The guy never saw what had come for him. The two-hand chop at either side of the neck sat the guy down and shuttered the eyes without so much as a gasp of understanding. Bolan hoisted the unconscious man to his shoulder and headed for the front door. Throwing the double bolts, he stepped into the little security room that marked the final obstacle.
The guard had both feet on the desk, a Schmeisser one lunge away. Both feet crashed to the floor as he tried for it -a mere heartbeat removed from instant fame and glory, but a heartbeat too late. The Beretta spat once from the doorway, chugging its silent skullbuster toward a bone-shattering denial of fame and glory. The guard fell back into the chair and stayed there, the broken head slumped limply over the backrest.
The Executioner rolled chair and all into the darkened interior, then got the hell out of there with his prisoner. As he rejoined the night, he knew that it had been a successful mission. But he did not know what lay at the end of the numbers. And he had not yet reached that end. He jogged along with his burden, heading due north and into God knew what.