had ever seen a truly turned-off young woman, then this was the one.
She was sprawled upon her back on a large beach towel, head and shoulders supported by a plastic pillow, staring at him with something less than curiosity. A large Doberman, identical to the dogs at the Winters place, sat faithfully at her feet and regarded Bolan with that same detachment.
Needlessly, it seemed, she commanded the dog, "Thunder, stay." Then she told the intruder, "This is a private beach."
Bolan replied, "I know."
Except for the hat, he was dressed in the seagoing togs he'd acquired for the hit on Danger's
Folly.
The AutoMag was snugged into a shoulder holster beneath his left arm. The big piece made anoticeable bulge in his jacket, but this was the desired effect.
She was looking him over with a shade of interest now.
"You can be prosecuted for trespassing," Maxwell Thornton's wife informed the Executioner.
He said, "I'll risk it."
She sat up, sending the undraped chest a'jiggling, and leaned forward to grab a handful of the dog's coat. "Thunder is my bodyguard," she declared in that same listless tone. "A word from me and he'll be at your throat."
Beneath that turned-off exterior, the girl was frightened. Bolan knew this by the way the dog was beginning to tense and strain. A good dog could sense its owner's concealed emotions.
He told her, "Thunder must be a real comfort. Too bad."
The dog was off his fanny now, legs beneath him in a low crouch, lips curling upward to show this intruder how impressive his fangs were.
After a brief silence, the girl asked, "What's too bad?"
"Too bad that Howlie couldn't get the same sense of security from Thunder's brothers."
That one penetrated, immediately.
She let go of the Doberman and cried, "Thunder,
hit!"
The big fellow's trained reaction was instantaneous and dramatic. The soft sand gave him a little trouble, but just a little, and he left the ground with all four feet airborne, snarling into the conditioned-response attack, the great mouth fully open and grinding into that contact with human flesh.
It is impossible to depict a true guard-dog attack in one of those staged presentations for movies or television. The Hollywood dogs are trained to simulate an attack and there is no way to fake the actual fury and viciousness of a true guard-dog response to a
kill
command.
These impressive fellows do not passively wrestle about with their jaws clamped lightly around a guy's forearm. They
explode
into a writhing juggernaut of fury unleashed, slashing and ripping with fang and claw, and it is a rare man who can bare-handedly stand up to such an assault.
Mack Bolan was a rare man. He had read the attack, and he'd been waiting for it. His jump-off was synchronized with that of the dog as he pivoted inside and under the scrambling leap. He popped him in the throat with everything he could put behind a balled fist and rammed a knee into the belly as the Doberman fell back onto his hind legs.
It was a matter of an irresistible force meeting an immovable object, with the immovable object getting the best shots in.
The Doberman's legs buckled. The big head drooped toward the sand as he alternately coughed and retched, struggling to draw air with his temporarily paralyzed respiratory system.
He was all out of fight, for the moment.
Bolan sprung the AutoMag and aimed it at the Doberman's head. "Call him off," he warned the woman.
It had all occurred so quickly that the woman's hand was still poised in the air where she had released the dog. Those emerald eyes did not so much as flicker as she issued the soft command. "Thunder, break."
The monster-dog seemed grateful to be relieved of his responsibilities. He crawled toward the woman, whining and still fighting for breath,
Bolan sheathed the AutoMag and knelt beside the dog to rub his throat and massage the quivering ribcage.
Something was coming alive in Marsha Thornton's dead eyes as she watched the tall man with the impassive face
She was sprawled upon her back on a large beach towel, head and shoulders supported by a plastic pillow, staring at him with something less than curiosity. A large Doberman, identical to the dogs at the Winters place, sat faithfully at her feet and regarded Bolan with that same detachment.
Needlessly, it seemed, she commanded the dog, "Thunder, stay." Then she told the intruder, "This is a private beach."
Bolan replied, "I know."
Except for the hat, he was dressed in the seagoing togs he'd acquired for the hit on Danger's
Folly.
The AutoMag was snugged into a shoulder holster beneath his left arm. The big piece made anoticeable bulge in his jacket, but this was the desired effect.
She was looking him over with a shade of interest now.
"You can be prosecuted for trespassing," Maxwell Thornton's wife informed the Executioner.
He said, "I'll risk it."
She sat up, sending the undraped chest a'jiggling, and leaned forward to grab a handful of the dog's coat. "Thunder is my bodyguard," she declared in that same listless tone. "A word from me and he'll be at your throat."
Beneath that turned-off exterior, the girl was frightened. Bolan knew this by the way the dog was beginning to tense and strain. A good dog could sense its owner's concealed emotions.
He told her, "Thunder must be a real comfort. Too bad."
The dog was off his fanny now, legs beneath him in a low crouch, lips curling upward to show this intruder how impressive his fangs were.
After a brief silence, the girl asked, "What's too bad?"
"Too bad that Howlie couldn't get the same sense of security from Thunder's brothers."
That one penetrated, immediately.
She let go of the Doberman and cried, "Thunder,
hit!"
The big fellow's trained reaction was instantaneous and dramatic. The soft sand gave him a little trouble, but just a little, and he left the ground with all four feet airborne, snarling into the conditioned-response attack, the great mouth fully open and grinding into that contact with human flesh.
It is impossible to depict a true guard-dog attack in one of those staged presentations for movies or television. The Hollywood dogs are trained to simulate an attack and there is no way to fake the actual fury and viciousness of a true guard-dog response to a
kill
command.
These impressive fellows do not passively wrestle about with their jaws clamped lightly around a guy's forearm. They
explode
into a writhing juggernaut of fury unleashed, slashing and ripping with fang and claw, and it is a rare man who can bare-handedly stand up to such an assault.
Mack Bolan was a rare man. He had read the attack, and he'd been waiting for it. His jump-off was synchronized with that of the dog as he pivoted inside and under the scrambling leap. He popped him in the throat with everything he could put behind a balled fist and rammed a knee into the belly as the Doberman fell back onto his hind legs.
It was a matter of an irresistible force meeting an immovable object, with the immovable object getting the best shots in.
The Doberman's legs buckled. The big head drooped toward the sand as he alternately coughed and retched, struggling to draw air with his temporarily paralyzed respiratory system.
He was all out of fight, for the moment.
Bolan sprung the AutoMag and aimed it at the Doberman's head. "Call him off," he warned the woman.
It had all occurred so quickly that the woman's hand was still poised in the air where she had released the dog. Those emerald eyes did not so much as flicker as she issued the soft command. "Thunder, break."
The monster-dog seemed grateful to be relieved of his responsibilities. He crawled toward the woman, whining and still fighting for breath,
Bolan sheathed the AutoMag and knelt beside the dog to rub his throat and massage the quivering ribcage.
Something was coming alive in Marsha Thornton's dead eyes as she watched the tall man with the impassive face
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