The massive gash in the Executioner's throat had not closed, just like the knife wound in his chest, and his dark, sluggish blood gushed done his torso, making his entire shirt black. But the defiant arrogance was still clear in his expression and strangely eyeless eyes, and he attempted a chuckle. "This is never over, Angelus," he rasped, air bubbling from the wound in his throat. "I'll see you all in hell, and you'll have an eternity to pay."

"We're not there yet," Angel pointed out, steeling himself for his next move. But he never made it.

"Goddamn motherfucker," Spike shouted angrily, then threw the chainsaw as the Executioner turned to glance at him.

The chainsaw hit the Ex in the back, cutting him almost completely in half from the waist; his spinal cord severed in a misty spray of blood and shattered bone fragments as it ate its way through him, and as the Executioner toppled over, belatedly following the chainsaw to the floor, Angel drove the dagger forward and up, burying it straight in the center of the Executioner's forehead. He then stepped back and let him fall to the floor as a strange sound, somewhere between the hiss of acid and the crackle of flames, filled the room, and the chainsaw died after eating halfway through Maximum Bob's hardwood floor.

Dru made a happy noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and said, "He's run away."

"Which is what we should have done in the first place," Spike groaned, spitting blood on the floor as he doubled over, clamping his hand over the chainsaw slash in his left shoulder, barely staunching the flow of blood spewing from the wound.

"Ah Christ, my floor," Bob exclaimed, and Angel turned to see him in the doorway, with a silver contraption strapped to his back. It had a nozzle on the side, hanging down until it almost scraped the ground.

"It could have been your head," Spike groused, in obvious pain.

"Mister sensitive-you act like you've never gotten a chainsaw wound before." Bob said facetiously, and Dru cackled happily, making Spike glance up and snarl at the both of them (but most of the anger seemed aimed at Bob).

"Would you like one?" He offered, his lip curled up over bloodstained teeth.

Bob chuckled, as Angel realized he smelled gas. "Are you wearing a flamethrower?" He asked Bob, keeping a wary eye on him. He couldn't rule out the Belial burning the whole building down to collect the insurance.

Bob seemed to notice his paranoia, and it made him smile. "Well, I figured it was part of the drill: you guys drag him out into the back alley, dice him up, and I'll turn him into a crispy critter."

Angel nodded wearily, running a hand through his hair. "Sounds like a plan."

Dru made a strange, excited noise, bouncing up and down on her heels. "May I?" She asked, giving him her best pleading look. "Please?"

It didn't take long for Angel to figure out what she wanted. "Okay," he sighed. "You can cut him up-but I'll carry the chainsaw until we get outside."

"Goody!" She cooed excitedly, bouncing up and down again like a child, lightly clapping her hands together in eager anticipation.

Angel grabbed the chainsaw in one hand, and in the other grabbed the Executioner's remaining arm. Dru picked up his lopped off arm, cradling it like her doll Miss Edith, and proceeded Bob down the corridor as Angel followed them both, dragging the corpse behind him. Spike trailed after as soon as he felt strong enough, probably eager to watch the Executioner burn.

*****

It was a bloody, messy job, but Dru tackled it with gleeful abandon, like the Executioner's body was a pinata full of candy all just for her. Only after she sliced his head off did Angel remember the knife Bob loaned him, but it was no longer sticking out of his forehead. Glancing around, he saw Dru had already retrieved it and stuck it in the belt of her blood splattered leather pants, where the tanned hide rested between the metal and her skin.

Spike was leaning against the far wall, between two garbage cans, his eyes half closed in pain, but the blood leaking from the wound and subsequently through his fingers had slowed to a trickle. He'd probably hurt for a while, but sadly, he'd heal.

As soon as Dru was finished doing her one woman interpretation of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Bob moved in, hefting up the nozzle from the tank strapped on his back, and let her rip, the flamethrower an Army class of model that vomited a huge gout of superheated yellowish-orange flames that immediately set the entire pile of Executioner alight. He burned hot and fast, the smell of incinerated flesh filling the narrow alleyway making Angel feel nauseous, and as soon as it was obvious the job was done, Bob stepped back and slipped off the heavy flamethrower before retrieving the chainsaw from Dru. "So-is he gone for good?" Bob wondered, although it only sounded like he wanted confirmation.

Angel nodded, swallowing back bile; he'd be damned if he was going to actually throw up. "He's gone."

