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  The Executioner took the Woodsman and using the silencer like a stick hit the underside of Tabler's bare feet.

  "Please, no!" Tabler screamed, sitting upright at once. "No more. I'll tell you what you want to know!" His screech died as he looked around and realized where he was.

  The girl sat up as well. "Damn it, Mo. Another one of your goddamn nightmares." It was then she turned and saw the big apparition in black. She stifled a scream and huddled against Tabler.

  Tabler pulled himself together fast when he saw Bolan. The ex-football pro's hand snaked under the pillow but came out empty. He shrugged. "Hell, nothing but a two-bit burglar. Okay, how much you want? Toss me my pants."

  The Executioner hit the exposed soles of fabler's feet again with the Woodsman.

  "Hell, mother! What you want?"

  "I want your ass in hell, brother," Bolan said, his voice even, deadly, almost snarling as he uttered the last word. He shoved a copy of the newspaper in front of Tabler. It showed a picture of the head-on freeway crash that killed the three girls and five others.

  "One dead big-shot heroin supplier like you isn't much to pay for the eight people you killed, but it's a start. Chicago is going to make good on the whole bill before I'm done." Bolan dropped a marksman's medal on Tabler's chest.

  "Oh, shit!"

  "Miss, you can get dressed if you want. Where Mo is going he won't need clothes."

  Tabler came lunging off the bed faster than Bolan expected. Bolan sidestepped and swung the barrel of the Woodsman down hard on the back of Tabler's thick neck. Tabler continued to move as if he did not feel the stunning blow. He tumbled to the floor, somersaulted on the carpet and came up, his hands held wide, his face filled with hatred and fear mixed in equal parts. Tension rippled the muscles in the ex-pro's superb physique.

  "Man to man, you mother! Put down the goods and take me on man to man."

  "Who juiced up those high-school girls and sent them out on the freeway?"

  "I never met them! They're not even in my territory. You're blowing wind, dude. Drop the hardware. Try me one on one!"

  "I want your dealers. Now!"

  The woman stood to one side, not trying to cover herself, watching her lover.

  "Do it, Mo! Give him the names, then we can get out of here."

  "You don't understand, woman. This is the damned Executioner. He don't play like the crooked cops. He thinks he's some kind of savior."

  Tabler rushed Bolan again, his big hands reaching out for the Executioner.

  The Beretta chugged out a silenced round. The weapon made almost the same sound as Mo Tabler did when the 9mm parabellum dug through his right shoulder and splintered a bone, lost its force and nestled deep in red tissue.

  Tabler stopped his rush, grabbed his bleeding shoulder.

  "Bastard!"

  "Think how the parents of those three high-school girls feel."

  "You get no names from me, man!"

  "I'll get them, Mo. I got all night."

  Tabler scowled. "Hell, experts worked on me in Nam. It was easier to talk than not to. What difference did it make? You'll get nothing from me."

  Bolan turned and took one step toward the woman.

  She gasped and backed against the wall.

  "Hell, no sweat, girl. This dude is too straight to touch you. You're one of the innocents, not a bad ass like me. This mother won't even touch you. You lose, Bolan."

  The Executioner swiveled and shot him in the right kneecap. Mo Tabler crumpled to the floor. He roared in agony, but Bolan stood unmoved, the Beretta ready.

  "Think about it, Tabler. Your hands are dirty. You're shit and you don't deserve to live. Give me your dealers and your pipeline contact, and I might reconsider."

  "No way!" Tabler screamed through his pain. "I owe you for this knee. You're a dead man."

  "You've got sixty seconds to decide, Mo. Then I use your left kneecap for target practice."

  "No!" He bared his teeth at Bolan and hugged his knee, then looked up. "Monique, go in the den and bring me the paper from the top right-hand drawer. Move it, baby."

  Bolan quickly positioned himself in front of the bedroom door.

  "No, Monique, we'll all go."

  It took several minutes for Tabler to struggle into the next room even with his girlfriend supporting his weight. A lighted desk lamp cast a soft glow over the leather furniture in the den. Bolan ordered Tabler to sit in the swivel chair, and told Monique to wheel it next to the door.

