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  “Bastards...” a prisoner weakly growled, pulling out a sharpened toothbrush.

  Without a qualm, the warden shot the man in the face with his 9 mm Glock pistol. The copper-jacketed round punched a neat hole into the middle of his forehead and the back of his head exploded across the wall in a ghastly spray of bone, brains and blood.

  The sound of the discharged weapon echoed through the swirling clouds as the group continued farther along the railed overlook.

  “Everybody saw him threaten me with a deadly weapon, right?” O’Hara said, proceeding deeper into the murky darkness.

  “Absolutely,” the chief guard muttered. “Is was you or him. There was no choice.”

  Unexpectedly, a gust of wind blew into the prison, thinning out the sleeping gas and revealing a tremendous hole in the wall.

  Another gust of wind briefly cleared the air and the warden could see outside the prison: the exercise yard, dog runs and the smashed electric fence. Then the wall vents loudly hissed, issuing a fresh volume of the foggy chemical.

  “Dozens of the sons of bitches must be over the foothills by now!” a guard muttered, both hands twisting on the assault rifle. “We’re gonna need the freaking Army to help herd them back into the cells!”

  “What cells?” another guard asked, glancing backward at the sagging doors and cracked walls.

  “Wait a minute, this is all wrong,” the chief guard stated, moving the beam of his flashlight along the broken masonry.

  “What do you mean, sir?” a guard asked, nudging a headless body on the floor with his boot.

  “I know explosives. I blew a lot of bridges in Korea,” the chief guard said, instinctively touching the gray at his temples. “And these patterns...the striations...” He turned toward the warden. “Sir, these walls weren’t blown in—”

  “They were blown out,” O’Hara finished, advancing to the gaping hole. The triple layer of bricks, concrete and cinder blocks was more than a yard thick. It would be impossible for a prisoner to dig through or to blow up by any form of homemade explosive.

  Looking up, the warden made an inarticulate noise at the sight of another hole in the ceiling. The full moon was only partially visible, and then not at all as a cloud lazily drifted into view.

  “That fucking helicopter...” a guard said in sudden understanding. “It blew a hole in the roof—”

  “So that it could safely fire down into the prison and blow out the main wall,” the chief guard finished in a tight voice. “This isn’t a goddamn escape!”

  In the distance, a machine gun chattered and a man screamed.

  “This was a rescue,” O’Hara whispered, the words almost lost in the cold night wind.

  Chapter 2

  Columbus, Ohio

  Gently braking the car to a full stop, Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, turned off the headlights and killed the engine.

  Waiting a few moments for his sight to become adjusted to the darkness of the side street, he checked the 9 mm Beretta machine pistol hidden under his trench coat. There was nobody in sight on the rain-damp streets, aside from a small dog nosing through some trash in the gutter.

  It was a cool night and the air smelled of fresh rain. The sky was full of bright stars, but none of the buildings in the area showed any light through their closed windows. But then, this was a “depressed area.” That was the new politically correct way of saying slum these days, but Bolan preferred to call things by their proper name. A spade was a spade, not an entrenching tool or a “dirt relocation device.” There were very few shades of gray in a soldier’s world. Almost everything was black or white. Good or bad. Yes or no. Alive or dead. Combat was the ultimate binary experience, which was probably why Bolan disliked mystery so much.

  After hearing about the gas explosion at the Preston Penitentiary a few days earlier, Bolan had been more than a little surprised to learn from his network of contacts that James Winslow was on the streets of Ohio again. That was rather impressive, since Winslow had been listed among the dead at the penitentiary. That meant that either his network was wrong, Winslow was a zombie or something very odd had occurred at Preston.

  Considering the fact that the state penitentiary held some of the most ruthless killers alive, if there had been a mass escape, Bolan needed to have an answer as soon as possible. That translated into a fast trip to Ohio and a quick visit with James Monroe Winslow, aka “Jimmy the Snake.”

