Poison Justice. Don Pendleton

sure, whatever you say. Whatever bullshit gets you through the night, ’cause this is your last one.”

      Guardino began stuffing the money into the sack, pissing and moaning about the plunder the whole time. They really didn’t get it, Bolan thought, but he didn’t expect any other reaction.

      The soldier had reached his own conclusion about the love of money long ago. Unless a man or woman was raising children, giving to charity or feeding or educating a village, how much money was ever enough? For the savages, the answer was obvious. For honest, hard-working folks, live right, and one’s needs were always met. It was the wants that always got in the way, human nature being the one constant in life, and it always ended up with the same result.

      Ashes in the mouth.

      Bolan took and hung the sack over his shoulder, then palmed the cell phone from the desk and handed it to the hood. “You’re about to have a fire, Bennie.”

      “What are you talkin’ about, fire? I don’t smell smoke.”

      Bolan waved with the subgun for Bennie to move out. “Check your watch. Fifteen minutes, not a second before, call your boss. Tell Cabriano his problems have only just begun. Got that?”

      “Yeah, I got it. I also know you’re a walking dead man.”

      Bolan nudged Guardino in the spine with his weapon, heading him out the door. “I’ve heard that before. But here I am.”

      The Executioner took the first thermite canister from the pocket of his windbreaker, armed and lobbed it into the office. He ordered Guardino to hustle out of there, unless he wanted to get barbecued. He pulled the pin on firebomb number two and tossed it behind the bar.

      The club manager was squawking at the sight of the strewed corpses when the first explosion rocked the club. Guardino cut loose with a stream of profanity and threatening noise. A swift kick in the backside shut his mouth and got him moving for the exit. Number two blast, spewing its ravages of white phosphorous, hit Bolan’s back as he trailed Guardino into the alley.

      “Fifteen minutes, not a second before, Bennie,” Bolan warned, checking his surroundings, finding he was all clear. “I might be watching you.” The hood was ready to try to get the last word in, when the Executioner added, “That should be enough time for you to put together a story.”

      “What story? I’ll just tell him the truth.”

      “That’ll be the problem.”

      “I don’t know what your game is…”

      “Cabriano. The man’s going to want to know why five of his soldiers are dead, his club’s in a pile of ashes, his money’s gone, and you’re the only one left to tell the tale.”

      The look on Guardino’s face told Bolan that he finally got it.

      The Executioner left him standing there to ponder his future.