Baltimore Trackdown by Don Pendleton Page A

shrubs until a young guard approached, carrying an Uzi. The timing was critical. As the guard came near, Angela stepped out of the brush.
    She jumped with feigned surprise and turned around. In the few seconds it took him to recover, Bolan rose out of the brush and brought the hardened edge of his palm down on the man’s neck. The man dropped and the Executioner dragged him into the shrubbery. Then he and Angela crossed to the far side of the walk, hidden again.
    At the path near the fence, Angela sat on a patch of grass in the sunshine and opened her blouse for a little bit of all-over tan. The first guard to approach cleared his throat about twenty feet away. She pretended to be sleeping as she leaned against the wall. The guard walked quietly by, staring. He did not see Bolan rising behind him.
    The Executioner swung the Uzi submachine gun he had confiscated from the other guard, smashing it against the side of the man’s neck. His neck cracked loudly. When the criminal soldier collapsed, he would never rise again.
    Bolan boosted the woman over the six-foot block wall, then went over himself. They slumped against the wall, then as a neighbor’s dog barked, they calmly walked to the street and Bolan’s rented Buick.
    Three miles away, Bolan pulled to a curb.
    “What now?” Angela asked.
    “That’s up to you. You’ve escaped. Can I drive you somewhere?”
    “No, I like it here with you.”
    “I have some work to finish. Do you have any relatives where I can take you?”
    “No, just back to Carlo’s castle.”
    Bolan turned around, opened the suitcase on the rear seat and slid the Uzi inside. Before he could stop her, Angela grabbed a grenade. She held the arming handle down and pulled the ring, removing the safety pin.
    She sat in the passenger side of the car, holding the grenade in her right hand, a strange, wild look on her pretty face.
    “I finally remembered where I saw you before. It was at our house the night Jo Jo died. Hell, he wasn’t much, but he was mine! He fathered my children. What am I supposed to do now — live off the goodness of the godfather for the next sixty years?”
    She did not wait for a reply.
    “No way! I’ll work the streets first, selling my ass! Then here you come, the big killer, the man who made me a widow. At least I remember, and I know I have to do something about it. Guns are hard to use. You can miss when you try to kill someone. But a grenade! There’s no chance to miss. So what if I have to stay here with you to make sure? I just let the handle pop off and I hold it right in your gut and blow both of us all over the inside of this car!” Her eyes were wild and she was breathing fast. She reached down and rubbed her breast. “I’ll blow us both to hell! Better that way. Damn sight better that way. Carlo can raise my two kids.”
    Bolan knew she was very near to doing what she threatened to do. He had seen angry women before. He moved toward her slowly, and rested his hand on her shoulder. He patted her gently as she rambled on.
    “Hell, I don’t care. I got cheated out of a husband. Somebody who treated me fine in spite of the bitchy things I did to him. That man was a saint.”
    Bolan moved closer, speaking softly. He knew she was distraught and any sudden moves on his part could mean the end for both of them.
    “Angela, I know things look a little gloomy now,” Bolan coaxed, “but they’ll be better. Think of your children!”
    He caught her hand gently and eased the grenade away while holding the arming handle firmly in place.
    Bolan leaned away from her, took a roll of black tape from the suitcase on the seat behind them and taped the grenade’s arming handle solidly in position. Then he put it back in the case.
    She sighed and broke into tears. “Oh, damn! I have to go back. I’ll tell Carlo that you tricked me and forced me to help you, and that I almost killed you with a grenade. He’ll have to believe me.”
    Bolan reached over, touched her chin