  Then the Executioner looked in the top right-hand desk drawer. Another.45 automatic lay there. Bolan took it and shoved it in his belt and began riffling through some papers in the desk.

  Monique shivered, asked if she could get dressed. Bolan told her not yet, and kept looking for the names.

  Tabler kept clutching his wounded knee, whimpering in pain.

  Bolan found a piece of paper showing names, addresses and phone numbers. There were twenty-four names, with three crossed off.

  Bolan folded the sheet and slipped it into a slit pocket.

  Monique realized there was only one way she could help her man. She strutted toward Bolan, her shapely nude body moving gracefully in the subdued light.

  "You want any of this, big daddy?" She thrust out her chest and wiggled her shoulders, making her big breasts dance delightfully. "Looks like my man is out of action and all this excitement has just turned me on. Mo won't be any good to me for a long time." She pressed her nipples against Bolan. She started to put her arms around him.

  That was when Mo Tabler made a desperate move. Ignoring his pain, he rushed toward Bolan again, grabbing for the.44 AutoMag on Bolan's hip. The Executioner leaped back, pushed the woman away and felt Tabler's hands tugging at Big Thunder. The Executioner triggered the 93-R on full auto, the three slugs printing a tight triangle of death on Mo Tabler's chest. The black drug dealer jolted backward from the force of the rounds, tumbled to the floor and died as he reached out to his woman for help.

  Monique sat on the floor where she had fallen, staring in surprise and wonder at Tabler's silent form. His eyes were open, gazing at the ceiling but seeing nothing. Then Monique screamed.

  Mack Bolan quietly closed the den door, left the apartment and hurried to the elevator. He had some new ammunition, some new names. He would turn the Windy City into an inferno of dying drug dealers, pushers and suppliers. Fire would raze Chicago once more — Bolan fire.

  11

  At 4:00 a.m. the Executioner found a spot well away from the busy streets of Chicago. He locked the doors on the rented Ford Tempo, stretched out in the seat as best he could and closed his eyes. As a sniper in Vietnam the warrior had learned to condition his body to patrol sleep. In this mode he was not actually sleeping. He floated in a world of neither full consciousness nor deep slumber.

  It was an efficient way to rest the body and let the mind take some R and R at the same time.

  Trucks rumbled by on early-morning deliveries and a few cars sped past. Neither disturbed Bolan. A drunk staggering down the block touched the Tempo's rear fender for support, and the sudden movement of the car jolted Bolan alert. Quickly he found the source of the disturbance, and his hand relaxed on the Beretta resting in his lap. He watched as the drunk pushed himself off the car, straightened his grubby jacket and, stepping high, unsure how far away the ground was from his feet, careened on down the street. Bolan caught another two hours of patrol sleep.

  It was nearly eight o'clock when he awoke. The big city was humming. After breakfast Bolan prepared to zero in on the third name on his list. The drug dealer was also a corner grocery-store owner a block from a high school.

  Bolan shuffled into the little store on the first floor of a four-story apartment house. He had a dirty handkerchief to his nose and kept sniffling. He wore a shabby overcoat he had found in the trash and had smeared dirt on his face. His eyes were red and watering because he had rubbed them hard a moment before he went in. By hunching over and shivering now and then, he gave the im
pression of an addict who needed a fix in a rush.

  The store owner, in his forties and wearing a dirty, knee-length coverall, scowled when he saw Bolan holding a ten-dollar bill in his grimy hand.

  "You got a twenty we can talk," Joseph Dabrowski said. "You ain't got the bread, get outa here."

  "I need to score."

  "Look, buddy, can't you keep it together when you come around here? I got regular customers too." Still the proprietor, never one to lose a sale, motioned with his head.

  "In the back," he said.

  Bolan licked his lips and nodded. They went through a curtain-covered doorway and the Executioner showed him another ten-spot. Dabrowski grabbed both and entered a second room. He was back a moment later with a package folded from a magazine page.

  "Just what I need," Bolan said, the slurred speech gone, his eyes now angry, steel-blue and deadly. A six-inch stiletto in his hand lifted and touched Dabrowski's forehead.

