Or he could help. And risk his job, his future, indeed his freedom, in the process.
Choices. So many damned choices.
And whichever way he went, Manhattan would be in for war. There was no way around it now, with Bolan on the prowl and blood already shed. No matter what, the storm was here, breaking right around his head.
6
Hal Brognola leaned back in the leather easy chair, drawing deeply on his first cigar of the morning. Around him, the darkened study was already blue with smoke, but the big Fed didn't seem to notice. His mind was miles away now.
In New York. With Bolan.
Hal had discussed the briefing in detail with Nino Tattaglia before they made contact, of course. He had known what the soldier's reaction would be. Hell, he was counting on it.
And still it bothered him, this turning Bolan loose upon an unsuspecting city like some kind of doomsday weapon, then sitting back to catch whatever pieces might be thrown clear by the blast. They had been down this road more than once before, in the bad old days before the Phoenix team was formed, but now — well, it was different, somehow.
Bolan had been pardoned "posthumously" when he signed on with the antiterrorism force, his "crimes" officially forgiven by the President himself. The pardon was a secret, naturally, along with Bolan's new identity, his operations base sequestered in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. Everything about the war on terror, in fact, was so damned secret that the public never knew of Bolan's role... or that his part in the heroic effort had been terminated, tragically, by traitors from within.
Brognola stubbed out the stogie and waved away the smoke, rising and moving toward the window, beyond which a rosy dawn was breaking. But the world wasn't so rosy to Brognola.
The sky looked all bloody, the fleecy clouds discolored, tinged, like cast-off bandages.
It was already happening in New York. The bodies were piling up, and he would have to share responsibility for what was coming. He had helped to light the fuses, and when the charges started blowing in Manhattan proper, he would have to share the blame for the mangled souls.
It was a different game these days, at least for Hal Brognola. Bolan had not changed — would never change — but for a fleeting moment he had been legitimized, pronounced official, and his swift reversion to his former outlaw state had stunned Brognola.
For just an instant he was back in the smoldering hellground of Stony Man Farm, the stench of death in his nostrils. He could feel the deep abiding rage, the heartsick grief as he stood over the inert body of April Rose.
And he could well imagine what it must have been like for Bolan to lose the woman he loved and know that sellouts in his own backyard had called the play. The score was even now — as even as a killing debt like that could be... but there had been a price. Mack Bolan was outside the law again. Some officers were still reluctant to accept the news, but they were learning — in Miami, Las Vegas, Hollywood, San Diego.
It was looking like the bad old days, but with a vicious twist. In Bolan's first crusade against the Mafia, Brognola had cooperated in the hope that he could turn the guy around and make him part of The System. It had almost worked, but now the wild-assed warrior was back out there, and Hal was left with difficult choices in his absence.
He could cautiously lend a helping hand, let Nino and assorted others be conduits of information to the soldier, feeding him a list of targets for extermination. If it blew up in his face, he could forget about the almost thirty years he had invested in career and family, forget about his life, and bite the bullet like a man.
Or he could do his best to bring the soldier down, as he had tried to do so long ago, during Bolan's early war against the Mafia, before he realized that underneath the war paint they were kindred souls.
Uh-uh. He had come too far with Bolan to desert him now. He would never take up arms against the hellfire warrior.
They were in this thing together, albeit now on different sides of an invisible line. But they had walked that line before, and nothing said he could not learn the skill again.
And he had a chance to practice now.
New York would be a problem, certainly. The families there had gathered strength, repaired some fences since the Executioner had visited them last. The meeting scheduled to begin today had the earmarks of a major sit-down, possibly the largest since Miami.
If Don Minelli planned to crown himself the boss of bosses, the capo di tutti capi, then Dave Eritrea's head would be the perfect symbol of his power. He would eclipse the other New York families in a single stroke, and let the others know that he was now the power to be dealt with on the eastern seaboard.
Brognola knew that Minelli could pull it off and make it stick — unless somebody found a way to ruin it before he got the final pieces into place.