When the lights blinked and closing time was announced, Bolan wandered outside. She said she would leave by the front door. A couple and a man, evidently alone, also waited. More patrons left, among them a girl Bolan recognized as a waitress. She hugged the couple waiting for her and they left.

Five minutes later Beth Hanover walked through the door. Her short blond hair was hidden under a little hat, and a scarf covered the lower part of her face. The lone man approached her and said something.

“No!” she said sharply.

Bolan hurried over and looked at the man who had touched Beth’s shoulder.

“She said no,” Bolan said softly.

The man snarled and swung. His fist grazed Bolan’s side. The Executioner solidly punched the shorter man’s midsection and then bounced a right off the side of his head.

The unwelcome suitor dropped to his knees. Then his right hand dug inside his jacket and came out with firepower.

When the gun appeared, Bolan’s kick sent it skidding along the pavement. The smaller man screamed.

The Executioner slammed his hand into the man’s throat softly, so as not to kill him. The guy went down with a cry of defeat and humiliation. The fight left him, and he sat on the sidewalk dazed.

Bolan crouched beside him, grabbed his left arm and smashed it across his knee, breaking the forearm like a dry twig.

The screech of pain sounded like a siren. A black Cadillac raced to the curb and skidded to a stop, and two men rushed to the fallen man. They helped him up, cradled his arm and put him into the big car, which raced away.

Beth had huddled by the front door. Now she came over, her eyes wide.

“I didn’t mean you should hurt him.”

“He pulled a gun. He might have killed us both.”

“Oh! I never thought of...”

“Do you have a car?”

“Yes, just down the block.”

They walked that way.

“Do you have any idea who that man was?” Bolan asked.