  Bright lights splashed across the side street as a delivery truck rumbled past. Taking that as his cue, Bolan tucked the key under the floor mat and got out. If he came back in a hurry, the last thing Bolan wanted was to fumble for the keys. Timing was everything in battle. Even a soft recon like this. And if he didn’t come back, the soldier wanted the car easy for the locals to steal. The company he had rented it from was a front for a car-theft ring, and having a vehicle stolen from them was just the wheel of life.

  The neighborhood was calm and rather peaceful at this hour of the night. The homes and buildings were old, but in relatively good condition. There was only the gentle wind and the howl of a train in the distance. Walking along the damp sidewalk, Bolan could actually hear his own footsteps and the click of the traffic lights changing colors. Unlike a Hollywood movie, there was no music playing anywhere. A stereo merely told the crackheads whom to rob. True poverty was silent.

  Turning the corner, Bolan felt a low heavy beat on his cheeks a moment before he heard the muffled music. Set off by itself in the middle of a vacant block, the Snake Bar and Grill radiated a steady thumping that filled the damp night air with a tangible presence. Bolan felt pity for the neighbors. Sleep was probably a rare commodity anywhere near the illegal tavern.

  The source of the music was a converted warehouse, the windows covered with plywood and the front gate chained shut. Going around to the rear, Bolan found a large man in a Navy peacoat sitting on a concrete loading dock. Smoking a cigarette, the guard barely looked up at Bolan’s approach.

  “Private party tonight. Get lost,” he said, gesturing with the cigarette. A thin trail of white smoke exactly copied the movements of the tattoo-covered hand before fading away.

  “Yeah, I know,” Bolan said, pulling out a stun gun and firing.

  As the twin barbs buried themselves into the guard’s neck, he gasped in surprise, then shuddered as half a million volts surged through him. The cigarette fell from his fingers and he slumped over unconscious before it hit the cracked pavement.

  Hauling the unconscious body into the shadows, Bolan propped the man up against an iron-pipe railing. The ruse wouldn’t fool anybody for very long, but the soldier only needed a couple of minutes alone with Jimmy.

  Pulling open the door to the basement, Bolan was hit with a palpable explosion of music, smoke and heat. The air smelled of weed, sweat, beer and cheap perfume.

  A long hallway led past a small room full of coatracks. A pretty young woman was leaning on a Formica countertop, noisily chewing gum and filing nails the color of a freshly gutted pig.

  “Check your coat, sir?” she said in a bored voice, popping the gum. Then she smiled at Bolan, arching her back to thrust out her breasts. As she was wearing only cut-off jeans and a bikini top, there really was no need for the posturing, but Bolan appreciated the courtesy.

  “You’ll thank me later for this,” he said, using the stun gun again.

  Without a sound the young woman dropped behind the counter and Bolan continued onward, then paused and returned to stuff a fistful of cash into a wicker tip basket. Compensation for the headache she would have in the morning. Bolan had felt no such compulsion for the armed guard outside; he was a legitimate target this night. But the young woman was merely an employee.

  Bolan would have ordered her to leave if he thought it might have worked. But more than likely, she would have started screaming and then the body cou
nt would rise to unacceptable levels. His visit was a soft probe for intel, not a blitz. Fast in, fast out. With luck, he wouldn’t have to draw his gun.

  At the end of the hallway was a padded leather door lined with shiny brass studs. Brightly colored light flickered underneath and Bolan could see the surface move slightly from the thunderously loud music on the other side. Showtime. Reaching up, he smashed the overhead lightbulb, then eased open the door and slipped inside. Almost instantly he started to sweat from the heat.

  Ready for anything, Bolan looked over the underground tavern. A short flight of stairs led to the main floor, and every table was full of people laughing, drinking and smoking. The walls were covered with cheap wood paneling and decorated with diamond-shaped mirrors. The ceiling was bare concrete and the floor was covered with sawdust and peanut shells.

  A long bar dominated the opposite wall; a bald man pulled beer for the customers from a tap bearing the logo of a brewery long out of business. Waitresses in very short skirts maneuvered through the noisy crowd gathering empty glasses and dispensing fresh drinks with the speed and skill of stage magicians.

