Carboni kept the child. “Sit down and shut up. There’s a guy outside gunning for me, and I’m aiming to make him dead before I leave this place. You got a shotgun?”

The woman shook her head.

“Quit lying, bitch! You like this kid or don’t you?”

“Yes, I forgot! It’s in the cupboard, right over there.”

“Bring it and a box of shells over here. Do it now, lady. I ain’t got nothing against you but I don’t like you, either. Means not a damn thing to me whether the rest of your family lives or dies. Understand?”

“Yes.” The woman put the double-barreled shotgun and a box of shells on the table beside him.

“And finish that goddamn sandwich. You put anything in there that you wouldn’t eat yourself, and I blow this kid’s brains all over you and the kitchen.”

Even through the window, Bolan could see the strain on the woman. She was short and brunette, and now her face was frozen tight with terror. She made a sandwich of cheese and ham and lettuce, and another one of tuna and put them in front of Carboni with a can of beer.

“Two more beers,” he said. He ate with his left hand, his right holding the weapon against the boy.

Bolan had no chance for a kill shot. Even a head shot would give the hoodlum time to pull the trigger, killing the boy. There was no device on his combat harness that would help him rout the man out of the kitchen.

He checked the grenades and remembered he had brought one flash-stun grenade for a test. He had never used it. He balanced out the possible damage the concussion might do the baby. The stun effect would be far less harmful than a round from Carboni’s big .44.

Carboni would not leave witnesses. He would kill without a thought if he figured it would help him even slightly. After all, hadn’t he already murdered the man of the family?

The Executioner moved to the front door and looked inside. Could he get down the hall to the kitchen without being heard? He made sure his equipment wouldn’t rattle, then pulled the pin on the flash-stun grenade and dropped it on the grass. He held the arming spoon around the grenade tightly and eased onto the first step.

Gingerly he pushed the handle on the aluminum screen door. It moved without a sound. He pulled it open a foot, slipped through and let it touch his back and close gently as he started down the hall. He had the Beretta up and on single shot. There were too many innocents in there to be spraying bullets.

Step by step, he worked down the hall, which had been resurfaced with ceramic tile — no squeaks. He pressed against the left wall, since this was the side the killer could not see.

He was halfway down when the woman, walking to the refrigerator, turned and stared straight at him. Either she was too surprised to react or had great control. She lifted her brows slightly and walked out of sight.

She must have instantly realized he was on her side. There had been no time to whisper anything or mouth any words.

He moved forward. Now he could hear the sounds from the room. The baby whimpered.

“He’s wet. Can I take him out and change him?”

“No, he won’t melt. Just shut him up.”

A beer can hit the table.

There was a chance the man would release the boy and go after Bolan, but the Executioner doubted it. This guy was a professional. He would take every advantage he could.

At the edge of the doorway, Bolan could see half of the kitchen, but the table and the people were in the other half. He would throw the flash-stun grenade near the table. Pitch it and hope. If the hit man got Bolan, the rest of the family was dead, anyway. He had to take the chance.

The Executioner wanted to look inside, but knew he couldn’t risk it. He was ready. Kneeling, he brought up the Beretta and let the arming handle pop loose in his hand. Two seconds later, he lobbed the grenade into the room.

It exploded almost as it hit the floor.

Bolan had closed his eyes and put his hands over his ears, and saw the flash through his eyelids. Then he charged into the room.

The blast was louder than anything Bolan had heard outside a war zone for a long time. The baby screamed. Carboni dropped his AutoMag, then grabbed the woman. Both blinded, they stumbled backward, but Carboni remained covered by the woman. Bolan had no sure shot.

“Bastard!” Carboni screamed. He produced a knife from his pocket and opened it into a five-inch murderously sharp blade.

“Move a step, Bolan, and I gut her. You want that? Move and she and the kids are dead. You got that, bastard?”

He was still blind, stalling for time. Bolan aimed at the only sure target, his right shoulder, and the knife fell from his hand. Carboni screamed and hunched behind the woman, one hand around her throat. He stumbled toward the door into the living room.

“Stay there, Bolan, or I’ll rip out her carotid artery.”

Bolan lifted the baby, gave him to the girl and hurried the children out of the house. They ran toward the barn.

Bolan returned inside just in time to grab the shotgun and realize the .44 was no longer on the floor where it had fallen. The Executioner heard something and dived just as the big .44 AutoMag like his own fired twice in rapid succession.

The first bullet missed Bolan by inches. The second slammed into his left arm and then out. An inch lower and it would have broken the bone. He was lucky to get only a surface wound.

His Beretta stuttered out three rounds in return, chipping away at the doorframe through which the commission’s hit man had vanished. Bolan bolted through the kitchen into the living room. The hit man and his hostage had moved to the back hall, near a bedroom.

The woman screamed.

“You just lost your advantage, Carboni.”

“I’ve got the woman.”

“You kill her, what do you have left?”

“You won’t let her die.”

“Don’t count on it,” said Bolan. “Go ahead and blow her away. That will make my job of killing you that much easier.”

The only answer was silence. Bolan heard a muffled scream, then a window shatter. The Executioner sprinted out the front door and around to the back. Carboni, dragging the woman, was running for the barn. Bolan fired into the air, the woman fell and clawed at Carboni until he released her.

The Mafia’s hireling turned and sighted the heavy pistol at Bolan. Knowing how accurate the AutoMag was, Bolan dived to one side and rolled. He came up with the Uzi ready and sprayed a dozen rounds, then zigzagged for the barn. Another three shots from Carboni missed him. Carboni dived through the barn doorway. The woman ran back to the house.

Bolan retreated to a cement well house, six feet square, that stood between the barn and the house. The woman left the house and ran to the well.

She was frantic, her eyes wild, her hands clawing the air.

“Where are my babies?” she screamed at the Executioner.

“They left the house,” Bolan said. “I think they went to the barn.”

“But that monster is there!”

The hayloft door swung out and clattered against the side of the barn. From the shadows inside came Carboni’s voice.

“I have three hostages now, Bolan. Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to throw out your weapons one by one, and then stand in the middle of the yard. If you don’t do that in twenty seconds, I’m going to take this little girl and smash her skull against this post, then toss her out.”

“No! No! No!” the woman screamed. Bolan grabbed her and pulled her behind the well.

“Listen to me!” he said to her, staring into her face. “He’ll do exactly that if I stay here. So I’m going to run into the fields. If he wants me, he’ll have to leave the kids here. When he goes, get the kids away. If you don’t have a car, run for it in the opposite direction. Don’t stay here. Understand?”