When it went off there was silence on the country road for a moment. A car came up behind them, and the chief waved it back, flashing his badge at the surprised driver. The car turned and raced away.

The silence continued from the Mafia machine.

“I’ll go check it out,” the chief said.

“No, Chief. You didn’t even make the SWAT squad. I do this kind of work all the time. You keep that Uzi handy.”

Without a wasted motion, Bolan jumped into the six-foot ditch at the side of the road. He had taken no enemy fire. He bent over and ran along the ditch, two fraggers swinging on his black combat harness. Big Thunder jolted where it was tied down at his hip. He carried the French army rifle like a toy.

When he was beyond the Cadillac, he rose and looked over the lip of the ditch through some tall grass.

He saw only one man standing, and he was bleeding from the head and chest. The man turned and sent a dozen rounds from the Uzi in the ditch twenty feet away from Bolan, then dropped the weapon, let out a soft cry and collapsed.

Bolan fired two shots into the air, but without reaction from the Mafia soldiers. Slowly he moved toward the battered crew wagon. Four dead men lay on the tarmac. One other moved, wounded with shrapnel. Bolan kept the French rifle on full-auto as he ran into the scene. He checked the bodies, then looked at the man who had moved. He stared up, at Bolan with angry eyes.

“Man, they didn’t tell us it was gonna be a goddamned war! You must be that Executioner guy.”

Bolan nodded.

“Damn!” the hoodlum said, then died.

It was over. Bolan called to the chief. The cop ran around the Cadillac and stared at the massacre.

“It looks like that hill in Korea where we lost so many guys.”

“They attacked us — remember that.”

“I don’t even have a radio.”

“Let’s see if the Chevy will drive. They forgot to shoot out the tires at least. We might be able to start it.”

They got in and Bolan ground the engine three times, then it started. They headed toward the nearest telephone.

Bolan told the chief about the Mafia’s attempted takeover.

“They knew they couldn’t turn you, so you had to be killed. That’s what happened to Lieutenant Paulson yesterday. We’re almost certain that Capt. Harley Davis killed him.” Bolan continued laying it all out, about the try for Assistant Chief Jansen the day before and that two of his assistant chiefs already had been blackmailed.

“That’s the story, Chief. I’d suggest that you lie low for a day or two. Let them think they nailed you.”

Chief Smith shook his head. “It’s so much to accept at one time. Captain Davis! One of my best men. He’s taking two thousand a week.”

“Men do strange things for money, Chief.”

“But not you. You must be this Executioner we’ve been hearing about. Big story about you in the paper this morning. The FBI says to shoot you on sight.” He chuckled. “You save my life once, and then the second time. I guess you broke some laws, but I had deputized you. You were helping a law-enforcement officer in his sworn duty. But we’re in the county jurisdiction here.

“I better call the sheriff. I think I’ll stay out here somewhere. Let me make that call, then run me in to the little town up ahead. It’s got a motel and some cafes. I’ve got my credit card.”

He shook his head again and got out of the car. They were parked outside a general store. “Better make that phone call.” He rubbed his hand over his face. “How many... how many men did you and I kill today?”

“They weren’t men — they were Mafia killers who had each murdered some Mafia enemy to get in the club. What we did was a public service. Wait until you look at the rap sheets on those guys.”

The chief nodded and went into the store. He returned quickly.

“Sheriff already had a report and two cars are on the way. We better get out of here. I made it an anonymous report.”

Half an hour later Bolan had driven the chief to within a block of a motel and let him off. Then the Executioner put all his weapons back in the suitcase along with his combat harness, slipped on a sport shirt and left the shot-up Chevy on the street. He took his suitcase, walked away and caught a taxi into downtown Baltimore.

Bolan changed hotels, checked in under a different alias and sat in his room considering his next move. He phoned the rental agency and told the clerk where the car could be found. He mentioned it had been somewhat wrecked and reminded the anxious clerk that the rental fee and the insurance had both been prepaid.

Captain Harley Davis of the Baltimore Police Department had taken the day off as Chief Jansen had suggested, but he did not tell his wife. Instead he drove his unmarked car to an apartment house just off Franklin Street and went up to suite 1111. Eleven was his lucky number.

A woman wearing a short nightgown came to the door. She peeked around the barrier and when she recognized him, swung open the door.

“Hey, you gonna bust me?”

“Of course not, Francie. Any friend of Carlo’s is a friend of mine.”

“He said you might be around. Had breakfast?”

“Yes, but I’m still hungry,” he said, looking at her chest suggestively.

She stepped back and smiled. “None of that until I have breakfast. A girl has to keep up her strength.”

“You eat, I’ll watch,” Davis said. He sat in the little kitchen observing the woman. It was a delight. She never failed to excite Davis, no matter what she wore. Right now his motor was running at high throttle.

The apartment she lived in rented for at least fifteen hundred a month. But she didn’t worry about that. Carlo Nazarione picked up the rent and the tab for her clothes and everything. He was not the jealous type. He offered her around, and Francie seemed to dote on the attention and the variety.

When breakfast was over, Francie crooked her finger at him and walked to the bathroom. She found a new toothbrush for him, still in a plastic wrapper, and indicated he should brush. She brushed her teeth and washed her face, then put on her makeup as he watched.

When she’d finished she winked at him, then slid out of the nightie, handed it to him and walked away. Captain Davis growled and started after her. Francie was one of the fringe benefits of being so friendly with Don Nazarione.

The phone rang just as Davis pulled off his tie. Francie sprawled across the bed, grabbed the phone and rolled onto her back.

“Saks Fifth Avenue, lingerie and notions department.” She listened. “You really need to talk to him. He’s gonna be pissed right out of his pants.” She paused. “Hell, it’s your problem now.” She tossed the hand set to Davis, who stood beside the bed unzipping his pants. He caught it and put it to his ear.

“Yeah?”

On the other end of the line a uniformed cop named Tony Ricca talked so fast Davis yelled.

“Hold it already! Damn, I can’t make out a word you’re saying. Take it easy and give it to me slow.”

“Okay. Johnny King, the other guy in blue with me yesterday on that warehouse killing, is wetting his drawers. He’s so strung out I can’t get him even to report back to the station. He’s weird. Keeps playing with a crucifix and mumbling. He says you didn’t say nothing about nobody getting killed yesterday. He didn’t sleep last night, and he’s off his rocker. Keeps confessing that he helped set up the lieutenant. Keeps yelling our names. I don’t know what to do with him.”

“You in your marked patrol car?” Davis asked.

“Yeah, where I been sitting for the past hour. Dispatch is ready to ream my ass.”

Davis zipped up his pants and looped the tie back around his neck.

“Tell me where you are, and don’t move. I’m on my way. I can reason with King one damn way or another. Where are you?”

Captain Davis wrote the cross streets down in his little book, and put a wide knot in his tie. He bent and kissed Francie’s lips as she lay on the bed.