  The crowd was an even mixture of men and women in casual clothing, jeans and T-shirts, mostly. But there were also a couple of bikers still wearing their heavy leather jackets in spite of the oppressive heat. Dutifully, Bolan marked them as possible trouble.

  A group of men was shooting pool in the far corner, a similar cluster of older women played dominos near an empty fireplace. A young man and a woman—correction—two women were passionately kissing near the entrance to the lavatory, and an old-fashioned jukebox pumped out a disco tune from another era. In spite of everything, Bolan grudgingly approved of the place. If he was an ordinary man, this was exactly the kind of establishment he’d patronize to relax after a hard day’s work and knock back a few cold beers with some friends.

  Suddenly the door to the lavatory swung open, bright fluorescent light sweeping across the tavern.

  “Jesus H. Christ, what is this shit?” a man said as the door swung shut once more. Weaving slightly, his words were slurred. “I’m only gone for a minute, this is what starts playing?”

  Without turning, one of the women slammed a fist directly into the face of the drunk. With a strangled cry, he dropped to the floor.

  “This is Jimmy’s homecoming party!” the muscular blonde growled, brandishing a bloody fist. “So he can listen to anything he wants. Understand?”

  “Yeah, sure, no problem,” the man muttered, both hands holding his nose.

  With a curt nod, she went back to her waiting partner.

  Moving behind a large plastic fern, Bolan scanned the crowd for Winslow. The cloud of smoke was too thick for him to make an easy ID, so he watched the older of the two waitresses, betting that she would be serving the guest of honor.

  Snagging an expensive bottle of imported Maker’s Mark whiskey, the busty redhead moved quickly across the room, her hips in constant motion to avoid bumping into the tables and the fumbling hands of drunks.

  “Here you go, Jimmy,” she announced, setting the bottle on a small table in the corner. “Compliments of the house!”

  “Thanks, Lucille.” Everything Winslow wore was denim: shirt, vest, pants and even the shoes. There was an oversize military watch on his left wrist and the checkered grip of a large automatic pistol peeked out from inside the open vest.

  “Last one, though,” Lucille added, resting the tray on a hip. “We’re glad to have you back, but there’s still rent to pay.”

  “Not a problem, darling.” Winslow chuckled. Producing a large roll of cash, he peeled off a couple bills and stuffed them into a pocket of her apron. “Keep the change!”

  “For Maker’s Mark?” Lucille laughed, retrieving the cash. “What change, ya cheap bastard?”

  “Bitch, bitch, bitch.”

  “Yes, I know I am. But what are you?”

  “Free!” Winslow shouted, spreading his arms wide.

  At those words, Bolan almost smiled. Target acquired. He wasn’t worried about the gun. Most cons got a weapon the moment they were out of prison, and Winslow was known to favor hand cannons, the bigger the better. Guns with bullets powerful enough to stop a cop in full body armor.

  Not kill, of course. Winslow talked a lot of bullshit, but as far as Bolan knew, the little man had never taken a life. Which was the one, and only, reason why the Snake was still wiggling and had not been stomped into the dirt a very long time ago.

  Settling back into his chair, Jimmy the Snake draped his arms across the bare shoulders of two very drunk women. One of them had an eye closed as if struggling to stay awake and the other was having a great deal of trouble applying the flame of her butane lighter to the cigarette in her mouth.

  Both women were painfully skinny with abnormally huge breasts. Their hair was bleached to the point of death and their makeup had been applied thickly.

  “Drink?” Winslow asked, proffering the bottle.

  “Abso-freaking-lutely,” slurred one of the women, wiggling her eyebrows.

  Taking away the butane lighter, Winslow tossed it over a shoulder. Topping off her glass, he refilled his own. “To freedom!” He laughed, clicking glasses.

  Immediately, Bolan started down the stairs and across the room. The last thing he wanted was the man too drunk to answer his questions.

