The M-16 erupted in Bolan's grasp, and he let it empty in automatic fire, the magazine exhausted in a second and a half. Downrange, Scarpato took it all, twisting and jerking in a grisly little break dance, finally losing it and folding up like so much dirty laundry on the grass.

  Bolan stood and moved away from there without a backward glance. His duty was fulfilled for now, and he had crushed the viper's head beneath his heel. This serpent would never rise again, no matter how the severed pieces writhed and twisted while they waited for the end to come.

  There would be other serpents, certainly, and Bolan would be ready for them when they showed themselves. But for this time the debt was paid. In full.

  The ghosts were waiting for him as he reached the trees, and all of them were friendly now. Mack Bolan let them guide him through the darkness, following their lead, secure that none of them would steer him wrong. Tomorrow there would be other hostile shadows to face, and he would take them as they came.

  But not tonight.

  Tonight, the Executioner was going home.

  And he was not alone.

 

 

  Don Pendleton, Missouri Deathwatch

 

 

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