Just that. And Rafferty was perfectly aware that he had sealed his fate with five small words. If anything went wrong from here on in, it was his ass, his job, his pension on the line.
"Okay." There was a mixture of relief and sadness in the soldier's tone. "You know Minelli's place?"
"Out on the island? Yeah."
"His visitors are in for a surprise tonight, at... let's say... 1900."
"Couldn't happen to a nicer crowd."
And he could almost hear Bolan grin across the wires.
"Our mutual acquaintance has a friend inside, with the Seattle delegation. The rumble is, she may be made."
"Bad luck."
"There's more. Minelli has your missing package under wraps."
If figured, sure.
"Sounds like a tricky play," said Rafferty.
"They may be still intact. But either way, the party goes."
It came out cold, but Rafferty could sense a certain pain behind the words. And he was learning more about Bolan by the moment.
"So what's my end?"
"You're batting cleanup. There should be a lot of strays, and some of them may be inclined to talk, if you're persuasive."
"I'm a charmer when I need to be."
"Okay. I'll rig it so you get a tip in time to roll and make it look legitimate. If everything comes off, you should be covered five by five. Stay hard, Captain."
"Yeah. You, too."
He thought of something else and snatched the telephone receiver back, but he was talking to the dial tone now. The Executioner was gone.
And what else do you tell a man whose life is on the line around the clock, by choice? What do you say before the solitary soldier goes to war?
Be careful?
Keep your head down?
Hit the bastards once for me?
It was simple, really. There was nothing to be said.
The soldier's actions would be speaking for him soon.
And whichever way it went, Bill Rafferty would be on Bolan's flank tonight, ready to receive the stragglers as they fled the firestorm.
Rafferty was well aware that he'd be violating every code of conduct in the book, that he could lose his job, his freedom, if the truth came out in open court. But somehow the veteran detective's own priorities were shifting, changing, to accommodate a different set of values, different than but not entirely foreign to his own.
Bill Rafferty had seen too many criminals sheltered while their victims were crucified. He was familiar with the lawyers on both sides — the prosecution and defense — who jumped at sweetheart deals to clear the calendar, without regard for morality. He had seen hundreds of convicted felons walk away with reprimands, and fines that scarcely j dented their illicit bankrolls.
He had seen enough to know the hallowed system wasn't working anymore. Perhaps it never had, but there was nothing he could do to change the past.
There might be something, though, that he could do about the present... and the future. Anyway, the strike-force j captain felt compelled to try. And if he lost it all in the attempt...
Well, it was better than surrendering without a fight. And when Bill Rafferty went out, he meant to go out fighting, taking down as many hostiles as he could along the way.
It was the only decent way, he thought, for any fighting man to go.
* * *
Mack Bolan had an hour to prepare himself for Don Minelli's sit-down, and the time weighed heavily on him as he pushed the rental wheels eastbound along Highway 25A, crossing out of Nassau County and into Long Island proper.
He knew how long an hour was and what could happen in that time.
He knew what could become of Sally Palmer and Dave Eritrea if Minelli tried to start his party prematurely, using one or both of them to enliven the festivities.
Eritrea was certain to be marked for death, presumably when all the capos were assembled, so that they could marvel at Minelli's cunning, his ability to reach inside the federal witness program and extract so ripe a plum. As for Sally, there was a chance that she had not yet been made.
The soldier's memory coughed up unbidden images of other comrades, other loved ones, mangled in the grim machinery of Bolan's everlasting war. Some had been agents, others innocent civilians caught up at the wrong place, the wrong time, paying with their lives for an association with the Executioner.
He tried to close the door on painful memories, but they were flooding back, full force now. Helpless "turkeys," butchered by the Mafia for information or perhaps to serve as grisly object lessons for the brotherhood.
Bolan shook the thoughts away. He had no time for ghosts. The friendly spirits would be with him when he needed them. As for the hostiles, well, there were fresh ones at his target destination, waiting to be made.
But he could not ignore the danger Sally Palmer faced there, inside the serpent's den.
The Executioner was not responsible for Sally's presence in the hostile camp, but he would bear the weight of full responsibility for what went down inside those walls tonight.