to you guys what you've done to my places. That's a good advertisement to keep anyone else from trying the same thing, wouldn't you agree?' Demoines gripped the saw's front handlebar, flipped the toggle switch and pulled the cord. The motor's growl filled the small cabin room. He wrapped his other hand around the rear handle-grip and pressed the trigger. The cutter links hummed as they sped around the long flat guide bar. Demoines waved the buzzing saw in Bolan's face, hovering near the ears. 'Just a little off the sides, friend?' he said, chuckling. 'A trim?'
Bolan didn't move. His icy gaze was fixed on Demoines's eyes as if they were alone in that room.
'Nah,' Demoines said, pulling the saw away from Bolan. 'I have a feeling I could cut off just about anything and you wouldn't talk. Maybe with one exception. I'll get to you later. Right now, let's start with someone else.' He looked over the group, examining each as if he was judging a beauty contest. He waved the churning saw in each of their faces, but none flinched. Lynn yawned. 'Tough broads,' he said. Then he looked at Dodge Reed.
Bolan knew Reed wasn't up to this. The kid had held up pretty well so far, considering all he'd been through. But the murder of Belinda had put him in a state of shock. Now with Demoines waving that chain saw in his face, there was no telling what would happen.
'I'd advise you not to move,' Demoines said, 'not even an inch.'
Dodge Reed, his pale face slicked with sweat, his eyes wide with fear, stood bolt straight as Demoines inched the whining saw closer and closer to him. Reed wasn't even breathing, afraid that would cause him to move.
Demoines teased the trigger, starting the cutters grinding, then stopping, grinding, stopping. He eased the saw closer until the cutters were resting lightly against Reed's chest. 'Got anything to say, son?'
The young man looked helplessly to Bolan. 'Tell him! Please!'
'I did, kid. He just wants to have his sick fun.'
Demoines smiled at Reed. 'He's right, you know. This is fun.' And he squeezed the trigger.
The saw whizzed to life, chewing up the front of Reed's prison shirt, just barely nicking the skin enough to draw blood. Then Demoines released the trigger.
'Leave the kid alone, Demoines,' the Executioner growled. Bolan had to admire Reed.
Tears were streaming down his cheeks, yet he stood his ground. Others might have fainted, dropped to their knees to beg. Even terrified, he managed to hold himself together. But Bolan realized that wouldn't be good enough. Next time, Demoines would shove that saw straight into Reed's chest.
'Gutsy kid,' Demoines said, ignoring Bolan's words. 'Let's see what the loudmouth big guy is made of.' He turned away from Reed, smiling, but there was no humor in his face. It was hate. He pressed the trigger and started the saw whirring as he walked slowly toward Bolan, the saw aimed at Bolan's chest. One of the nearby goons took a step back as if he was afraid of being splashed with blood.
Everyone was staring at the churning cutters, mesmerized by their nasty sound and motion.
Bolan didn't move.
Demoines was grinning now, his black Sicilian eyes gleaming under the crop of bleached blond hair.
He was less than two feet from Bolan's heart.
The Executioner exploded into action.
While everyone was staring at the blade, Bolan spun out of the way, leaping at the nearest Mafia soldier. Bolan seized his wrist and shoved the startled man directly at Demoines. It all happened too fast for Demoines or the goon to react.
But not the saw.
The thug's hand slammed right into the cutters in a splatter of blood and bone. The saw hummed hungrily, chomping through the wrist until the gunhand dropped to the floor with a thud, the weapon skittering to within a few feet of Bolan.
The wounded man held up his handless wrist, blood making darker stains on his red sweatshirt. He ran toward the other goons, holding up his stump as if pleading for help. Taken by surprise they dodged him, as if afraid what he had might be catching. He crashed wildly into one hardguy, knocking him over.
Demoines was so startled he dropped the saw.
A couple of his men regained their composure enough to aim their guns in Bolan's direction.
But the Executioner was moving again.
He dived to the floor and scooped up the dropped gun, then rolled onto his side and firing upward.
His first two shots dropped two henchmen.
'Kill them!' Demoines bellowed, running for cover of the sofa near the fireplace. 'Kill them all!'
But it wasn't that easy. Shawnee, Rita and Lynn were also moving now, scavenging the dead bodies for weapons, returning fire. Dodge Reed managed to get one of the guns and began blasting away, never coming close to hitting anyone, but making enough noise to help scatter the Mafia scum.
'Out!' Bolan commanded, yanking open the front door and waving the others through.
One of Demoines's men popped up from behind a highback recliner and fired at Bolan, missing him by inches. Shawnee stopped, went into her double-grip stance and blew the side of his face off from scalp to ear. Panic and adrenaline caused her to fire two more shots into the already dead body.
'Come on, Shawnee!' Bolan urged her.
She took a deep breath, turned and dashed through the door. Rita. St. Clair and Lynn Booker followed. Only Bolan and Reed remained.
Bolan ran back into the room, picked up the two S&W .357's and stuffed them into his pants.