  "How many pushers do you have working, big man?" Bolan asked.

  Dabrowski tried to pull back, but the tip of the thin knife punctured the skin on his forehead and he froze in place. His eyes were shifting wildly, seeking help, trying for an explanation.

  "Who…?"

  "Some call me The Executioner."

  The man's hand darted inside his coverall, digging for hardware. But he never made it.

  Bolan drove the razor-sharp blade into the dealer's neck. A crimson fountain erupted, the drops making an irregular polka-dot pattern on the once-white coat.

  Dabrowski grunted in surprise and his head sagged as Bolan stepped back, letting the body fall. He dropped a marksman's medal beside the corpse and continued out the back door into the alley and walked two blocks over to his car.

  The big warrior was moving on, blowing a fresh breeze through the Windy City. By the time he was finished, every dealer and pusher in town would be looking over his shoulder, afraid he'd be the next on the Executioner's hit parade.

  Bolan picked the next name on the list. It was a mile away in a fancier neighborhood, and the address was a health spa. He had discarded the dirty overcoat he used at the grocery, washed his face clean and now wore a light blue sport shirt over his black jersey. Most of the people who passed through the door were dressed in tights or jogging clothes.

  He left the Beretta in the car and entered the workout center. There was a desk inside the door. He looked around at the facilities. About a dozen men, of all shapes and sizes, were in the weight room. An aerobics class was in session and the exercise machines were busy.

  A girl in white tights came up and smiled. She was in her early twenties, with a trim figure that the form-fitting leotard and tights showed off perfectly. Every curve and muscle showed beneath the tightly stretched fabric.

  "So what do you think? Like to sign up for a six-month membership? We're having a special, only $119 for six months. Can I sign you up?"

  "Sure. But first I'm looking for someone. Liman Rogers."

  She picked up the receiver and punched an extension number. She spoke a few words, then cradled the instrument. She pointed the way to Roger's office. Bolan went through swinging doors beyond the weight room into a hall and to the only office at the end. It was big, with a couch, a small refrigerator and a huge desk. Rogers looked up when the Executioner came in.

  "Yes?"

  "Mr. Rogers, I'm desperate. Got me about twenty gung hos out there and my dealer gets himself smashed up in a car wreck. My people are in need! You're the only contact I know of who can help me fast."

  "Who the hell said?" Rogers was big and had done his time on the weights. He looked solid, but it was all cold iron, not body-contact work.

  Bolan shrugged. "Hell, it's around. Be in the business long enough and you hear things, get to know people. Can you help me? I got to move damn fast."

  Rogers sat in his chair, took out a small package and tapped out three short rows of cocaine on his desk top. With a razor blade he pushed the coke into long thin lines. He used a drinking straw and snorted the coke up one side of his nose and then the other. He blinked away tears and wiped his eyes dry. They took on a new glint. Rogers shrugged.

  "How much shit you talking?"

  "For fifteen, sometimes seventeen people. All I can manage. You got the stuff right here?"

  "You outa your mind? What's your name?"

  "Mack."

  "Okay, Mack, follow me out back."

  They went through a side door into an alley. Parked behind the health club was a twenty-foot motor home. Liman unlocked it and swept an imaginary hat off, ushering Bolan inside.

  "You do just coke or horse?" the guy asked.

  "Anything you got. My people are hurting." Bolan laughed wildly, watching Rogers. The other man joined in the laugh, then pulled out the drawers of a cabinet. Bolan had never seen so huge a stash of illegal drugs before. A cold fury traveled through his gut when he realized what he was looking at.

  The Executioner half-turned away from Rogers, then pivoted, his right hand swinging around flat and hard, the edge slamming into Roger's throat, crushing the man's windpipe. The hopped-up pusher stumbled backward, gurgling something unintelligible, his eyes glazed, bulging, as he clutched his throat.

