"John Hannon says hello,'' the warrior told him softly.

And Tommy Drake was straining for an answer, getting nowhere fast. The girl came up onto an elbow, gaping at the man in black. She made no immediate attempt to hide her nudity.

"There must be some mistake,'' the mafioso said.

"You made it."

"Take it easy, pal. You'll never pull this off." A spark of hope had flared to life behind Drake's eyes. "I've got a dozen men downstairs.''

"I counted two,'' the soldier said. "They're out of it."

The Executioner saw the man's Adam's apple bobbing as he tried to swallow.

"It's twenty questions, Tommy. Play it right, you live. If not..."

The dealer stiffened in his grasp.

"I ain't no stool."

"Okay."

Bolan drew back the hammer on the Beretta, letting Tommy hear it, balancing the silenced muzzle of his weapon on the mobster's nose. The Executioner heard a frightened little gasp from Tommy's woman and ignored it.

And his finger was already tightening on the trigger when his quarry buckled, caving in.

"Hey, now, wait a sec!" The dealer tossed a glance in the direction of his bedmate. "Can she take a walk?"

"I like her where she is."

"Okay, you call the shots."

And Tommy winced, as if his choice of words might give ideas to the man in black.

"You sent the Stomper and his bat boy after Hannon. Why?"

A heartbeat hesitation, ended by a prod from the Beretta.

"It's a private deal," the mobster said. "An outside contract."

"Who's the buyer?"

"I don't know."

The soldier frowned, released a weary sigh.

"Goodbye, Tommy."

"No, wait!"

Bolan let the automatic's muzzle dip a fraction of an inch.

"Why should I?"

"All I've got's a code name. Something for the phone, ya'know?"