Detroit Deathwatch

'Okay, call it piss hard for tonight. And stay away.'

'I plan to.'

'Okay. Hey. Don't get down on Hal. Hell, he's got high rankers crawling all over him.'

'I know that,' Bolan said. He sighed. 'Brognola's a good man. Give him my best. But no apologies. I do what I have to do, Leo.'

'Sure. Stay hard, man.'

'You, too.'

Bolan hung up, gazed coolly at the police vehicle parked alongside the booth, then thumbed in another dime. It was time to activate his auxiliary.

Her voice came on the line cool and calm. 'Yes?'

'It's the guy,' he told her. 'You'll find keys in the coffee can. They fit a gray EconoLine van parked below, slot G-12. Pick me up at the corner of Kelly and Morang. Twenty minutes.'

'Wait. Where's that? Approximately.'

'East on Eight Mile to Kelly. That's just beyond Gratiot. South to Morang.'

'Got it. Do you need the stuff in the other car?'

'I transferred it this morning.'

'Oh, okay. Anything else?'

'Just be there.'

'Try and keep me away,' she replied breathlessly.

He hung up and watched the setting sun for a moment, then returned to the vehicle.

Sunrise, sunset. Birth, death. Man, woman. Person, cosmos. Yeah.

He lit a cigarette and put the car in motion.

All the numbers were in. The onus was in the saddle and riding Bolan. And the death image over Detroit was settling in for the night watch.

18 Ridden

Emerson had once observed, 'Things are in the saddle, and ride mankind.'

Bolan would not argue with a man so wise. He'd had the same feeling himself, many times.

He was already twelve hours beyond his deadline for leaving this town. The plan had been the usual — hit and git. Before the opposition could rally itself. Before the cops could gear up. Before the whirlpool of uncontrollable events could suck a guy into his grave.

Bolan's cosmic contempt was for death — not for life. He respected life and her myriad involvements. He was not exactly in love with the one he'd lived for the past few eternities — no man could truly enjoy a trip down blood river. Bolan certainly did not. But it was the only trip open to him now, his only apparent reason to go on living. And Mack Bolan certainly respected life enough to go on living, for as long as the grim game could be continued.

Sure, things were in the saddle. And they rode Bolan.

He had scouted this town with all the expertise at his disposal. He had read the enemy, counted them, sectored them. Then he'd hit them where he thought the hitting would yield the best results. There had been no grand dream of obliterating the enemy from this landscape. Bolan was a realist. He did not rely on miracles. He knew that a one-man army had its limitations. Given enough time, sure, a guy who knew his business could eventually put the Detroit mob out of business. That was the hooker, though. There was not that much time on earth left at Bolan's disposal — certainly not that much time left in Detroit. His whole success thus far had been built upon commando tactics. Invade the enemy with great force, raise all the hell possible, then withdraw — and all of it to the cadence count, on tight numbers, moving swiftly and never letting down until withdrawal was complete. Any deviation from that timetable could be disastrous.

The strike at Detroit had been carefully planned along those very lines. The timing could not have been better. He'd caught them mobbed into a business conference, and he'd struck them there. He'd sent them in squalling and disorganized retreat, and he'd served notice on their 'friends' that doing business with the mob could be hazardous. Also, he would have brought their damned hard-site down and left the rubble for them to contemplate — and the Detroit hit would have been worth it for that alone. Their God-complex would have been shaken, if nothing else.

But, sure, things were in the saddle at Detroit.

Here sat the commando force, twelve hours off its numbers, completely derailed from the original mission, contemplating the end of the game.

Leo Turrin had not been exaggerating the situation. Bolan's recon had yielded the same intelligence. Death was watching him. And all he could do was watch her back.

Well … not quite. He was still on the offensive. The game had changed a bit, sure, but the enemy was still the enemy, and Bolan was still Bolan — and he had not been ridden beneath the waves of blood river yet.

The dictates of an impersonal war had yielded to a strongly personal responsibility. Okay, call it by its true name: duty. Bolan had a duty to perform for a couple of daughters of Eve — and, in the face of that duty, he could gaze back at Death and spit in her eye.

Could, hell.

He had to.

Any other course of action or inaction would amount to nothing more than a contempt for life.

Things were always in the saddle. The ride had something to do with that same cosmic magic that Bolan had contemplated an eternity or so ago with Toby Ranger in his arms. A guy could honor the ride — and gallop off into his own destiny — or he could try to throw the rider and slink back to a safe stable.

Eugene O'Neill once had a very similar thought.

'Contentment is a warm sty for eaters and sleepers.'

It had been a long time since Mack Bolan had known contentment. He did not seek it now.

He would ride the good ride, wherever it might lead.

Let Death watch.

The Executioner was saddled and ready.

'Pete's sake!' Toby exclaimed. 'This blooming truck is a rolling arsenal.'

'Right, and she's going along for the ride,' Bolan replied. 'I want you to use the vehicle I came in. It's hot, so be careful.'

'Great,' she said. 'With everything else, all I need now is to get caught with a stolen car.'

'Worse,' he said, smiling. 'It's a police car. And they're onto me. So stay off the radio. I believe they're rolling around with direction finders.'

Toby's eyes were wide, wondering. 'You are the damnedest...'

Bolan laughed softly and told her, 'I want you to run a little diversion for me.' He pulled her into the van section and placed her in front of a large city map that was taped to the wall. His finger traced the line marking the division between Wayne and Macomb Counties at the northern boundary of Grosse Pointe Woods, then circled a specific point.

'That's where?' she asked.

'That's where. This street, this block.'

'What is that?'

He said quietly, 'Look again.'

'Well, it's just...' Her breath drew in sharply. 'What are those red numbers? The house numbering