Save the Children by Don Pendleton

from one foot to the other, making an occasional, hesitant reply but not saying much.
    Bolan glided around what was supposed to be the wall of a bedroom and stepped over a pile of woundup cables only a few feet from the office.
    The office, small as it was, was luxuriously appointed, especially compared to the rest of the dingy warehouse studio. The carpet and the upholstery of the chair behind the desk were plush, and there was a well-stocked wet bar on the wall to one side.
    Owens might cut a few corners in his moviemaking costs but he evidently liked his own comforts, thought Bolan.
    Comforts that were, at the moment, maybe in danger of being taken away from him.
    "Protect our investment, Owens," Bolan heard Carson saying, confirming Bolan's earlier guess that the man was some sort of accountant. "We cannot afford to have these constant, continual delays. The distribution arm must have new product."
    "You know how actors are," Owens replied haltingly, his voice muffled by the glass. "You've got to baby them, coddle them along."
    "I don't care what you do or how you do it, just as long as you turn out plenty of product." Carson reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small plastic bag containing white powder. He tossed it onto the desktop. "There. That ought to keep them happy for a while."
    Owens reached out and picked up the bag, tossing it lightly into the air and catching it.
    "This will be a big help, all right." He grinned. "Tell Mr. Parelli I said thanks."
    "Mr. Parelli isn't interested in gratitude. Just results. See that you deliver."
    Bolan had heard enough.
    Results, the man had said.
    The Executioner was ready to deliver.
    He stepped up to the door of that office, ready to ease in and confront Owens and the accountant.
    "Hey, what the hell are you doing?" a female voice squealed behind him.
    Bolan spun and saw one of the actresses, the one called Babs, standing there in a robe that barely came to her thighs.
    She look shocked and surprised, ready to whirl and run.
    She did just that with a high-pitched scream thrown in for good measure when she saw the big blacksuited guy holding the huge AutoMag.
    Bolan bit back a curse. He had been so intent on the exchange between Owens and Carson that he had not heard the young woman's approach.
    Now it was too late.
    He stepped away from the office and whirled, assuming a shooter's crouch as he faced the movie set.
    The three goons came running into view from the other side of stacked backdrops, their pistols drawn, rushing to see what had started the lady screaming and running back toward the dressing rooms.
    Bolan materialized out of the shadows, the AutoMag extended in front of him like a hand cannon.
    A foot-long tongue of flame licked the air as Big Thunder roared.
    The three hoods had come running side by side and the first round caught the one on Bolan's left, in the middle of the face. His head seemed to disappear off his neck. The body took a few more steps, then his feet went out from under him and he sprawled to the ground, his weapon skittering away into the gloom.
    Bolan tracked to the right with the .44 and triggered a rapid double-punch.
    The two slugs found their mark, slamming into the remaining hardguys.
    Bolan spun back toward the office.
    Owens and Carson had been somewhat slower to react to the commotion than the three goons, who were trained for such things, but by this time they had recovered their wits.
    They came running out of the office, Carson in the lead holding a small Colt revolver.
    Owens just ran.
    The accountant skidded to a stop as he saw Bolan turning to face him. Carson jerked his small revolver up and fired.
    Bolan heard the slug zip past his ear. He stroked Big Thunder's trigger, holding the muzzle down against the recoil.
    The crack of Carson's shot was lost in the roar of the AutoMag, a head shot that all but took the money man's head apart, splattering a gory mess across the glass wall of the office a few feet behind