Bolan nailed the first with a 3-round burst. The second took nine shots to put down. He fired over the head of the third, who made good his escape.

When Bolan was satisfied both Mafia goons in the dirt were dead and that only he and Franconi were left alive, he checked the cars.

He backed up the destruction derby Chevy, then raced toward the flaming Cadillac. At the last second Franconi screamed and he wound the wheel to the right, grazing the crew wagon. Four times he flashed past the furiously burning Caddy. Then he stopped and checked on his reluctant passenger.

Franconi had passed out again. Bolan made sure the wires were tight, then slapped Franconi awake. The hit man screamed and groaned.

“It’s all over, Franconi. I just passed sentence. For what you did to Beth, you don’t deserve to live. Nothing elaborate, just a little car crash.” Bolan started the Chevy, and pushed it into first. “Have a nice ride, pal.”

He put a rock on the accelerator pedal, aimed the screaming Chevy at the burning Cadillac fifty feet away, tied down the steering wheel and released the parking brake.

The destruction derby car raced forward, picking up speed. Franconi helplessly traveled more than thirty miles an hour toward the Cadillac. When they hit, the Chevy’s gas tank exploded, gas and gas vapor gushed over the Cadillac and both cars burned with a furious intensity, incinerating everything in sight, even melting some of the metals.

Bolan turned and walked away, the FA MAS on his shoulder, Big Thunder in his hand.

“It isn’t much, Beth,” the Executioner said. “But I hope it settles the score. Maybe now you can rest in peace.”

As the Executioner drove away from the racetrack on a country road, a fire truck charged toward him, its siren wailing and red lights flashing. He pulled to one side to let it pass. He figured the fire at the track had attracted them. But he was too far away to be connected with it.

He had about half an hour to get to Herring Run Park, just off Sinclair, where he was to meet Nino Tattaglia.

His forehead wrinkled as he reviewed his mission in Baltimore. He had to find out what deadly, destructive event was about to go down here, and hoped Nino would be able to tell him.

The Executioner was a big man, more than six feet tall and a finely muscled two hundred pounds. Right now his cold blue eyes were trained on the road. He was not moved one way or the other by the dead men he left behind. Eradicating human evil had long been a necessary fact of life for him.

This was an everlasting war, and it had brought him to Baltimore. It was a war he knew no one man could win.

Bolan was a realist. He knew that one day he would move too slowly, or a bullet or grenade would be in exactly the right spot and the warrior would be killed. But until that happened, he was charging ahead, he was digging into every dirty Mafia operation he could find, he was pumping the Mafia full of hot lead. He was also living large and making every second count.

He would make the Mafia fear him for as long as his strength and life remained.

The holy war against the Mafia had become Bolan’s purpose in life.

And so, to fight again.

He swung the rented Chevy into the park, watching for a man on a picnic bench. He saw him and parked.

Nino slid into the car and frowned. “Bad for my image to be seen sitting on a park bench.”

“What’s going down in Baltimore?”

Nino’s eyes widened. “You’ll never believe it. It’s a capo’s dream!”

“Try me.”

“The Nazarione family’s about to take over the whole goddamned police department! The operation has been in place for months and is coming down to the last phase. Already we’ve got two city councilmen pinned down and two of the four assistant chiefs!”

“Blackmail?” Bolan asked, his face turning grim.

“Most likely, or exposure on some corruption. The family has the whole damn department on the hook, not just a hundred officers and some captains! The whole town will become our playground!”

“What two assistant chiefs have been caught?”

“I don’t know. Hell, I was lucky to get this much. But it’s all on a timetable, so much done each week, and we’re near the end of the game.”

“You and I are going to call off the game because of a number of deaths in the Nazarione family, Nino.”

“Maybe. You hear about the cop getting killed this morning?”

Bolan shook his head.

“Some lieutenant in a shoot-out with a robber. And guess who was on hand, ‘working’ with the lieutenant? Our own Capt. Harley Davis. Which probably means the lieutenant was honest and they gunned him down because he couldn’t be bought or bribed or blackmailed. Odds are that Captain Davis pulled the trigger with three or four bribed cops as backup.”

“What’s the next target?”

“That much I do know,” Nino said. “It will be Assistant Chief Larry Jansen. And it’s set to go down in two hours. I’m supposed to be along for extra protection.”

“I’ll be there as soon as it happens. When you see me, hit the deck and stay down. I may have to use quick target selection.”

“Don’t worry about me. Just be sure you make it. This is a key man in their plans because he’s next in line to be chief.”

An hour later, Nino Tattaglia helped carry Assistant Chief Jansen from a car at a back unit of a motel. The door was open and they put the chief on the motel bed beside a black girl. The lady was nude and dead, and her body and the bed were covered with blood. There were six long slashes on her torso. Three stab wounds marred the soft dark skin.

Polaroid pictures were taken of the chief in several positions beside the girl. In one, his hand was taped around a bloody knife and the blade pushed into the dead girl’s chest. Enough of his face was showing to be recognizable.

“Strip him!” Big Jake Milano said. “Get his pants and shorts off and spread him out over her.” Milano was satisfied. He was getting good at this. Third time! Hell, he’d get a bonus. This time he’d take the old lady on a cruise of the Caribbean.

“Got enough pictures?” Big Jake asked.

“One more,” Tony Larasso said. He put another print on the dresser.

Suddenly the door exploded inward. Before anyone could move, a figure dressed in black stormed in, waving an Uzi submachine gun. Big Jake went for his side arm, caught three slugs in his chest and collapsed against the far wall, dead.

Mack Bolan sized up the four others in the motel room at a glance. There was a kid with a camera to the left, and two hardcases behind the bed to the right. Nino stood near the back.

“Don’t move!” Bolan barked. One of the hard-cases dug for his belt holster and the Uzi spit out five rounds, nailing him against the wall for a few seconds until his corpse slid slowly to the floor.

“Anyone else?” Bolan asked. The kid dropped the camera, leaned over and vomited. Bolan pointed at Nino.

“Take out your piece and drop it on the bed, then get this other goon’s gun and put them both under the bed. Check out the puker here for hardware.”

Nino did as he was told. He turned, holding his hands high.

“Get the chief’s pants on fast!” Bolan snapped.

As Nino complied Bolan grabbed the developed Polaroid prints from the dresser and pushed them inside his black jersey. He picked up the camera and ripped out the film, then checked out the door. No problems.

Bolan pointed to the kid and the older man behind the bed. “Both of you, strip off all your clothes, then lie down on the bed beside the girl. Move it!”

Both men shed every piece of clothing and lay down gingerly on the bloody bedspread.

Nino put the chief’s pants and shirt on him. The cop was starting to come out of his drugged state.

“You, carry that man outside,” Bolan barked at Nino. “You make any noise, or one false move, badass, and I’ll blow your head off.” Nino picked up the blood-smeared cop and took him to the door.