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  As experienced as Bolan was, Massimo’s move surprised him. He grabbed Bolan’s wrist with his huge hands and bent it backward, at the same time driving his forehead forward to smash into Bolan’s face. The Executioner managed to turn his head in time to take the brunt of the blow on his cheek, saving his nose from certain breakage. Still, the impact blinded him momentarily. He tried to wrench his hand free, but Massimo gripped it with his left, using his right to shoot two powerful jabs into Bolan’s midsection.

  Bolan got a hard left into Massimo’s jaw, staggering the big man, and allowing him to wrench his right arm from the giant’s grip before it was snapped. He punched once with his right, but on impact pain lanced through it, all the way to the shoulder. Massimo returned the favor, his huge fists hard and punishing.

  Shaking off the pain, Bolan tried to sweep Massimo’s legs out from under him in an effort to get past the doorway. But Massimo’s legs were like tree trunks, his feet well spaced, his stance solid. He kept his left leg extended just enough that from his angle, Bolan couldn’t get to his groin. He aimed a snap kick at Massimo’s left leg, just below the knee. Massimo anticipated it, shifting just enough that the kick dealt only a glancing blow.

  Moving quickly, Massimo waded inside Bolan’s reach, negating the strength the soldier could put into any given punch. The big man was unstoppable, driving Bolan backward struggling for balance. Finally Bolan tried to step aside, to clear himself of Massimo’s bulk long enough to launch an effective attack, but the young killer swung both arms around like a baseball bat, catching him just as one foot left the ground. The collision knocked Bolan sideways, slamming him hard against Nuncio’s desk.

  It hurt, but it gave Bolan the instant he needed. He snatched the heavy stone lighter off the desk and fired it at Massimo, who raised a hand to block it but missed. The lighter hit him on the left side of his face and bounced away. Massimo cried out, and Bolan charged. He rained hard shots to the same cheek, a right-left-right combination that made the big man take three steps back and turn his head away.

  Bolan’s hands came back bloody. He was reaching for the Beretta to finish this when Massimo lunged again. As he did, the Executioner saw a flap of skin hanging loosely from his cheekbone, the white of bone and muscle showing beneath it. Blood painted his cheek and chin, spattering his jacket. Bolan took an off-balance shot to his left shoulder, but he paid Massimo back by slamming the butt of his palm into his adversary’s ruined cheek.

  Massimo roared in pain and hooked his left arm around Bolan’s neck, drawing him into a bear hug and punishing his opponent with a series of rights. Bolan raised his booted foot high and brought it down hard and fast on Massimo’s instep. He felt bones collapse under the weight, and Massimo’s arms went slack.

  Still, the big man wouldn’t go down, but the tide had turned. Bolan danced around him, lashing out with fists and feet, returning often to the gaping wound at Massimo’s cheek. That eye was already swelling, half shut and more. Massimo was bleeding from a dozen other wounds: a broken nose, pulped lips, a gash that split his right eyebrow. He had slowed, but every now and then he landed a powerful fist, and Bolan knew he wouldn’t want to look in a mirror anytime soon.

  Finally Massimo caught him again, one of those big hands clutching Bolan’s throat and pulling him close. Massimo’s breath was hot in his face, tasting of blood and rage. His teeth snapped an inch from Bolan’s nose, and the more the soldier struggled, the closer he drew it.

  Bolan returned to what had worked before, stomping down on the same crushed instep. This time Massimo cried out and his grip slackened. Bolan got an elbow up and smashed it into Massimo’s windpipe. For several more seconds the young killer stood gasping for breath, his hands clawing weakly at nothing, and then he pitched forward like a great redwood brought low by a lumberman’s ax.

  The Executioner watched him for a moment, collecting himself, catching his breath. Massimo twitched and writhed, but with less potency every instant. Bolan drew his Desert Eagle again and left him on the floor of his father’s office. He might live and he might die, but either way, he would do it on his own terms, without Bolan as a witness.

  Epilogue

  Bolan encountered no resistance as he descended the stairwell that led to the garage. At the bottom, the two men assigned to wait there raised weapons when he reached the door, but recognized him and lowered their guns. He tossed them a cursory nod and hurried up the exit ramp. When he got to the SUV he had driven, he started to open the driver’s door, but the sound of approaching sirens—from every direction—changed his plan. Instead, he went to the back, tossed the keys inside, removed the zippered bag and struck off on foot. He kept up a brisk pace until he reached the waterfront, then he slowed. Finding a bench, he sat and gazed out at the lake, watching the moon’s reflection shimmy in the chop of the surf. He knew the police would take care of the Mob survivors. His part was over.

  After a while he took out his phone and dialed a number. A woman answered, her voice thick with sleep.

  “Gloria,” he said, “is Eddie available?”

  “No, he’s—oh, it’s you,” she said. “I’m sorry, Matt. Since...you know, Angela, he’s been sleeping so poorly, the doctor gave him a prescription. The pills really knock him out cold.”

  “I understand,” Bolan said. “I thought he’d want to know—you both would. Sometimes it’s hard to find justice in this world, and I don’t know that I’d call it that anyway. But the pipeline—the one that Angela wound up on the end of—it’s closed.”

  “It is?”

  “I can’t say another one won’t open up sometime. But that one’s shut down for good. The people who ran it won’t run anything, ever again. That’s the best I can do.”

  Gloria’s voice sounded unutterably sad when she answered. “It’s not enough, Matt, but nothing could be, ever. That’s not your fault, though, and I know you can’t work miracles. Still, you’ve done more than we could have asked. I thank you, and I know Eddie will, too, when he hears. You can’t know how much this means to us.”

  After the call, Bolan sat on the bench awhile longer. A boat chugged across the lake, parallel to the shore, lights along its starboard side and in its wheelhouse making it look like a constellation fallen to earth.

  It wasn’t a miracle, just human beings setting out for a hard day’s work.

  But it would do.

  * * * * *

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  ISBN: 9781460313862

  Copyright © 2013 by Worldwide Library

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