Bolan waited at the front door. At five to twelve, two black crew wagons rumbled off the side road, then swung into the dirt lane toward the shack.

The Executioner wore no weapon. Big Thunder lay on one side of the door and on the other the French chatter-gun was hanging on a nail.

He wiped his hands on a rag as the Mafia rigs came to a halt twenty feet from the door.

A six-foot-six-inch-tall goon got out of one car and walked with apelike strides to the shack. He was big, ugly and mean looking.

“Boss wants to see you,” the Cro-Magnon said, jerking his thumb toward the car.

“Soldier, you tell Wally I don’t like the inside of wagons with twenty guns in my nose. Have him come over here and you guys stand guard.”

The goon stared in surprise. Usually people did exactly as he suggested. He shook his head and returned to the car. The door was still open. He said something, then repeated it, and Wally Franconi, scowling, slid out of the back seat. His left arm was in a cast to the elbow.

Franconi took a deep breath and stepped within three steps of Bolan.

“Okay, wise-ass, we talk. Who the hell are you? Where you from? What can you do?”

“Name is Mike Scott, from L.A. I’m a wheelman, bodyguard, persuader and action man.”

“And you use your feet — I remember that!”

“Yeah. I’m ready to show you how I can wheel. Want to look at the inside of this place? Got my destruct derby car in here and it’s a beaut.”

Franconi’s face lit up. “Mean where those assholes back up and try to kill off all the other cars? Last one running wins?”

“That’s the contest. She’s mostly Chevy. Got her nosed in here. Want a look?”

“Always wondered how they beefed up those things. Always wanted to try it.”