Shock Waves(12)

"Okay, shoot."

"I've got a part of what you're missing here at my place," Rafferty informed him.

"Oh?" The big Fed's interest was immediate. "Which part?"

"The better half."

"I see. You wanna fill me in?"

"That's tricky. The delivery man left your name as a reference. I assumed he must be one of yours."

A cautious silence at Brognola's end, and when he spoke, the man from Justice sounded worried.

"I don't have anybody up your way right now," he said. "There must be some mistake."

"Okay. And maybe I've got Snow White sacked out in my guest room, huh?"

"I guess you'd better start at the beginning, Bill."

He sketched the evening's strange events, omitting nothing. Then he recapped their conversation, leaving out his promise to consider what had plainly been a offer of collaboration in guerrilla war against the Mob.

When he had finished, Hal was silent.

"I think you may have trouble, Bill," Brognola said at last.

The captain snorted. "Great. So tell me something new, why don't you?"

"Right. I think you're looking at a full-scale war."

Rafferty frowned. "The families have been quiet lately... anyway, until this Dave Eritrea thing came up. I don't..."

The big Fed interrupted him. "I didn't say a gang war, did I?"

"Listen, Hal, if I was interested in dial-a-riddle..."

And it struck him then precisely what Brognola must be driving at. Before he could respond, the man from Washington went on.

"Let's see... I'd guess your visitor stood a bit over six feet, weighed around two hundred pounds. Dark hair. The face — well, never mind — but you'll recall the eyes."

"Goddamn it, Hal..."

"Precisely."

"You're supposed to be on top of this. I mean, why here? Why now?"

"Could be Eritrea." He paused, then said wearily, "Bill, I'm not on top of anything right now."

"That leaves me in the middle, huh?"

"Unless you pick a side," Brognola stated flatly.

"You're serious."

And Rafferty could not suppress a tone of wonder as he realized exactly what Brognola meant.

"I won't presume to offer you advice," the Fed replied. "I know what you'd be risking, and I know exactly what your visitor can do. The choice is yours."

"Some choice. I get to help him tear the town apart or just sit back and watch him do it on his own."

"There is a third alternative."

Of course.

He could attempt to bring the soldier in, alive or otherwise, before he had a chance to light a fuse beneath the city.

"What went wrong?" he asked Brognola.

"Say again?"

"Our visitor. I saw the mess that day in Central Park, when he checked out. Supposedly checked out. So who screwed up? And where's he been? I mean..."

"I know exactly what you mean. Right now, the bottom line is that you've got him in New York. He's yours for the duration."

What about Eritrea?"

"I'll take the lady off your hands, don't worry. If you get a line on hubby..."

"Sure, I know. Just pass him on and let the bureau take the bows."

There was a brief pause on the other end as Brognola ignored the gibe.

"All right. About our out-of-towner. Is there anything that you can do?"

"I doubt it, but I'll check it out," the captain said.

"Thanks, Bill."

"No sweat."

The line went dead, and Rafferty cradled the receiver. As he slumped back in the chair, the captain of detectives realized that neither one of them had dared to voice the name.

Mack Bolan.

It was almost as if the act of speaking it could make its bearer appear, and Rafferty restrained an urge to laugh out loud. The guy had been sitting in his house as big as life — or death — and it was too damned late to worry now.

The soldier had arrived, and he had brought his own war with him, ready-made.

Where had the soldier been between that rainy afternoon in Central Park and the resurgence of reports that he was back among the living? Where does a legend go to hide? And what, in heaven's name, would make him take the hellfire trail again if he had found himself an exit?

Rafferty could answer that one, of course. The answer was commitment, to an ideal — a cause — and there could be no turning back on this side of the grave. The warrior was a true believer, devoting every fiber of himself to the eradication of the savages.

He was a living martyr, good only for killing and, in time, for being killed.

It seemed a frigging shame.

And Rafferty still had a choice to make, no easier than when he had decided to disturb Brognola.

He could hand over the woman, then sit back and watch the fireworks, doing nothing until it was time to sweep the streets of Bolan's carnage.