Lethal Payload

The Executioner walked to the edge of the highway and swung a leg over the guardrail. There was a bloody handprint on the curved metal. Bolan took a deep breath and scanned ahead. Six feet away the jungle was a solid wall. He looked down into the mud beside the highway. There were boot prints.

Two sets of them.

They were clearly two different sizes, but both sets of prints had the exact same pattern of tread marks. The smaller set of prints faltered and smeared twice on the right hand side. The larger set grew deeper. Bolan nodded. One of the men was definitely wounded. He memorized the pattern of the treads for a future sketch and walked back to the road. He picked up a couple of his opponent’s spent shell casings and pocketed them and then returned to the car.

Kiraly lay back like a wet rag in the driver’s seat. Her nose was broken and so was her left hand. Her spent Glock lay in her lap with the action racked back on an empty chamber. She gave Bolan a bruised smile and reached up to pat the cracked dashboard.

“Volvo. Safest car on the road today.”

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