Firestorm. Don Pendleton

hand stabbed out and he grabbed Stephens’s wrists, shoving his hand skyward. He stabbed the Beretta’s still-hot muzzle against Stephens’s neck, and he responded with a yelp.

      “Drop it,” Bolan shouted. His face was only inches from Stephens’s.

      The pistol fell to the floor with a dull thud.

      The Beretta still trained on his opponent, Bolan gathered up the fallen weapon and shoved it into the waistband of his blue jeans.

      From behind him, the woman screamed, “You bastard! What the hell are you doing to him?”

      She took a step toward Bolan, who turned his head slightly to look at her. She halted. Anger flared in her eyes and she lowered her fist, which had been raised over her head like a hammer. She looked at Bolan, then at her boyfriend, then back at him.

      Bolan, his heart still pounding from the confrontation, said, “Get me a sheet.”

      She gave him a confused look.

      “A sheet,” he repeated. “His hip needs to be bandaged.”

      The tautness of her lips signaled that she still was angry, but she disappeared into the bedroom. Bolan hoped she was going to retrieve the sheet and not another weapon. He hated to let her out of his sight, but it couldn’t be helped.

      Stephens remained propped against the wall. His face looked pale; it glistened with sweat. His breathing was ragged. He pressed a bloodied hand to his injured hip and glowered at the Executioner.

      “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

      “Not a friend,” Bolan said.

      “No shit.”

      “You’re going to tell me things,” Bolan said.

      Stephens swore at him.

      Bolan wagged the Beretta’s muzzle at the floor. “Lay down,” he said. “I want to have a look at that hip.” Stephens gave him an uncertain look. After a few seconds, though, he sighed and eased himself to the ground. Bolan gripped one bicep to help him to the floor.