Blood Dues

Ha

Joey Stomps was lethal, right. And at the moment, he belonged to Tommy Drake.

That told the ex-detective everything he had to know, and it increased his grim resolve to take the killers with him as a last resort.

They were merging onto Flagler, ru

Okay. The enemy was closing out his options, leaving him with only one alternative.

The traffic started thi

"Slow down, goddammit! We're not taking any tickets."

Ha

Ha

"Ease off, you bastard!"

Ha

Stompanato's sidekick had the rearview mirror blocked, his face a twisted panic mask, but Ha

The starboard window powered down, and Ha

Stompanato's backup was alone, and even as Ha

Ha

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Firebird's sleek nose lining up with the Buick's, and he waited for the bullet to core his skull. The backup man would panic, try to stop him with a flying shot, and the ex-policeman was gratified to know it would not matter in the least. When he died, the Buick would continue on for a hundred yards or so before his dead weight locked the steering wheel and sent them over in a devastating barrel roll.

All that flashed through Ha

There was no shot. Instead the Firebird pulled away, outdistancing the Buick and leaving them behind.

Abruptly, up ahead, the sportster cut in front of him, its brake lights winking on. Instinctively, John Ha

The Buick started climbing, drive wheels chewing turf and spitting gravel. They were drifting, sliding, slowly losing ground, the engine choking, stalling out.

They had him.

Ha

The Smith & Wesson roared behind him, and he felt its fiery breath against his cheek before he tumbled momentarily out of range. The heavy bullet pushed its shock waves past his face.

And he was scrambling on his hands and knees now, struggling to gain his feet and knowing if he did that he would make a perfect target for the pistoleros.

In his panic, Ha

The new arrival reached him, passed him, breaking for the Buick with an autoloading pistol in his fist. Beyond him, Joey Stompanato was a hulking silhouette emerging from the driver's door, his Magnum probing emptying air.

The newcomer hit a crouch and snapped his automatic out to full arm's length, the weapon's silencer emitting muffled popping sounds. The Stomper crumpled backward, streaming liquid traces of himself across the inside of the windshield.

The stranger pivoted, acquiring target number two before the back-seat gu

The sole surviving shooter doubled back, already holstering the autoloader underneath his jacket.

"Time to go," he said. "You ready, Ha

2

"Do we know each other?"

Mack Bolan, in the driver's seat, glanced over at his passenger.

"We've never met," he answered.

They had never met face to face, but in the early days of Bolan's war against the Mafia their paths had crossed. John Ha

The man who sat beside Mack Bolan now was different, aged. It showed around his eyes, in graying hair and in the hard set of his mouth. He was a man with troubles, right, and Ha

"You saved my ass back there," John Ha

"You owe me nothing."

"Well, I'd like to shake your hand, at least." They shook, and Ha

Bolan had the answer ready. "Frank LaMancha. And you seemed worth saving."

"Are you federal?"

"Not exactly," Bolan answered, skating in as close to candor as he dared. "I think we have a common interest."

Ha

When he broke his silence Ha

The Executioner was well ahead of him.