The Executioner: Arizona Ambush Read Online Free Page A

was blotched with spreading Patches of blood.
    The kid was lapsing into hysterics. It was no time for sophisticated handling. So he slapped her. Twice. Hard, stinging blows across each pale cheek. She sobered immediately, her wheezing cries dying to an injured murmur.
    "You're okay," he said, the tone firm and reassuring. "Cool it. Who are you?"
    The girl's mouth worked for a couple of seconds before the sounds emerged. "I-I'm Sharon Kaufman."
    Oh yeah. Wonderful. Bolan's cup fairly runneth over. He pulled the girl out, slung her across his shoulder, and without wasting a precious moment, hurried to the warwagon with his "prize."
    The going was not all that easy, though. She was no frail wisp of a girl but a substantial chunk of womanhood with long, flowing lines and plenty of nice womanflesh packed onto that feminine frame. Bolan sized her out at about 130 to 140 pounds and close to six feet in height. If she'd wanted to put up a fight, he would have had his hands full. But there was no fight in this one. She was still obviously terrified, confused, perhaps only partially conscious.
    He deposited her on a bunk in the warwagon and peeled away the bloodied robe. She shrank from that invasion of personal privacy but made no move to interfere with the inspection. "Miss Boobs," for sure. Not just big but big and firm, proud and — in most any other circumstances — tantalizing.
    "Please!" she whispered. "Don't ... don't ..."
    "Relax," he said pleasantly. "I'm just looking for hurts." He closed the robe and told her, "You pass. A-OK. None of the blood is yours. You'll feel a lot better after you've scrubbed it off." He pointed out the shower stall to her. "Don't waste the water. It's a small tank."
    He patted her hand and gave her a friendly smile, then went forward to send the battle cruiser to softer ground. Circling the streets of Paradise, Bolan drove with one portion of his mind while using the rest to probe the new dimensions of his problem.
    Moe Kaufman had been the hit team's primary target, no doubt about it. He wasn't home, the voice on the phone had said — the girl would bring him to "us." So far it played. But had the crew been looking to hit the Jewish capo or merely abduct him? And to what ultimate end?
    Sharon Kaufman was yet another wild card in the game. The Serpent's daughter, a pearl before swine. With the old man missing, her abduction had been the logical and inevitable move. If the mountain won't come to Mohammed ...
    And where did Bolan's new "prize" fall in the scheme of things? A healthy and apparently vibrant young woman, but a serpent's daughter all the same. Where would she stand when the cut came?
    Another imponderable in the Arizona game.
    The players were multiplying like rabbits, and it was getting hard to tell them apart without a program. There was more than one serpent in Paradise now, and they were at war.
    Bolan found himself joining the Arizona game late, already several moves behind. But he had captured a queen on his opening gambit, and it just might be enough. Enough to scatter the players, and maybe — just maybe enough, to upset the whole damn board.
    The Executioner drove on deeper into Paradise, Searching for serpents.

Chapter 4
Pros
    Jim Hinshaw was unhappy, and rightly so. A consummate professional, accustomed to excellence in every undertaking, he naturally possessed a low tolerance for failure. It rankled, offending his sense of order, upsetting the sensation of control that he relished in every situation. He had invested six months of his time and over ten grand of Nick Bonelli's money to insure his control on the current project, only to find his thrust blunted and broken by unknown forces.
    The Kaufman snatch should have gone off without a hitch. Hinshaw's spotters had staked the old man out for an honest-to-God solid month, charting his every move day and night, and he'd never once left the house before nine in the morning. Until today. The day. Hinshaw had abandoned his