Bolan was not close enough yet to hear what they were saying inside that cubicle.
It looked as if Carson was doing most of the talking, leaning back in Owens's chair, giving the filmmaker a good, heated dressing-down about something.
Owens stood in front of the desk, shifting uneasily 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 him.
Carson's body slammed back and he fell, joining his three men in death on the dirty floor.
Bolan's eyes searched the shadows around him for Owens. He heard running footsteps echoing from the back of the building.
One of the actresses shouted from that direction.
"Hey, wait a minute! Take us with you, goddamn it! Wait a minute!"
A door slammed somewhere in the rear of the studio.
Bolan raced in the direction of the noise. He heard a car door slam and an engine crank to life. He bit off a curse. He could not let Owens escape!
"Hold it!"
Bolan stopped, Big Thunder ready in his fist.
A figure materialized out of the shadows and Bolan recognized him as the man who had been operating the camera. The guy held a pistol trained on Bolan. Bolan noticed that the gun was the one that the first goon had dropped when Bolan blew him away. The cameraman's hand was shaking as he pointed the weapon at the Executioner.
"Put it down," the soldier ordered sharply. "My quarrel's not with you."
"Not with me? Hell, the way you're shooting up the place, what does it matter who your quarrel's with?" the cameraman said. "I just want out of here!"
"Then put the gun down and go," Bolan told the guy.
"So you can shoot me in the back? No thanks!"
The warrior looked at the young man for several seconds, then slid the AutoMag back into its holster.
His quarrel tonight was not with a flunky who was guilty of no more than operating a camera.
"Take off," he growled. "You won't get a better offer."
The cameraman studied Bolan for a moment, gulped nervously, then bent and gingerly placed the pistol on the floor. Then he turned and bolted for the nearest exit.
Bolan followed, alert for any traps that might be waiting for him.
Nothing happened until he almost reached a narrow door in the rear corner of the building.
Then a woman bumped into him.
It was Tess. She gave a choked, panicky cry, pummeling his chest with her small fists.
"Let me go, let me go!" she wailed.
Bolan gave her a firm but gentle shove that sent her staggering away from him.
"I don't have you," he pointed out. "Where's Randy?"
She had donned a silk wrap that fell open with the push. She jerked it tightly about her, clasping the see-through material closed and folding her arms across her chest.
"He ran out on us, the rotten son of a bitch!" she raged. "He said if we were ever raided, he'd stick with us, that dirty lying bastard!"
"Did he actually leave, or is he still here somewhere?"
"I saw him drive off. He had his car parked out there behind some garbage cans. A good place for slime like him to park, if you ask me."
"Where are your friends, Babs and Rudy?"
The brunette threw a glance over her shoulder.
"Scared to come out of the dressing room. They're hiding under the bed. Hey, you're not a cop at all, are you?" She stepped back, her apprehension mounting.
"I came for Owens, not you," he assured her.
That did not convince her. She started trembling.
"Oh, mister... please... we heard the shooting but we haven't seen anything. I haven't seen you, okay? Please let us go..."
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said firmly. "Where would Owens be likely to go?"