LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter 6

      The Executioner hit the door at high speed, taking it off its hinges, and bounced off the opposite wall. He rolled to his feet, weaponless, his ears ringing. A monstrous shape filled the doorway. Hands like slabs of cured ham stretched toward him and Bolan narrowly avoided what he knew would surely be a crushing grip. “Who told you that you could come in here?” the man-mountain squalled, sounding more like a petulant child than a monster.

      “I was looking for the bathroom, actually,” Bolan said, balancing on the balls of his feet. “Guess I made a mistake.”

      “That was my room! Nobody goes in my room!” A big fist looped out and punched clean through the drywall, showering Bolan with dust. He tried to return the favor, digging his knuckles into a spot just beneath his opponent’s sternum. The big man grunted and twisted, pushing Bolan and sending him sprawling down the stairs. “Nobody!”

      Bolan clambered to his feet, using the wobbly banister for help. He hadn’t been punched that hard in a long time, and he didn’t intend to let it happen again. The man was big, a little over Bolan’s own six and change in height, and built wide, with a layer of cherubic flab over muscles built by labor, rather than exercise. He was quick, as well, not so much as Bolan, but light on his feet. His eyes bulged and his mouth worked silently as he advanced on the Executioner. Bolan’s palm itched for the feel of a pistol. Lacking that, he went for his knife. He ducked under a backhanded swipe and pulled the blade. It closed the gap with his opponent’s belly, but viselike fingers swallowed his own, forcing the blade aside. Knuckles scraped his cheek and Bolan brought his knee up. The big man uttered a shrill cry and threw Bolan over the banister as if he weighed no more than a bale of hay.

      Bolan hit a table and it broke in two at the point of impact. All the breath had been forced from his lungs and it was all he could do at the moment to roll over and grope for the KA-BAR, which had landed point first into the rough wooden floor. But even as his fingertips found the handle, he heard the ominous click of a gun being cocked. He looked up. The big man glared down at him, a Glock aimed at a point somewhere between Bolan’s eyes. Bolan tensed, preparing to roll aside.

      A second before his opponent fired, however, there was a second click. The big man stopped dead, his eyes widening as a dark-skinned, one-eyed man pressed the barrel of Bolan’s dropped .38 to one pudgy cheek. “I was attempting to sleep,” the one-eyed man purred.

      “What the hell is going on here?” Sweets cried out, kicking aside the broken chunk of table. He glared first at Bolan, and then up at the tableau above. “Damn it, Digger! What did you do?”

      “He came into my room, Django,” the big man said, cutting a glance at the man pressing a pistol to his face. “Nobody comes into my room. You said, Django. You said nobody would come into my room.”

      “I was just looking for the toilet,” Bolan said, getting to his feet slowly, the KA-BAR in his hand. Sweets eyed him suspiciously.

      “Were you now? Cousin Frank, you do seem to get into fights.”

      “It’s a bad habit,” Bolan said, trying for nonchalance. He sheathed the knife. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t have to go anymore.”

      Sweets guffawed. Then he looked up at Digger and said, “Mr. Tuerto, if you’d kindly take that gun out of my brother’s face, I’d be most obliged.”

      Bolan fought the urge to whip around. Tuerto! The man with one eye smiled genially and moved down the stairs, the revolver dangling from the trigger guard. He tossed it to Bolan nonchalantly. “I believe that this is yours?” he said.