Vigilante Run. Don Pendleton

through the kitchen’s emergency exit, ignoring the alarm bell that started ringing as soon as the door opened. His truck, parked illegally in the alley behind the Tyrannosaur, was waiting for him.

      He did not even spare the burning restaurant a glance in his rearview mirror as he sped away.

      B OLAN SKIDDED AROUND THE corner at the Willow Street intersection, skirting the Tyrannosaur and almost sideswiping a row of parked motorcycles. He came to a halt and threw himself from the vehicle, war bag slung across his body over one shoulder. He could see flames dancing at the rear of the building as black smoke filled the sky. There was no other activity. The place was a loss, and the soldier had obviously just missed whatever had happened. Several people from neighboring businesses had come out to watch the fire and were talking animatedly to one another. Bolan could sense their eyes on him as he backed away from the building.

      Bolan caught movement from the corner of his eye and turned in time to see a gigantic man, his face covered in blood, stagger from the building. He was followed by a second, much thinner man, who was cradling his arm. The smaller man’s skin was lobster red. He was badly burned.

      The fat man raised a .38 revolver and opened fire, screaming.

      Bolan heaved himself behind the Blazer. One of the slugs tore into the fender; another blew the tire. Bolan unleathered his Beretta and prepared to bring it into play. Before he could fire, he heard the revving of a motorcycle engine.

      Jumping up, the Executioner tracked the big man as the chopper squealed away, carrying both wounded men. It shot past the Blazer and toward the milling crowds on the street. The big man on the bike spared Bolan a venomous glance backward but did not fire again as he surged away. Bolan held his fire; there were too many innocents between him and the biker. The bike burned around a corner and disappeared as Bolan turned back to his Blazer and its flat front tire.

      For the second time in as many days, he heard police and fire sirens in the background, headed his way. The Tyrannosaur continued to burn and he was no closer to finding the man responsible.

       3

       Liverpool, New York

      Gary Rook was in hell.

      He visited hell every night. Every night was the same as the last. In his sleep, he was terrorized by dreams of Jennifer as she’d been near the end—toothless, thinner than seemed possible, racked with spasms and tics. The haunted look in her sunken, bloodshot eyes was something he’d never forget, not for as long as he lived. There was no doubt in Rook’s mind that when he finally got to hell, she would be there to meet him. Seeing her every night was simply his penance, his prepayment for the sins he had committed and would continue to commit. Only when he was on the streets, making them pay, could Rook feel some measure of peace, some sense of justice and satisfaction. At night, the knowledge of what he’d done weighed heavily on him. Thoughts of what Jennifer herself would think of what he was doing hurt him even more.

      Rook had no illusions. He knew that what he was doing was wrong. He knew that he was doing it for himself, too—Jennifer was long past caring and nothing he did would bring her back. Rook was a murderer. He was guilty and he expected, eventually, to be caught or killed.

      He didn’t care.

      Whipping his head to the side as he woke himself from the nightmare, Rook gasped. He blinked a few times, then brought his wristwatch to his face and tried to focus on it. It was morning, and later than he liked. He sighed. He had better waste no more time.

      He sat up in the sweat-stained, tangled sheets, staring uncomprehendingly at the pillow lying on the floor near the full-size bed. The apartment was almost bare except for the bed and a few cardboard boxes stuffed with clothes and other personal items. Guns, ammunition and other supplies were strewed about the floor. There was no furniture on which to place them. Rook owned no television, either—he couldn’t be bothered to spend any time in front of one.

      Empty bottles of bourbon lay on their sides at the foot of the bed, next to an overflowing ashtray. Rook found his mostly crushed box of Marlboros, in which he’d stuffed another disposable lighter, and sucked to life one of the last of his cigarettes. One of his .45s, cocked and locked with a round in the chamber, lay on the sheet where it had been under his pillow. He picked it up, snapped off the safety and considered it.

      He would never kill himself. He wanted to, sometimes, but not badly enough to actually do it. To be honest, it scared him. He knew where he was going and wasn’t in a hurry to get there. Besides, while he was alive, he could keep killing members of the Purists. He might even be able to kill them all.

      He wondered what he would do, then. But it didn’t matter. It would be a long time before he got them all.

       Syracuse, New York

      “C OME ON , J ACKER ,” T ROGG grunted, holding the bloodstained bag of ice to his aching head. “Hurry the fuck up.”

      “I’m doing my best, man,” Jacker whined. His left arm in a sling, Jacker moved a felt-tipped marker back and forth on the dog-eared sheet of copy paper. He paused to push stringy, dirty-blond hair out of his eyes and then bent to his work again.

      “Don’t test me, Jacker,” Trogg rumbled. He flexed the fingers of both his hands, picturing them wrapped around a throat. He wanted to find that commando. It had to be the same guy; there was no question. It was the guy who’d hit the cook house, the guy who’d butchered Chopper Mike, Mike’s old lady, and even his rug rat. Trogg had done worse himself over the course of his life, but this was different. This was family. This was the Purists. Nobody tried to do the Purists like this son of a bitch had done. He was going to pay. Yeah, he was going to pay, but first he was going to suffer. Trogg was going to take great pleasure in torturing the bastard until he went insane—and then torturing him some more until he died.

      The doctor Trogg used for these little incidents had treated him and Jacker, taken his bribe and scuttled off. Trogg almost had to laugh. It was a good bet the city’s south side was the only part of Syracuse that still got house calls from the local medical establishment. Like anything in life, you could have whatever you wanted if you didn’t care what it cost and you didn’t care what laws you broke. Sure, a lot of the doctors paid to come by were, well, less than legitimate, but you took what you could get.

      Trogg knew he was lucky to be alive. His head felt as if it were going to split open. The bullet had creased his forehead but left his skull intact, leaving him with what was going to be an impressive scar when the stitches came out. He was doped to the gills on codeine from his private stash of painkillers. Jacker had bad burns and a busted arm, but he’d recover, too. He wasn’t going to be very pretty, what with the skin all screwed up on his arm and face and neck, but then, he hadn’t been that pretty to start with.

      “He’s gonna pay, man,” Trogg said out loud, not so much to Jacker as to the Universe itself. “We’re gonna find him and we’re going to make him scream and beg to die.”

      B OLAN SAT AT THE interrogation room table with the rookie, Officer Paglia, opposite him, both of them shuffling through files. The impromptu work space had that entrenched locker-room tang that so many rooms like it never lost—sweat, mostly, mixed with stale air, peeling paint, and the stink of bodies long neglected and abused by their owners. Bolan’s credentials had gotten him the space and enough cooperation to get the young officer assigned to him for support, but Syracuse’s chief of police and his federal counterparts had made it clear they weren’t happy to have him butting in. Bolan didn’t care what they thought as long as they stayed out of his way.

      “This is everything you have on the Purists and any killings involving them?” Bolan asked.

      “Everything—murders we believe or that we know they’ve committed, and all of the killings of Purist members in the area,” Paglia confirmed. He shrugged. “To be honest, a lot of guys on the force seem to think the folks upstairs don’t want to try real hard to solve those.” He pointed to several crime-scene photos depicting what could only be dead bikers.

      Bolan nodded.