Minh cut him off.
'The operation has begun. Cancellation now is quite impossible.'
About to answer, the attorney reconsidered. He dropped his eyes, avoiding Minh's penetrating stare.
'I understand,' he said at last.
Minh wondered if he did. So far, the Russian's understanding, his ability to cope, was minimal at best.
There was no surprise concerning KGB involvement in the raids. Deception was consistent with the Soviet technique, and Minh discounted his original mistrust of Carter. Whatever was happening, the lawyer's surprise was clearly genuine.
Minh was not prepared to search for motives. The Russian mind was convoluted, often contradictory. A mission sponsored by the Kremlin might be scuttled without explanation — or redirected into other channels, seeking other goals. If an agent failed to note the change, adapt with alacrity, he would be sacrificed without a second thought.
Mitchell Carter was marked for sacrifice.
Minh suppressed a smile. It was possible, he thought, for enemies to reach agreement on the minor points.
Without a doubt, the counselor was expendable.
Minh could take him now, of course. A word to Tommy Booth would do the trick. One word, and Carter would be gone without a trace.
When the time was right, as soon as Minh found out what he was up against, he planned to give that word. In the meantime, Carter was useful. There were ways he could help the Devotees.
When his usefulness expired, Minh would do a grudging favor for the Soviets and complete their sacrifice.
In fact, he was rather looking forward to it.
Crouching in the darkness, Bolan stiffened as he heard those words. Alarms were ringing in the back of his mind, alerting him to danger.
From what he knew of Minh, the Asian wasn't one for idle talk or empty threats. If he had a line on Amy, a crew would be on its way to pick her up.
There was no time to wonder how she was discovered. Minh spoke of a friend. If the girl was rash enough to call someone, if she ignored his warning….
In the space of a heartbeat his decision was made. Bolan scrubbed his strike in favor of a rescue mission, knowing it might already be too late.
He couldn't leave the lady to fate, even if by leaving he gave the enemy a chance to reinforce the hard-site — or slip away to parts unknown.
The gesture might be a futile one, but it was unavoidable. Bolan didn't have it in him to abandon Amy.
It was a trait, sure, that made the man.
In Vietnam, Bolan had earned the label The Executioner with ninety-seven registered kills. As the point man for Penetration Team Able, he was known from the delta to the DMZ as a specialist in sudden, violent death. His targets were the savages — infiltrators, NVA regulars, Vietcong terrorists — and Able Team spread the fear of hellfire among them. In a war without boundaries, Bolan and his men deprived the cannibals of cherished sanctuaries and made them vulnerable.
An army psychologist described Bolan as the perfect sniper — a man capable of killing 'methodically, unemotionally, and
That was half the man, but at the same time Bolan showed another side and built another reputation. Time and again the warrior risked his life, jeopardized his mission to relieve a suffering soul. Hostages and casualties, civilian or military, Bolan drew no lines, recognized no distinctions. He crept or fought his way through hostile lines on more than one occasion, bringing home the helpless.
And another kind of legend attached itself to Bolan in the Asian hellgrounds. The peasants of a war-torn land tagged him with another name to compliment — and contradict — The Executioner label.
It translated: 'Sergeant Mercy' — and it fit.
Few men could wear the dual label of soldier and humanitarian. Mack Bolan wore them both, and wore them well. It was a measure of the man that he discerned no contradiction in the varied aspects of his character.
When Bolan brought his war home from Asia, to confront another breed of cannibal, the whole man arrived on a different kind of battlefield. His enemy — the
The face of Sergeant Mercy, yeah.
Bolan recognized that while the battle front shifted and names and faces changed, his war remained the same. Savage Man was still the enemy, devouring and polluting everything he touched. The same universal goals applied whether Bolan found enemies in Saigon or San Francisco.
It was the same war, and Bolan fought it with the same tactics he had used in Asia. No quarter asked or given as he purged cannibals with cleansing fire. Incredibly, against all the odds, he saw the 'invincible' Mafia tremble, crack and begin to crumble under the stunning blows.
War Everlasting, right.
Bolan was committed to the hellfire trail, and there was no turning back.
Every time the cannibals were beaten back, Man the Civilizer gained another foot of ground. Perhaps, if the enemy was trampled enough...
Bolan rose, scooping up his rifle and the Starlite scope, swiftly retracing his steps to the rented sedan. Misty darkness hid the warrior as he put the place behind him.
Minh, unknowingly, bought himself a stay of execution. A reprieve, perhaps, but not a pardon.
There were debts to pay, and his bill was coming due.
And, if Bolan was too late for Amy, there would be no place on earth where Minh could find a sanctuary from the Executioner.
11
Bolan parked his car on Downey Street, two blocks from the drop, and prepared to go EVA. From his mobile arsenal, he chose an Ingram MAC-10 submachine gun with shoulder rigging. It would be invisible under his overcoat, but easily accessible through a special slit pocket, providing him with a devastating backup for the silent Brigadier. Extra clips for the Ingram filled an inner pocket of his overcoat.
The streets of Haight-Ashbury were deserted, silent. Bolan moved along the sidewalk, keeping one hand on the Ingram's pistol grip, rubber-soled shoes muffling his footsteps. The hunter didn't plan to be taken by surprise.
Blocks away, he heard sirens fading into distance and voices made eerie by the fog. He paused on a street corner, listening until the sounds died, then crossed the street to enter his apartment building from the rear.
An alley cat arched its back and hissed at his approach, reluctantly giving ground. Bolan wished it well then turned his full attention to the door. It was locked. The ancient mechanism yielded to his key, stashed in a pouch on his belt. He slipped inside.
Bolan stood in a darkened corridor sending out combat feelers, probing the building's stillness. He listened to the structure settling, testing each new sound to see if it betrayed a hostile presence. One by one the warning signals were decoded, found innocent, then dismissed.
