"You taking bids from strangers, Tommy?" Bolan did not try to hide his skepticism.

"Well, we've done some other business... this and that."

No need to press the mobster for specifics. This and that would be narcotics, Tommy's stock in trade.

"The code name," Bolan prodded.

"Huh? Oh, yeah... he goes by Jose 99." A weak attempt at laughter. "Swear to you, that's all the name I know. Those Hispanics..."

"How do you get in touch with him?''

"He gets in touch with me. Like this time... says some private dick is stepping on his action. Wants to know if I can fix it."

The Executioner said nothing. His icy gaze, the vacant stare of the Beretta, loosened the mobster's tongue.

"I told him I'd take care of it, okay? We help each other out ... one hand washes the other.''

Right. But no amount of scrubbing could erase the stain of blood.

"The contract's canceled," Bolan told his naked captive. "Stomper won't be coming home."

"Okay, man. Anything you say.''

Too quick. Too easy.

Tommy Drake had caught a glimpse of daylight. He was running for it. Bolan kept a firm hand on the reins.

"You've got a white flag, Tommy. A reprieve. If I find out you've lied to me..."

"Hey, man, I wouldn't shine you on."

The man in black released his captive and backed away, the sleek Beretta autoloader leveled from the waist.

"Be smart," he cautioned. "You've got everything to lose."

And he was halfway to the balcony when Tommy lost it all.

The mafioso found his nerve, his legs, and bolted from the bed. He leaped across the prostrate woman, bounding off the mattress, breaking for a nearby nightstand. Bolan let him get there, watched him wrestle with the ornate drawer and fish around inside; he saw the flash of chrome as Tommy found his weapon.

Far enough.