Shock Waves(41)

The soldier, with an infinite capcity for caring, seemed to have an infinite capacity for killing, too. And if Minelli had discovered Flasher, if his men had harmed Sally in any way...

Brognola grimaced.

He would not have traded places with the mafioso at any price.

While Bolan lived, Minelli would not find a hiding place on earth. No mountaintop, no cave, no desert island would be wild enough, remote enough, to shelter him from the avenging spirit. No matter where he ran, he would be hunted down precisely like the vermin that he was, and run to earth. Wiped out.

But the big Fed knew from watching Bolan at work that vengeance never filled the void of martyred friends and lost loved ones. Retribution was a form of hellfire therapy, of repaying a debt in blood and purging grief, but ultimately it added nothing to the man or to society beyond elimination of a hostile predator. When it was done, the ritual complete, a legacy of grief remained, and there was nothing more to do but live with it.

Mack Bolan had eradicated countless savages — one unofficial tabulation placed it in the thousands — and he bore the scars of losses that had cut him to the soul and left it bleeding, raw. Remembered pain was never far away, Brognola knew, and each new skirmish seemed to add another scar.

He wondered, sometimes, how the Executioner held on. How long could he keep going, butting heads against the odds, against his own mortality?

One more time, he thought, not realizing that it sounded like a prayer. This time, at least.

For Flasher.

For Tattaglia.

And for the man himself.

They could not well afford to lose him now, could not afford to let him lose himself. It was incredible that Bolan had maintained his balance as it was, an exile, every hand against him.

How many other men had cracked beneath the strain of lesser weights? How many had withdrawn into themselves or detonated into wild, chaotic violence aimed at members of their families, at total strangers, when the fuse burned down too far?

Mack Bolan was a living mystery. A goddamned wonder of the world. No other like him had arisen during living memory; there might not be another like him in a lifetime.

And they needed him. Alive. In working order and in fighting trim.

Brognola's job, on paper, was to make sure that Bolan did not run amok, initiate another of his one-man wars. He had accepted the assignment knowing that it was impossible, that no one would contain the hellfire warrior's energy until he was nailed inside a stout pine box.

The misconception had been in the assumption that Bolan would be "starting something" once his last official ties were severed. Nothing, Hal Brognola knew, could have been farther from the truth.

The Executioner had never started anything, and he was not about to try. His war had been there waiting for him when he came home from the Asian hellgrounds all those lives ago, and he had been fighting it ever since. There was no new war for Mack Bolan. It would always be the same old war, despite the shifting battlefields, the changing names and faces of his enemies.

The opposition was — had always been, would always be — the savages who prey upon society.

The warrior's sole objective was — had always been, would always be — to drive them back into their caves and keep them there, to make them fear the cleansing light of day.

And Bolan was — had always been, would always be — the Executioner.

Damn straight.

It was Mack Bolan's war, but there was room for allies, so long as they did not obstruct the field of fire. If there was nothing Hal could do to rein the hellfire warrior in — or, God forbid, to call him off — there might be something he could do to help.

Brognola finished loading his revolver, holstered it and reached for the telephone.





18




Bill Rafferty was beside the phone when it rang. With some sixth sense that develops in a lawman over time, he had been expecting the call. As he lifted the receiver, he already knew who was on the other end.

"Rafferty."

"How's your houseguest?"

Bolan's casual tone surprised the veteran detective, and the short hairs on his neck stood at attention.

"She's in safe hands," the strike-force chief replied. "Your friend in Washington sent out a pickup team."

"I see."

He heard the concern in Bolan's voice.

"I checked their paperwork, of course. They were legit, for what it's worth."

"It's worth a lot. And thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"Have you made a decision, Captain?"

Cool and casual. He might have been requesting tomorrow's weather forecast rather than inviting Rafferty to join in mortal combat.

"'Yeah, I have." The gruff detective glanced around him, hesitating for another moment, finally releasing held-in breath. "I guess I'll go along."