“Hell, try mine. Come on in.” Bolan stood to one side. Franconi made up his mind, gave a hand signal and walked into the shack.

When Franconi stepped out of sight of the crew wagons, the Executioner slammed the big silver .44 AutoMag down on his head. Bolan dragged the unconscious body to the front of the destruction derby car, hoisted it to the front bumper and, using the positioned wires, tied it securely lengthwise along the bumper. Bolan put boards under the wires before cinching them up so the wire would not cut into flesh. When the mobster was solidly fastened to the bumper, Bolan grabbed both weapons, put them in the car and fired up the V-8. It popped and snarled, and then he roared from the shack in reverse, turning so the hoodlums could plainly see their boss.

Leaning out the window, he fired one AutoMag flesh-shredder into each crew wagon, then raced to the far end of the dirt oval and waited. One of the crew wagons moved slowly along the edge of the track.

Bolan put the rig into low and ground forward toward the nearest crew wagon, with the Beast leading the way on the front bumper.

He could imagine the confusion and shock in the crew wagon as the men tried to figure out what to do. At last someone decided the destruction derby rig must not hit the crew wagon and raced it away. Bolan fired three rounds from the French army rifle and watched the Cadillac soak up the bullets. He wondered how far they penetrated. One shattered the rear window, turning the safety glass into ten thousand small granules.

Bolan chased them halfway down the track, then stopped and punched ten rounds into the front tires. Two or three found their mark, the right front tire blew and the rig slowed to a stop. Handguns came out the windows, popping at him. Then all was quiet. The goons were afraid they would hit the boss on the bumper.

Slowly Bolan accelerated in reverse. He could hear someone screaming. It was Franconi.