“It’s all over, Franconi. I just passed sentence. For what you did to Beth, you don’t deserve to live. Nothing elaborate, just a little car crash.” Bolan started the Chevy, and pushed it into first. “Have a nice ride, pal.”
He put a rock on the accelerator pedal, aimed the screaming Chevy at the burning Cadillac fifty feet away, tied down the steering wheel and released the parking brake.
The destruction derby car raced forward, picking up speed. Franconi helplessly traveled more than thirty miles an hour toward the Cadillac. When they hit, the Chevy’s gas tank exploded, gas and gas vapor gushed over the Cadillac and both cars burned with a furious intensity, incinerating everything in sight, even melting some of the metals.
Bolan turned and walked away, the FA MAS on his shoulder, Big Thunder in his hand.
“It isn’t much, Beth,” the Executioner said. “But I hope it settles the score. Maybe now you can rest in peace.”
4
As the Executioner drove away from the racetrack on a country road, a fire truck charged toward him, its siren wailing and red lights flashing. He pulled to one side to let it pass. He figured the fire at the track had attracted them. But he was too far away to be connected with it.
He had about half an hour to get to Herring Run Park, just off Sinclair, where he was to meet Nino Tattaglia.
His forehead wrinkled as he reviewed his mission in Baltimore. He had to find out what deadly, destructive event was about to go down here, and hoped Nino would be able to tell him.
The Executioner was a big man, more than six feet tall and a finely muscled two hundred pounds. Right now his cold blue eyes were trained on the road. He was not moved one way or the other by the dead men he left behind. Eradicating human evil had long been a necessary fact of life for him.
This was an everlasting war, and it had brought him to Baltimore. It was a war he knew no one man could win.