THE EXECUTIONER WAS in South Beach.

      Paul Sebring ran his business from the top floor of a low-rise building. The street level was a seafood restaurant. Access to Sebring’s office was via the wide alley that ran along the side of the building. White-painted steps led to the studio setup. Bolan made his way into a reception area with the walls covered in examples of Sebring’s work. Even a cursory glance told Bolan the man was good. Behind the desk a pretty young woman glanced up from her computer keyboard.

      “Hi,” she said. “Can I help?”

      “I need to speak to Paul Sebring,” he said. “It’s urgent.”

      “Okay,” the woman said. She pointed at a door to one side of the desk. “Through there. Paul’s office is on the left. Third door.”

      Bolan nodded. “Thanks.”

      As he walked along the corridor a door opened and a man leaned out.

      “I’m Paul Sebring. Is there a problem?”

      Bolan followed the photographer into a spacious, airy office that was expensively decorated and looked out over South Beach.

      Sebring was a tall, fit-looking man in his midthirties. He was dressed in casual clothing and his pale blond hair was thick. He held out a large hand, smiling at his visitor.

      “Matt Cooper,” Bolan said. He showed Sebring his Department of Justice credentials and watched the man’s expression grow serious.

      “Now you have me worried.”

      They sat facing each other across Sebring’s large desk.

      “Maggie Connor,” Bolan stated simply and watched Sebring’s reaction.

      “Is she okay?”

      “That sounds as if you know she might be in trouble,” the Executioner said.

      “I never could hide my feelings. Look, all I can tell you is the last time she contacted me, Maggie…well, she sounded stressed. I’ve known her a long time and she isn’t easily rattled.”

      “Did she tell you what was getting to her?”

      “Not straight out. I just guessed it had to do with her current investigation. Something about illegal weapons dealing in Colombia. I told her she was on pretty thin ice with something like that. Those people do not play nice.” Sebring stared hard at Bolan, trying to read his thoughts. “Jesus, is she hurt? Missing?”

      “Looks that way. That’s what I’m trying to find out. Did Maggie leave anything with you? Send you anything?”

      Sebring sat upright, color draining from his face. He pushed up out of his chair and crossed the office, sliding open a drawer in a filing cabinet. He took out a small padded envelope.

      “This arrived the other day. Never gave it much thought. Maggie’s always sending me stuff to hold for her. She isn’t much of an organizer.”

      Sebring offered the envelope to Bolan. He checked the postmark. It had been sent four days ago. Mailed from upstate Florida. He tore the sealing strip and tipped the contents out on Sebring’s desk. There were two items. A digital camera memory card and a computer flash drive.

      “I wonder what’s on them,” Sebring said.

      “I’ll know when I read them.”

      “No, you won’t,” someone said.

      The Executioner turned and saw a broad-shouldered man in light pants and a colorful shirt. The thug had long black hair, pulled back in a ponytail, and a taut, angular face. There was a large pistol in the man’s hand. It had a sound suppressor screwed on to it and the muzzle was pointing at Bolan. Behind the gunman was a second guy, dark and squat. He had Sebring’s receptionist held tight against him, one hand clamped over her mouth, his other arm around her waist.

      “Just give me the pieces,” the gunman said.

      Sebring exploded with anger. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

      The man didn’t blink. He shifted the muzzle of the pistol and fired. The slug smashed into Sebring’s left shoulder, knocking the surprised photographer backward.

      Bolan swiveled from the waist, his right forearm sweeping around to catch the shooter’s arm and deflect the pistol. Continuing the swift move Bolan brought his left arm up and circled the gunman’s wrist. He trapped the arm beneath his own, clamping it to his side, swung hard and hauled the man off balance. Bolan grabbed for the pistol, twisting it brutally, snapping the finger still inside the trigger guard. The gunman let out a shout of pain and dropped the pistol. Bolan pivoted, the point of his right elbow thudding hard into the man’s face. His nose broke under the impact. Blood began to gush from his nostrils. Bolan grabbed the man’s hair and pulled his head forward and down. His rising knee met the gunman’s forehead. The impact sent him reeling across the office, moaning, his hands clutched to his smashed face. Bolan spotted the dropped gun and scooped it up.

      Satisfied that the man was out of action Bolan turned in the direction of the second intruder who was still holding Sebring’s receptionist. The stocky man seemed stunned to see his downed partner curled up on the floor of the office. He turned his attention back to Bolan, now holding the pistol and closing the distance between them with speed. In a split second decision he released the receptionist, pushing her at Bolan, then turned and ran for the exit.

      As the Executioner strode through the reception area he was only a couple of steps behind the fleeing figure. He raced through the door and caught the man at the top of the exterior steps. The man half turned in Bolan’s direction as he sensed his pursuer’s close proximity. His hand came out of his pocket to reveal a knife. The Executioner slammed the pistol across the side of the man’s face. The blow was delivered hard, opening a raw gash. The thug squealed, an odd, high-pitched sound, and dropped the knife. The squeal trailed off as Bolan hit him