'Do you have a choice?'
Carter's voice betrayed his fear.
'I want it understood that I'm coming voluntarily, as an ally.'
'Of course, Mitchell. There was never any doubt.'
Minh severed the connection, and Carter cradled his receiver slowly, almost reluctantly. Bolan listened as he moved about the office, finalizing preparations for departure. When he let himself out, the Executioner was already moving toward his car.
The problem was defined now, his course of action set.
The phases of his strategy were falling into place.
The enemy had been identified, their purpose recognized.
By congregating at Minh's estate, they would achieve the goal of isolation on their own, without his help.
Then, only the final step remained.
Annihilation.
If the terrorists were gathering at the Universal Devotees' 'retreat,' the Executioner would join them. He owed it to his war, and to the gentle civilians. To the Universe.
Hell, the warrior owed it to himself.
9
Amy Culp checked her watch again and sighed impatiently. It was only two minutes later than the last time she looked. She was growing more nervous by the second, trying to project Sarah's ETA at the apartment house.
On the telephone, Sarah hadn't sounded as surprised to hear from her as Amy had expected. It was strange — not as though she was expecting the call, but there was something...
At the time, Amy thought she might have interrupted something — maybe Sarah had a man with her — but her friend stressed she was alone. Still, Sarah's voice sounded distant, distracted.
Amy sketched her situation, leaving out the bloody details, and Sarah agreed to come at once. Amy gave directions then settled down to wait.
That was half an hour earlier, and Amy was worrying, wondering how long it could take to drive in from Berkeley. Sarah would be coming in on Interstate 80, across the Oakland Bay Bridge, but once inside the city, any number of routes could bring her into Haight-Ashbury. What was it — ten or twelve miles at most? There shouldn't be much traffic at that hour, but Amy wasn't sure.
She tried to calm herself, running down a list of things that could slow Sarah down. She was probably asleep when Amy called: she would have to dress, brush her hair. If Sarah had company, there would have to be an explanation. There were toll booths on the bridge. She might have to stop for gas, or some coffee to keep herself awake.
It never occurred to Amy that her friend would let her down, forget about her promise and decide not to come. She would be there, given time.
For the first time, Amy was aware of her hunger. She prowled the tiny kitchenette, coming up with a soda and sandwich filling, then settled down to eat. Twice she paused, listening to footsteps in the corridor outside, and each time they passed, fading in the distance. Each time she sat waiting for her racing pulse to stabilize, willing herself to stop trembling.
Amy was clearing the remains of her frugal meal when another footstep sounded in the hallway — soft and slow, like somebody looking for a landmark in unfamiliar territory. Slowing even more, the footsteps faltered then stopped outside her apartment.
Sarah!
She was on her feet and moving toward the door when something held her back. A feeling, vague uneasiness without form or focus. She jumped at the sound of knocking on the door.
Two quick taps, a pause, and two more, separated by perhaps five seconds.
It was the signal she arranged with Sarah.
Giddy with relief, Amy reached the door in two strides and quickly unfastened the chain. She hesitated for a heartbeat with her hand on the doorknob, then turned it, feeling the locking mechanism disen...
Before she could pull it back, the door flung open with a powerful blow. It caught her in the chest and drove her back, reeling and stunned by the impact. Two men crowded through the open entrance, one taking time to slam the door.
Amy had never seen either of them, but she knew at a glance what they were. There was no time to think of Sarah, or wonder how the men found her. Amy didn't even think of screaming as the pair advanced on her, reaching out with grasping hands.
Still recovering from pain and shock, she made her move. She ducked the nearest 'elder's' lunge, sliding underneath his arm and dodging toward the kitchenette. Along the way, she scooped up the telephone and hurled it at her enemies. One deflected it with an arm, cursing as he came after her.
Both were grabbing her as she reached the sink, fingers scrabbling for the knife she used to make her sandwich. As she reached it, she was struck between the shoulder blades, driven hard against the counter's edge. She gasped painfully, dropping the knife to the floor.
Blunt fingers seized her shoulder and spun her around. Amy brought up her knee, aiming for the nearest unprotected groin. Her target saw it coming and turned to protect himself. A hard-muscled thigh absorbed the blow.
Hands were clutching, struggling to pin her arms, but she squirmed free and raked her nails across a cheek, plowing bloody furrows. Her assailant cursed bitterly, backing off a step. Suddenly a scarred fist blocked her vision.
Pain and colored lights exploded in her skull. Amy felt her mouth filling with salty blood as her legs turned to rubber. She fell, hard linoleum rushed to meet her.
Drifting in and out of focus, floating in a painful darkness with a ringing in her ears, Amy heard muffled, distant voices.
'Jesus, Benny... I think you mighta busted something.'
'Tough. Look what she did to me.'
'Hey, what the hell was she saying, anyway?'
'I dunno. Sounded like Daddy.'
Cold, malicious laughter carried her into the darkness.
I've heard it said that the more things change, the more they remain the same. It is strange how endings and beginnings turn themselves around, exchanging places, losing their distinctions. One door opens and another closes.
When I left Vietnam, it was the closing of a chapter in my life, but the story goes on. Instead of merely coming home, I found yet another front in the war I had been fighting all along. Names changed, faces, too, and the hellgrounds have a different set of longitudes and latitudes, but the mission has not changed at all. It feels as if I never left the jungle.
It's like they say: you can take the savage out of the jungle, but you can't take the jungle mentality out of the savage. You cannot reeducate a cannibal to change his diet.
Times and people move on, but the basic motivations do not vary. Love, hate, fear, greed, the hunger for
