"They barely gave me a look-see," the old man reported, chuckling. "Too busy tryin' to see you gettin' back in your car."

Bolan counted to ten, then lifted himself into the seat. The highway junction was disappearing around a gentle curve, and again the road was heading into a steep descent. "Better get all the speed you can out of this bucket, sir," he advised. "Those guys won't sit there and stare at an empty car forever."

"Ain't had so much fun since Anzio," the oldster declared. "You figger they'll come shootin' when they find out we suckered 'em?"

"That's what I figger," Bolan replied quietly. "You'll have to drop me at the first convenient spot. If they ever catch up with you, tell them I was holding a gun on you."

"Shoot! I ain't never turned tail on vermin before. And, believe me, son, them back there is vermin." The old man wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "It's ten miles into Palm Village," he added. "I guess I can get you that far. That's where I'm headed anyway."

Bolan produced his wallet, extracted two fifties, and shoved them into the man's shirt pocket.

"You don't have to do that."

Bolan smiled grimly. "I couldn't possibly do enough," he said. "You have a right to know . . . those vermin back there are Mafia liquidators."

The old man smiled. "Shoot, I know that. Know you, too. Seen nothing but your picture on teevee for most a week now."

Bolan shot a glance through the rear window, grunted deep in his throat, and observed, "So . . . I guess you know what you're doing."

The man's head snapped in a decisive nod. "Sure do. Know what you're doing, too. Want you to know, you got most of the people behind you. You're a national hero . . . know that?"

Bolan grinned again. He lightly massaged the grip of his pistol and swivelled sideways in the seat for a clear view to the rear. "You'd better get this vehicle moving faster than this," he said worriedly.

"She's gulpin' all the gas she can handle. Like me, she ain't exactly in her prime."

Bolan peered despairingly at the speedometer. They had not even achieved the speed of flight. He threw off the safety of his pistol and began searching the road ahead for a place to fight. The Executioner's flight appeared to be drawing to a close.

It was shortly past midnight when the ancient Ford pickup rolled to an indecisive halt at the junction of a country lane, just west of Palm Village. The tall figure descending from the passenger's side of the cab dragged a suitcase from the bed of the truck, then stepped clear and threw a silent salute to the driver. A darkly weathered face smiled back at him, and the old vehicle chugged away.

Limping slightly, Bolan headed down the tree-arched lane into inky darkness. He halted about ten yards from the intersection, moved behind a tree, and sat quietly on the up-ended suitcase, patiently waiting.

Moments later another vehicle came to a halt in the intersection, then eased onto the shoulder of the main road. The headlights were quickly extinguished. A car door opened and gently closed, then another. A muffled voice declared: "Yeah, he stopped here, all right. We'll check it out. You stay on th' truck." The smooth acceleration of a powerful engine signalled the departure of the second vehicle.

Bolan arose with a quiet sigh, clipped a pencil flashlight to a low-hanging tree-branch, turned the tiny flashlight on, carefully positioned the suitcase, then moved swiftly and silently behind the line of trees and toward the intersection. Two men were moving cautiously toward him, one to either side of the lane. He sensed, rather than saw or heard, their approach, freezing behind a large elm and allowing them to pass. The men had obviously spotted the faint glow of the pencil-flash and were closing on it with great care.

Their quarry smiled grimly as his stalkers moved downrange between him and the light, their shadowy forms taking on bulky substance against the lighter background. He stepped soundlessly onto the pavement and tagged along, bringing up the rear in the apex position of the three-man triangle. The two were perfectly outlined now as they moved on in a half-crouch, pistols thrust forward and ready.

One of the men made an excited sound as the shadowy form of the grounded suitcase loomed up beyond the light. Both pistols exploded into sound and flame, and the suitcase toppled over onto its side with an ominous thud.

"Hold it, hold it!" an excited voice commanded. "We got 'im!"

"Then why's the damn light . . ."

"Turn around," suggested a calm baritone behind them.

Then men whirled as one, weapons roaring again even with no target in sight. A stuttering chatter overrode the other sounds, and extinguished them. A pained voice exclaimed, "Oh God, Frankie . . . oh God!" Bolan's weapon stuttered again, very briefly. He stepped forward, gingerly probed the bodies with an extended foot, and said "uh-huh" with evident satisfaction.

Bolan wasted no time over the dead. He retrieved the pencil-flash and the suitcase and returned quickly to the junction of the main road. There he concealed himself behind a small bushy growth and began another quiet wait. He lit a cigarette and calmly dragged on it, filling his lungs and holding the smoke for several seconds, then exhaling in short bursts of calculatingly released tensions. On the third inhalation, the eastern horizon began glowing with the suggestion of approaching headlights. Bolan carefully crushed the cigarette beneath his foot and examined his weapon.

Moments later a speeding westbound automobile braked into the junction with a squeal of tires, hunching to a halt just inside the lane and slightly downrange from Bolan's position. With engine idling and headlamps in full glare along the overshadowed lane, the driver of the vehicle stepped onto the roadway and called out softly, "Frank? Cholli? Be careful! He wasn't in th' truck!"

Bolin had moved onto the lane and was approaching the vehicle from the rear. "Wonder where he could be?" he whispered harshly.

The man said, "I dunno, he . . ." He stiffened suddenly, reaching into the car and trying to swing toward Bolan in the same motion. The stock of a sawed-off shotgun became entangled in the steering wheel. Grotesquely off balance and fighting frantically to free the shotgun, the man screeched: "No, Bolan, wait! I give . . ."

What he planned to give was lost in the explosive bark of a single report from Bolan's weapon. The bullet punched through an upflung hand and crunched into the bone between the eyes. The man crumbled, his limp body sagging onto the door, then flopping to the asphalt below. Bolan rolled him clear, dropped the shotgun across the body, and stepped into the car. He backed to the intersection, picked up his suitcase and threw it into the rear seat, then swung onto the main road and proceeded easterly toward Palm Village.

Entering the residential outskirts of the city some moments later, Bolan came upon the battered pickup truck in which he had recently been a passenger. It was now even more battered, having apparently veered off the road, climbed the curbing, and come to rest against a tree. A human form lay on the grass beside the wrecked vehicle. A police cruiser was parked nearby and a uniformed officer stood at the edge of the road, excitedly waving Bolan on through with a flashlight, though there were no other vehicles on the road. Slowing through a gathering crowd of curious, nightclothed people, Bolan overheard a man exclaim: "Why, it's old Harry Thompson!"

Another voice observed, "Someone's taken a shotgun to 'im."

A hot rage clutching at his chest, Bolan halted alongside the policeman. Careful to keep his face in shadow, he said tightly, "Anybody hurt?"