see Hong Kong’s skyline. But it didn’t quite look right. As his consciousness grew stronger, he realized that it was upside down. A grip like a vise held on to both ankles, and suddenly he slipped, dropping a foot. He looked around and saw the streets below, a blaze of garish neon ready to suck him down.
“Glad you could join me again,” a grim and harsh voice said. Waylon tried to speak, but his throat had constricted in fear. His glasses slipped off his face and tumbled away, spiraling into the distance below. The businessman could feel his skin contracting all over his body, his stomach churning. Bile crept into the back of his throat.
“You don’t need to know my name. You just need to know I exist.” The voice cut into his terror. Waylon looked up to see the man’s face. He looked as if he could have been Wade Augustyn’s brother, except his blue eyes were even more chilling and penetrating.
“What do you want?” Waylon croaked, the sourness of his bile burning like a cloud of napalm through his mouth.
“The man you fronted for is dead,” the Executioner said. “I’ll be taking his place for a while, and when I’m done, I want you to fold up his operation and throw it away.”
“What operation?”
Bolan released one of Waylon’s ankles, which elicited a bleat of fear from him. He could see the arm still holding his ankle was wrapped in a bandage around the biceps. The businessman was able to see the raw power in Bolan’s arms, but a smear of red grew in the center of the bandage.
“You can either quit playing stupid, or you can see how long I can hold you up with an injured arm,” Bolan said.
“Wait! Wait!” Waylon howled. “Don’t drop me!”
“Keep talking, Eugene,” Bolan said.
“All right, I’ll make Augustyn’s assassination operation disappear,” Waylon conceded. “Just don’t let go.”
Bolan took hold of Waylon’s other ankle. “Before making it disappear, e-mail all the details to the address I wrote down on your computer desk. All of his contacts, everyone who supplied him, everyone who contracted him.”
Waylon nodded. “Yes.”
“Which triad was Augustyn working for?” Bolan asked.
“The Black Rose,” Waylon answered.
Bolan knew the organization. They were a particularly aggressive and brutal group, given to bouts of violent infighting. “If I hear you’ve set yourself up as someone else’s front man, I’ll make you wish I dropped you off this roof,” Bolan told him. “I’l be watching your every move.”
“Yes, sir,” Waylon said.
“But first, tell me who Augustyn would use as his supplier for an operation in Darwin, Australia,” Bolan ordered.
Waylon looked up. “He’d kill me if I gave him up.”
Bolan pulled Waylon up farther. Eye-level with the balcony, he could see Augustyn’s corpse. “You really think he’ll ever take a shot at you?” Bolan asked.
“N-no, sir,” Waylon stammered.
“Your choice. Spill your guts, or I spill you into the street and take everything apart the hard way,” Bolan said.
Waylon began to talk. He was grateful to be dragged onto the balcony and thrown atop Augustyn’s clammy, pulped form, despite the splatter of blood from the assassin’s caved-in face that spurted over his clothes. He dragged himself away from the corpse and looked to Bolan, who had a laptop sitting on the table.
“What’s that for?” Waylon asked.
“Paying your debt to society,” Bolan informed him.
“Listen, I was just Augustyn’s business manager. I never pulled a trigger!” Waylon said.
“I know. You’re still covered in stains from your blood money, however,” Bolan replied. “Get to work.”
Waylon sat behind the keyboard and saw the screen contained Augustyn’s private, Cayman Island bank accounts. “What do I do?”
“Empty them,” Bolan said.
“But, how will I live?” Waylon asked.
The Executioner lifted his Norinco .45. “Without a hole in one side of your skull and a grapefruit-sized excavation cavity on the other.”
“Okay,” Waylon answered.
“You’re in charge of that killer’s legitimate business holdings. Manage them well, and make your money. Continue his role as philanthropist and run his companies well,” Bolan continued. “If your businesses fail and people suffer and go out of work, I’ll be back.”
Waylon nodded.
“Open these accounts and transmit to this array,” Bolan told him, putting down a piece of paper. “Empty the coffers.”
Waylon glanced at Augustyn’s fortune. Hundreds of millions of dollars in several accounts were going to be transferred to the set of banks Bolan had put before him. He looked questioningly toward the Executioner. “This was a robbery?”
“This was eliminating pure evil,” Bolan stated. “However, his blood money will be put to use for some good.”
“In your pocket?” Waylon asked.
Bolan shook his head no, disdain for the thought registering in a hard, chilling glare. The money from assets acquired while Bolan was on missions would have made Bolan one of the richest men in the world. But Bolan had no interest in such things. The money would be used by Stony Man Farm to fund future missions.
Waylon finished transferring Augustyn’s funds. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Bolan asked.
“For assuming that money was your motivation,” Waylon stated, obviously trying to get back on Bolan’s good side.
The Executioner shook his head.
“It wasn’t Augustyn’s, either,” Waylon continued. “He did it for the thrill.”
“That’s not my goal, either,” Bolan warned. “Don’t think too hard about it, Eugene. This is the end of your old life. Now’s your chance to be a saint and wash the grime off your soul.”
The businessman nodded and watched as the big black .45 went into Bolan’s hip holster.
“Grow old gracefully, Eugene,” Bolan said. “And you’ll never see me again.”
With that, the Executioner left the lavish penthouse, just as the sun cracked the skyline.
BOLAN TOOK THE TIME to dispose of the guns in Augustyn’s apartment. He didn’t want anyone in the Hong Kong underworld to get hold of the assassin’s rather impressive firepower. He had gone to an auto yard and hidden the submachine guns, rifles and handguns he’d stolen from the triad assassin inside the trunk