  Before Rogers could assess the damage, Bolan's right fist shot out in the narrow corridor of the motor home. The punch traveled only a short distance, Bolan's arm not fully extended, but the blow carried all his weight behind it. His knuckles impacted on Rogers's forehead, above the eyes, shattering bone and caving in his brow. He sagged to the floor, the massive damage to his brain slowly signaling a shutdown of the entire system. Twenty seconds later he was dead.

  Bolan searched the rig quickly. He spotted a Coleman burner and a butane gas bottle. He found some matches and lit the portable stove, then laid the apparatus on the small couch so the fabric began to smolder. He piled some newspapers and other flammable material on top of it, then dumped out the drawers of drugs into the mess.

  In a minute it was burning brightly. Bolan looked outside. No one was watching. He stepped out, closed the door and walked to his car before any smoke could escape from the camper.

  Now he had a decision to make. There was one Mafia drug czar in Chicago, but various Families were still free to make separate deals on the side, as long as it did not upset the balance of power. This was not like the days when Bolan first brought his purge on the lakefront mobsters. The organization was more closely knit, the rebuilding had been better than he had expected.

  One week before, when Bolan arrived in Chicago, he had tapped the syndicate underground and had learned of a meet that had been set up for today. He had phoned Carlo Genovese, special coordinator for the Chicago Mob's drug czar, and arranged an invitation to the «business» lunch being held at a local restaurant.

  Bolan had also found out that the real reason for the meeting was to talk to free-lancers who might have "extra stuff" to get rid of, from a few pounds to a hundred kilos. As with any wholesaler, the drug bosses had to make sure they had a little more than they needed. When the California pipeline broke, as it did from time to time when the Feds got into action, there had to be an alternate supply available at once. Bolan would tell them that he could be the key to such a ready supply, if they were interested.

  Bolan knew he was safe since none of the local Mafia members would know him by sight, because of the facial plastic-surgery operation he had undergone after the Central Park flameout some years before.

  Now, as he entered Mario's, he was wearing a pair of gray slacks to go with his dark blue sport coat, an open-throated blue shirt and black loafers.

  The restaurant was not full, and when Bolan told the hostess he was joining the Genovese party, he was ushered promptly to a room at the back. Two pistoleros lounged at the door. The girl pointed to the door and left quickly.

  Bolan had expected a frisk and had left all his weapons in the car.

  The Executioner stopped in front of the men and nodded.

  "Boys
, I'm Vito. I got special business with Mr. Genovese."

  "Says who?" one of them asked.

  "Says Carlo Genovese."

  The one with the smart mouth vanished through the door. The other one kept his hand close to his waist until the spokesman returned. He looked at Bolan with more respect.

  "Hardware? Ain't none permitted inside."

  "Nothing but a nail file," Bolan said, holding his arms out so the Mafia hardman could search him. A minute later Mack walked through the door into a small room with a table set for four. All four at the table turned and watched him.

  "Mr. Genovese, I'm Vito. We talked a few days ago on the phone."

  "Yes," the smallest man in the room said, "Come in, we'll get another chair."

  "Not necessary, Mr. Genovese. I know you're busy. I can double the quantity we talked about before. If it could be on a regular basis, monthly, that would be fine with me. I can show you samples by tomorrow. I understand the price is fixed by the Families, this is perfectly fine with me."

  Carlo Genovese stood smiling. "Vito, you have answered all the questions I had." He paused and looked around the table. "We're businessmen and we must have the goods or we can't sell it. A lack of merchandise is always a problem. We're thinking of stockpiling. Call me tonight about seven and I'll give you our final decision."

  Bolan nodded, turned and went out the door. He shouldered past the two hardmen and continued out of the restaurant. Mack Bolan realized he had just made visual contact with four of the top drug traffickers in Chicago: Mario Montessi, narcotics boss for the Dibartelo Family, Jack Spanno, drug man for the Spanno Family, Frank Mellini, top supplier to the syndicate in Chicago, and Carlo Genovese.

  He stood outside the eatery for some minutes, then strolled up the sidewalk, looking for crew wagons. He found one of the black Cadillacs double-parked two doors down. A wheelman sat in the driver's seat. That would be one of the Mafia cars. The meal had been about over; they should be out soon.