Don Pendleton - Poison Justice

“Yeah, I got it. I also know you’re a walking dead man.”

Bolan nudged Guardino in the spine with his weapon, heading him out the door. “I’ve heard that before. But here I am.”

The Executioner took the first thermite canister from the pocket of his windbreaker, armed and lobbed it into the office. He ordered Guardino to hustle out of there, unless he wanted to get barbecued. He pulled the pin on firebomb number two and tossed it behind the bar.

The club manager was squawking at the sight of the strewed corpses when the first explosion rocked the club. Guardino cut loose with a stream of profanity and threatening noise. A swift kick in the backside shut his mouth and got him moving for the exit. Number two blast, spewing its ravages of white phosphorous, hit Bolan’s back as he trailed Guardino into the alley.

“Fifteen minutes, not a second before, Bennie,” Bolan warned, checking his surroundings, finding he was all clear. “I might be watching you.” The hood was ready to try to get the last word in, when the Executioner added, “That should be enough time for you to put together a story.”

“What story? I’ll just tell him the truth.”

“That’ll be the problem.”

“I don’t know what your game is…”

“Cabriano. The man’s going to want to know why five of his soldiers are dead, his club’s in a pile of ashes, his money’s gone, and you’re the only one left to tell the tale.”

The look on Guardino’s face told Bolan that he finally got it.

The Executioner left him standing there to ponder his future.

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