Michael Culp was out of the car before it stopped rolling, his voice breaking as he called his daughter's name. Amy met him on the run and they clung together, openly weeping, afraid to let each other go and sacrifice the moment.
Later, there would be time enough for talk.
Bolan watched them for a moment, feeling for them, sure, before he left the car. Gadgets met him at the Caddy's battered tail and shook his hand, glancing at the bullet holes and lacerated fenders.
'Looks like you had some wild ride,' the Able warrior said.
Bolan gave his friend a smile.
'Wild enough,' he said. 'How's the mop-up going?'
'Five-by-five. Between the marshals and their prisoners, it's SRO around the federal building. Guess you could say the same thing about the morgue — except they won't be standing.'
'Did they bag the yacht?' Bolan asked.
Gadgets flashed a crooked little grin.
'Had a problem there,' he answered. 'Seems the damned thing sprung a leak. Went down like the
It was Bolan's turn to smile as he let himself unwind, tension slowly draining out of him. It was good to be alive and sharing the company of a friend, basking in the warmth of early-morning sunshine.
For a soldier, such moments were few and far between.
The senator moved toward them, keeping Amy close beside him with an arm around her shoulders. Both smiled widely, at peace with themselves and each other. Michael Culp addressed Bolan in a voice heavy with suppressed emotion.
'I don't know how to thank you.'
Bolan flicked a glance at Amy and saw her smiling face and shining eyes.
'Sure you do,' he said. 'Tend the home fires, Senator.'
'I will, believe it. I owe you one.'
The warrior shook his head.
'Call it paid,' he said, 'and get the lady out of here.'
Culp nodded. Amy Culp mouthed a silent thank-you as she and her father turned away.
And it was over, yeah, in San Francisco.
The serpent's head was destroyed. The severed pieces of its body that clung to life would be picked up by Brognola. Without direction, the tattered remnants of the Universal Devotees would wither on the vine. There might be some fight left in them, a last reflexive spasm, but the war was finished.
It had taken all of six short hours.
How many men had Bolan killed within that time?
Enough.
He turned to face the sun, letting its cleansing heat bathe his face and soak into his aching muscles, driving out the chill of night, the weariness of battle.
For the moment, yes, for here and now, it was enough.
