"No, I don't know how it is. The insurance agent is my brother. His company has not changed hands. You're lying about this whole insurance scam."

"Who owns the gun shop?"

"I do."

"You run the warehouse in back of your store?"

"No, I rent the front half of the building."

"Who do you rent from?"

"Northwest Warehouses, Incorporated, a local outfit."

"Which is owned by Gino Canzonari. You don't know who he is?"

"Never met him. I hear he's associated with organized crime. But that doesn't paint me with the same stripes. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

"I'm sorry for any inconvenience. My mistake."

"No problem." Enright marched off to the front door, where two employees were waiting.

No wonder the front part of the store looked so damn legal. It was! Bolan checked the time. A little after six. At the phone booth down the block he called Johnny.

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

Mack hung up and wheeled the Thunderbird downtown.

The Executioner did not intend to make mistakes. In his occupation, they meant death. Bolan had learned this early in Vietnam.

It was in Nam that he was nicknamed "Executioner," and the name clung to him as his kill total mounted and he became known and respected from the Mekong Delta to Hanoi.

The other side of the Executioner was not so well-known. The common people of Vietnam, caught between a grinding war machine and the desire to live at peace, often found this Executioner to be a merciful friend.

He put his own life in danger time after time to rescue children and women in the line of fire. To these people he became known as Sergeant Mercy.

Bolan found no contradictions in the two labels. He did each part of his job with equal determination.

He performed his duty as he saw it, and was proud of the job he did.

Until that terrible tragedy that yanked him from the jungle and thrust him on a plane with an emergency leave in his pocket, to return home to find the members of his family either dead or hospitalized.

Bolan discovered the reason behind his family's tragedy and at once began to set the matter right. His first engagement was the Mafia loan sharks in his hometown, Pittsfield. Soon Mob families all over the country were feeling the Executioner's wrath as he utilized all his skill from the Southeast Asian hellground.

Bolan had fought thirty-eight campaigns against the Mafia when, to the consternation and embarrassment of the U.S. at not being able to control this rampaging tiger, the President issued a pardon. After Bolan's war wagon flamed out in Central Park, Bolan was presumed "dead." Secretly he rose again from the ashes as Colonel John Phoenix, working under government sanction.

This time the new enemy was terrorism.

Eventually he was framed by the KGB for a political murder in Europe, then hounded by his own government, which had fallen for the frame. A mole in the U.S. intelligence operation facilitated a KGB-sponsored attack on Bolan's command center, Stony Man Farm. The assault led to the death of April Rose, Bolan's true love.

Bolan struck at the heart of Mother Russia even as the United States and friendly nations searched for him. In one climactic showdown, he fingered and executed the mole in front of the U.S. President.

By his action, he had broken sanction. He was alone again.

Now the KGB, the CIA and police everywhere searched for the Executioner, hoping to haul him in because of the outrageous success of his vigilante actions.

Now another force was looking for him as well: the Mafia, and they put cash behind their search.

One million dollars for Bolan's head.

The vigilante was scaring the hell out of evil once again!

The Executioner knocked on his brother's hotelroom door, then tried the handle. It was unlocked. He pushed the door open and entered. A pretty black woman was wagging a finger at Johnny as she talked. Johnny stood listening, dressed in pajama pants with no shirt. An electric shaver was in his hand and an embarrassed expression was on his face.

"Hey, the boss is here. He's the man you should talk to."

The girl turned, and Bolan saw that she was beautiful. She wore a single gold chain around her neck, conservative makeup, a jungle-green blouse and a lighter-green skirt. She stared at Bolan, and something like recognition came into her face. She said, "This young man came around yesterday asking me a lot of questions about my sister Charlotte Albers, and right away I got to thinking that he was asking questions no real reporter or writer would want to know. Can you tell me what is going on?"

Bolan moved forward, his hand out. "I'm sorry about your sister. You look exactly like her."

""Exactly" is the right word. We are were identical twins." The woman stared again at Bolan, who still wore the mustache. He had taken off the dark glasses. Her hand flew to her mouth. "My God! You're the one on the front page of the paper yesterday. The Executioner!"

"Mrs. Granger, you are safe. We are trying to find out if your sister was involved with a loan shark."

"You kill people. You shot those three men yesterday." She sat down on the bed.

Bolan stepped in front of her. "Did Charlotte borrow money from a loan shark?"

"Yes, she sure did. They were the ones that killed her!" She told them about the phone call, Charlotte's need for money, even the name of the man she went to see. "I believe in an eye for an eye," she added slowly. "I think you should do your thing."

"First, tell me the name of the loan operation."

"No, not unless you let me go along and help."

Twenty minutes later they were driving in her car down a street that showed mostly black faces.

"This block, halfway down," said the woman.

They circled and came up in an alley.

Around the back of the King Finance Company was a small sign. The door was locked. Bolan used a credit card to open the door.

No one was in the room. It was filled with boxes of paper forms, an old desk and a secretary's chair with one caster missing. They slipped into the room, and Bolan unleathered the Beretta as he moved to the connecting door.

They could hear voices in the next room.

Bolan opened the door a crack. He saw a short hall, a front counter and offices on both sides. Two men stood talking at the counter.

The Executioner motioned the woman to enter first.

"Let's see how they react," he whispered. "We'll be behind you, watching."

Charleen Granger walked inside. The men turned and looked at her.

The first one to react was the taller man. His eyes widened, and his mouth fell open.

"Holy shit! We got a ghost!"

The second man stared at the black woman without reaction. "No ghost. Her cousin or sister, maybe." He took a step toward her. "What do you want?"

"I want to see both of you frying in hell!" She darted forward, a switchblade snapping open in her hand as she lunged the last few feet.

The shorter man swept his arm out, took a cut on it, then slapped the weapon from her hand.

The taller man grabbed her and held on.

"Hell, Harry, what we going to do now?" he asked.

"You're going to let go of the lady," the Executioner said as he stepped into the room, the silenced 93-R tracking them.

"Who are you, asshole?" the shorter one asked, reaching below the counter.

Bolan only had time to see the twin snouts of a 12-gauge shotgun before he fired. The slug tore into the man's chest, slamming him lifeless against the wall.

The Executioner saw more movement. Another 9mm stinger from the Beretta cored the taller guy's brain, punching him backward and leaving his body draped over the count rather.