The kind you carry home alive.
His mission was a dual one, incorporating life and death. Before he got around to dealing death, he had to find Eritrea and Sally Palmer, see them safely from the line of fire. And failing that...
The Executioner had long abandoned private hatred of the enemy as motivation for his war, but he had never shed the righteous wrath that came from finding a malignant cancer feeding on society, devouring the innocent and spitting out their mangled dreams as so much offal.
And the soldier hated, sure.
He carried cold, abiding hate inside him for all the pain and suffering that savages inflicted on their victims in a world of "civilized" and "cultured" men.
He hated all the waste — of lives, of dreams, of sheer humanity — which was the grim debris of war everlasting.
And worst of all, he hated the idea of dying while his enemies remained behind, to work their will, unhindered by a set of antiquated laws and handcuffed law-enforcement agencies.
He hated the idea of losing and yet recognized there could be no lasting victory.
He let the sentries pass, and others in their turn, until he stood in the shadow of the trees, no more than fifty yards away from Minelli's house, which was ablaze with lights. The cottages were to his right, the vacated pool between them and the mansion. It would be an easy stroll.
Unless they spotted him.
Unless he got killed covering those fifty yards.
And Bolan knew he had no choice. There was a single option open to him now, and only one direction he could travel in.
Forward.
* * *
Bill Rafferty coasted the last hundred yards with his lights off, braking gently and killing the unmarked cruiser's engine when the Minelli gatehouse came into view. In his rearview mirror, he saw other blacked-out cars lining up, parking on the shoulder.
The young strike-force lieutenant shifted restlessly beside him, stubbing out his cigarette.
"Well, are we going in or what?"
"Or what. We wait until I give the word."
The young lieutenant lapsed into disgruntled silence, firing up another smoke. Bill Rafferty could sympathize, but how could he explain what was really going on?
No sweat, kid, we're just waiting for the Executioner to take some capos out, and then we'll bag whatever's left. We're batting cleanup, son.
Really.
So far, he was still on solid ground. The tip from Bolan had been logged and taped anonymously, and he was responding in due course. Without a warrant, he was technically required to sit and wait until reports of an incipient assassination on the grounds were proven true... or false. Once shots were fired, with other lawmen as his witnesses, he wouldn't need the warrant anyway.
And then it would get sticky.
For Rafferty, the task would be to hold his men in check and let the firefight run its course — just long enough for Bolan to achieve his goals. Five minutes, give or take, and it could be a lifetime, with thirty strike-force raiders chafing at the bit and ready for a little hellfire of their own.
There would be questions, certainly, unless he managed to finesse the play somehow and make the delay look natural. If someone started asking...
Rafferty shrugged off the threat, its consequences. He had made his choice, but he knew the NYPD dealt severely with its own when they malfunctioned in the field.
He marveled at the swift turn of events that placed him there, outside the Minelli gates, prepared to sacrifice career and reputation in the cause of Bolan's private war.
The war was getting personal again for Captain Rafferty, and with the sudden revelation came the thought that it had been impersonal for too damned long.
The Bolan concept was an ancient one... so damned old-fashioned it was downright revolutionary in its impact on a weak society, besieged by enemies within and terrorists without.
If someone terrorized your family, attempted to destroy your world, you'd kill the bastard and get on with the job of living. If other savages returned to take his place, and others after them, you'd organize a warrior class to scourge them from the earth and keep them living scared, out there among the jackals of the wasteland.
Minelli was small enough beginning, but his sheer existence was a rank affront to civilized society. If there was anything Bill Rafferty could do to wipe that stain away, he was prepared to spend his life in the attempt.
20
Bolan chose his moment, waiting until the patrolling sentries had passed from sight. He knew the risks, but the doomsday numbers were already running in his head and he was out of time.
He sprinted across the fifty yards of open ground and slid into the shadow of the nearest bungalow, the Uzi braced against his hip. Bolan circled toward the only cottage with a light still showing through its windows. He figured it had to be Dave Eritrea's prison cell.
The other bungalows were dark, their occupants inside the great house now. If someone had remained behind, outside, it would not be by choice, and Bolan navigated by the gut as he proceeded through the darkness toward his chosen target.