"Can I have the knife back, darlin'?" The Belial asked Dru, giving her his best smile.

She returned his smile, and sashayed over to him, using the hem of her pulled out shirt to protect her hand as she grabbed the haft of the knife, but in the blink of an eye she suddenly shifted direction and stabbed the dagger right in Angel's chest.

22

The pain was so intense it was like all his nerves screamed at once, tendrils of acidic fire filling his chest and boiling his blood, making his vision shade to red in a sudden violent burst as he dropped to his knees on the pavement.

"You think I don't know what you think, Angelbeast?" Dru snarled, leaning down into his reddened line of sight. "How does it feel, love?"

He was still wearing the gloves Bob had given him previously, so he was able to reach up and yank the ember hot blade out of his chest, but the effort of doing so left Angel winded, and the wound throbbed uncomfortably like a phantom heartbeat, the holy fire still eating its way through his skin.

Angel intended to stab Dru back, but when he looked up she was already gone, and Spike pushed off the wall and went after her, still grabbing his chainsaw slashed shoulder. "Wait up pet, we have to talk," Spike shouted after her, disappearing up the street.

"You sired some real beauties, Angel," Bob commented, chuckling faintly.

"Oh, fuck you," Angel snapped wearily, allowing himself a minute to rest before he attempted to stand. But Bob continued to chuckle, and helped pull him up to his feet ,pocketing the knife before Angel even thought about using it on him. But Angel couldn't really; the knife wound continued to throb and burn and rob him of his strength, like a time release capsule of holy water had been injected into his bloodstream. No, that wasn't quite right-this hurt a lot worse than holy water.

Maximum Bob helped him into the bar, and Angel dropped unceremoniously into a chair in the front room, where Lia was gazing forlornly at the huge hole where the front door used to be. "My door," she wailed plaintively, turning to give Angel a harsh glare, like he had done it personally. "You are paying for that."

"I feel like I already am," he sighed, hand over his bloody, burning chest wound. Angel wished the throbbing would stop; it was almost as bad as the pain.

"Doesn't Garanagaar owe you?" Bob said to her, doffing the flamethrower and leaving it in the corner.

Lia considered that a moment, then crossed behind the bar, taking out a ledger from a lower shelf and flipping through it rapidly, obviously looking for something. "You're right. I bet he could conjure up a new door in no time." She then glanced up pointedly, her lips thinning in scorn. "But I still expect financial restitution from you, Angel."

He nodded, too tired to argue with her. Actually, he just wanted to go home and fall asleep in a tub of ice water; he felt like he was on fire from the inside out.

"Hey Lia, why don't you call his friends to come pick him up? I think our dear Angel is shagged out for the rest of the day." Bob said, leaping over the bar and helping himself to the alcohol.

"Do I look like a taxi service?" She answered crossly.

"Well, the sun's comin' up-it's either that or keep him here all day."

Cursing under her breath, she pulled the phone out from under the bar and started punching in Cordelia's number. Angel had no idea they knew Cordy's number. Bob came over to the small, scarred wooden table that Angel was slumped over, and set a glass of clear liquid in front of him. "Drink this; it'll make you feel better."

Angel saw Bob had a glass of the same substance himself. "What is it?"

"Vodka. It's an amazing pain killer." Bob downed his glass in a single gulp, and, smiling down at Angel, added, "Come on, drink up. We're partners!"

He said that last bit in an exaggerated Australian accent that made Lia laugh, and it took Angel a moment to realize he was impersonating the gyropilot character from Mad Max Two. It was sad he knew that.

Angel gulped the vodka down, figuring it couldn't hurt, and looked up at Bob suspiciously. "What do you want from me, Bob?"

Bob just smiled, a sly grin that put Angel instantly on alert. "Oh, don't worry about that. You'll find out soon enough." And that's precisely what Angel was worried about.

But he slumped back in his chair, and decided to fret about it another time. He probably wouldn't heal for days, and he'd be no good to anyone until then. But Bob continued to grin down at him, looking like the Cheshire Cat. "Come on, mate, buck up-we just saved the world. Can you believe that?"

Angel shrugged, trying hard not to aggravate the wound. "Just another day at the office for me."

Bob winked at him, amused by the joke, and as Angel waited for Wesley and Cordelia to show up, he wondered what he was going to tell them. He decided to worry about that when they got here.  

THE END