Vegas Vendetta

"I don't think I can walk," the man groaned.

"Legs broken?" Bolan inquired gruffly.

The guy shook his head. "No. But weak… hell, I'm so weak."

"It's walk or die, soldier," Bolan snapped. He retrieved the money cases and stepped off into the same direction the jeep had taken, down the mountainside. "It's downhill all the way, if that's any comfort," he added, glancing back to see if the guy was following.

He was, but slowly and with difficulty. Bolan scowled and tossed one of the cases down the mountain, then he swung back to wrap an arm about the man's chest.

"Arm over the neck," he instructed him. "Come on, dammit, let's shake it."

The injured man showed his liberator a twisted smile. "For once we're walking away together," he panted, letting Bolan take most of his weight. "You haven't recognized me, huh?" he mumbled a moment later as they lurched and slid along the steep incline.

"Mud," Bolan growled.

"What?"

"Your name is mud, soldier, and so is mine if we haven't cleared this area in another few seconds. So save your breath for what's important."

"Not mud," the guy croaked. "Lyons. I'm Carl Lyons, Bolan." And with that he passed out and became deadweight in Bolan's arms.

The tall man in combat black emitted a startled grunt, and let the money case slide away as he hoisted the unconscious figure onto his shoulder.

Someone up there was rolling loaded dice into an executioner's destiny.

He'd come to this mountainside seeking a contribution to his deflated war-chest. It had been a perfect ttrike, right on the numbers. Then all of a sudden he had lost interest in war-chests and all the sk in the mob could throw at him.

So he was walking away with nothing but a half-dead cop on his hands.

The Executioner had no regrets. Loaded dice or no, it had been an entirely worthwhile fifty seconds.

Chapter Two

Directions to the front

Joe "the Monster" Sta

In his early years, Sta

Intelligence gleaned by interested federal officials indicated that Sta

None would argue that Joe the Monster Sta

And now Joe the Monster was standing woodenly in the midst of a disaster area and scowling at the incredible carnage visited upon that mountainside. In the illumination provided by several pairs of vehicle headlamps, a small collection of hardmen from the hilltop retreat prowled the scene with shotguns and Thompson automatics, making a body count, identifying the dead and trying to pull together some understanding of what had transpired there.

A gun-crew chief spun away from the blackened and smoking hulk of a skimwagon and called over, "It was a heist all right, Joe. There ain't no sign of money. Them boxes was fireproof. And they ain't here."

Sta

"Jeez I du

"Well I want a headcount!" Stu

"You don't think some of our own boys..."

"Shut up what I think! Don't tell me what I think! Where the hell is Georgie Palazzo and his boys, huh? I don't like the way they just up and disappear, right when all hell is breakings I wanta know..."

"Down here!" came a cry from the darkness behind Sta

The enforcer jerked a thumb toward the distant voice and commanded the crewchief, "Go check it out!"

The head gu

"You got nothing out of him?" the enforcer rumbled.

The man shook his head. "Not from his mouth.— But he had this in his fist." He handed over a metallic object and stepped back to a respectful distance.

Sta

"That's what you call a marksman's medal," the hardman replied. 'This was a Bolan hit, Joe."

"Bolan? Stu

The soldier swallowed nervously and took another retreating step. "It sure looks like it, Joe. Those things are his business cards, those medals. He always leaves one. I was down in Miami when..."

"Awright iwright!" Sta

The other soldiers maintained a discreet distance as Joe the Monster plowed through the remains of his skim convoy. Someone muttered, "Watch it, Joe is pissed."

The crewchief and his small party reappeared on the roadway and crossed grimly to the other side to make their unhappy report to the boss. Sta

"Don't fuck around with this junk! Shove that stuff off the road and get these dead boys up to the house!" He spun about in mid-stride to jab a quiver-ng finger toward the crewchief. "Get on the radio and tell that chopper to come on back. That guy is either long gone or he's just hanging around waiting to throw us another punch. But get everybody back to the joint. We're going hard."