  * * *

  LOADING HER TRAY with several mixed drinks, Lucille caught the subtle movement near the entrance. Turning, she beamed a wide smile at the new customer, then paused, uncertain. Striding across the tavern was a big man, very handsome in a rugged sort of way. He was easily over six feet tall and had the wide shoulders of a professional boxer. She liked that. Nothing wrong with a bit of beefcake!

  Unfortunately, the newcomer was dressed all in black, and she could tell from the way he moved that the man was packing heat. He headed straight for Jimmy. Oh, shit.

  “Give me a b-b-banana daiquiri, Fred,” she muttered, backing away until bumping into the wall.

  Looking up from drawing a beer, the bartender frowned. “What did you just say?” he demanded.

  “Banana daiquiri, ya dipshit!” Lucille whispered tersely, then jerked her chin toward the entrance.

  Glancing in that direction, Fred frowned and hauled an old pump-action shotgun from behind the bar.

  “Call the cops,” Lucille hissed. “Please!”

  “Not a chance,” he growled, working the pump to chamber a cartridge, which was as far as he got.

  A split second later the weapon suddenly flew out of his grip. With a cry, Fred grabbed his bleeding hand and stumbled into the wall shelves. A dozen bottles smashed under his weight, then the boards tilted and more of them slid off to crash on the bare floor.

  All conversation stopped at the noise and Bolan drew both pistols and fired. The .50 Desert Eagle boomed louder than thunder and a chattering stream of high-velocity rounds poured from the Beretta. In the far corner the jukebox violently exploded, rainbow-colored disks flying everywhere, fat electrical sparks crawling through the smashed stereo equipment like mad insects.

  As the music died, everybody stared aghast at Bolan slapping a fresh magazine into the Beretta.

  “I’m not a cop!” he announced loudly, then fired a single round. Over at the pool table, a man cried out as the Bowie knife in his hand spun away.

  Everybody started raising their hands in surrender, except for a couple of the older patrons who placed their hands flat on the table to show they were unarmed.

  “Bastard cops never gonna take me alive!” a bald biker snarled, dragging out a TEC-9 from inside his battered leather jacket.

  The weapon never cleared before Bolan fired. The thunderous discharge of the Desert Eagle rattled glasses behind the bar, and the TEC-9 exploded, loose rounds and broken pieces scattering as the cursing bik
er hugged his broken hand to his chest.

  “Those were rubber bullets!” Bolan announced, sweeping the two weapons across the startled crowd. “However, the next ones are armor-piercing rounds, and I’ll blow the head off anybody who stands between me and Jimmy Winslow!”

  “Bullshit,” a bald man snarled as he stood, aiming a Skorpion M61 machine pistol at the Executioner.

  Without expression, Bolan fired from the hip. The stream of 9 mm Parabellum bullets stitched a line of bloody holes across the gunner’s chest. His arms flailing, the dead man slammed into the wall, shattering several of the diamond mirrors before collapsing to the sawdust and going still forever.

  Instantly chairs and tables loudly scraped as the crowd moved to clear a path between the two men. Deathly pale, Winslow sat at his table, sipping whiskey as if it was a matter of national importance.

  Bolan gestured with both weapons and the crowd moved farther back. Starting forward, he paused to extend the Desert Eagle toward a woman with her hands out of sight below the table. In extreme slow motion, the woman raised her arms to show empty hands. Satisfied, Bolan flicked the Desert Eagle toward the exit and she scrambled from the table and up the stairs.

  “If anybody else wants to leave,” Bolan growled, “now is the time!”

  There was a brief pause, and then everybody surged into action, shoving and pushing their way to reach the exit. In only a few moments, Bolan was alone with Winslow.

  “So what’s the deal?” Winslow asked, wiping the back of a hand across his mouth. “This ain’t no hit ’cause I’m still breathing.”

  “You always were a smart man, James,” Bolan said, holstering the Beretta and pulling around a chair.

  “Always?” Winslow asked with a scowl. “We know each other?”

  “Absolutely.”