rear of the van. 'Lots of things are hazardous to health,' he commented.
Sure, lots of things. War, for example. And trying to cram too many lifetimes into a final, bloody mile of dying.
The enemy blood did not bother Bolan. He lived for their blood, and for nothing else. Hell, he was dying for it. Intellectualism aside, there was but one way to beat the Mafia, and that was to play their game — their way. Up to a point, of course. The game changed only in those rare moments such as Bolan had experienced back on that mountainside when, during an orgy of bloodletting, he had abandoned his battle plan to drag a dying human back into the ranks of the living.
Uh-huh, and there was the intellectual explanation. It was the name of the game. Beat them with their own methods… but don't join them. In Bolan's mind, this was the sole, differential between himself and his enemies. He was still a human being. How long, he wondered, could he remain so — and continue to play the game? How many more deaths could his rotting soul survive? There would, of course, be one final death… the one written in his own blood. But… would the man himself die in the interim? Would his soul depart, somewhere in there, from the onslaught of repeated interim deaths, leaving behind a deranged and half-human jungle beast to prey mdiscriminately in an unrestrained exercise of the Mafia game?
Bolan chewed the idea and knew that this was one price he was not willing to pay for his war. Why replace one evil with another? Better to have it end now, tonight, and let his blood and his soul flow out together.
As though sensing his rescuer's thoughts, Carl Lyons spoke up from the darkness of the van and told him, 'You've grown a lot since our first meeting, Bolan. But even with the face job I knew it was you at first glimpse. Or should I say at first blast. How the hell do you keep it going?'
'It becomes a way of life,' Bolan muttered. Sure. Just commit yourself to unending warfare, then kill quicker and run faster than the other guy. He smiled and asked the cop, 'What do you mean, I've grown?'
Lyons was gingerly sliding into the seat beside Bolan. 'I mean you're not the same wild-ass warrior I faced in L.A. More class, or something.'
Bolan sighed and replied, 'Well, we keep learning, don't we? You feeling that good, to be sitting up here?'
The policeman winced and shifted about, seeking a more comfortable position. 'Not really,' he said. 'But there's some things I guess I have to tell you before you drop me off.'
Bolan nodded his head. 'Fair exchange,' he said.
'You remember the Washington whel in the Pointer Operation?'
'Harold Brognola,' Bolan replied unemotionally.
'Yeah. He told me he talked to you at Miami. Listen. Washington has an interest in this operation I'm on now. Brognola again. We discussed you briefly during our last contact. He said you made too many waves in New York. And Chicago was the final straw. A congressman from Illinois is really laying the pressure on the Justice Department. A couple of others, too, with plenty of clout. They're saying the FBI is dragging its heels on this deal, that they could've brought you in months ago if they'd really been trying.'
Mildly, Bolan said, 'You're not telling me anything new, and it's costing you too much. Go on back and lie down.'
'No, listen,' Lyons went on raggedly. 'The mob is in high gear, too. They've got a Bolan watch on, nationwide — hell, worldwide I guess. Just waiting for you to pop up somewhere. Well, you've popped. This town will be crawling with headhunters before dawn, bet on it.'
'I'd already bet on it,' Bolan told him.
'Double the bets then. The Taliferos are personally leading the head parties.'
'We've met before,' Bolan pointed out.
'You're not the only guy who's learning, you know,' the cop replied. 'Those guys have been sieving through every step of ground you've covered, and licking their own wounds all the way. By now they probably know you better than you know yourself. And they want youi blood, Bolan.'
'They'll have to take their place in line,' Bolan replied, scowling.
'Not these guys,' the cop insisted. 'Even a Capo walks lightly around the Talifero brothers.'
Bolan's scowl became a faint smile and he said, 'Okay, I'll walk lightly too. Is that all you wanted to tell me?'
'No. Brognola says you can forget his offer.'
'I forgot it a long time ago.'
'The point is, Bolan, he can't even offer you a prayer now. The heat is on and all pots are boiHng. Brognola says it's go for broke aow, get Bolan. Forget personal feelings and past debts, just get Bolan.'
'Is that what you're doing in Vegas?' the Executioner calmly inquired.
'Well no. I'm on something entirely different. But.. • Brognola said…'
Bolan crushed out his cigarette and said, 'Yeah?'
Lyons coughed and clutched at his belly, then said, 'The feds are springing with the Taliferos.'
'What's that mean?'
'They figure the mob's Bolan watch is better than theirs, and they're keying on the Talifero brothers, constant surveillance, phone taps, the whole bit. So when the world rolls over on you, Bolan, your nation's government will be right there stomping the mutilated carcass.'
The man in black shrugged his shoulders and absently reached for another cigarette. 'I've not been expecting exactly the medal of honor,' he said quietly.
'Well… you watch it. When the national enforcers hit the scene, the feds will be right behind them — or amongst them. I wanted you to know that. Also, I…'
Bolan lit his cigarette and blew the smoke out the window. 'Also what?'
'Brognola said something else. This, uh, is pretty rotten, Mack. He said — if our paths should cross — I should tell you thanks for past favors. And then I should gun you down.'
Bolan's eyes flicked to his passenger. 'You've got the weapon,' he observed coldly.
'What weapon?' The Colt slipped into the seat between Bolan's legs. 'He said it would be the kindest thing we could do for you. He says you're a dead man, looking for a place to rest in peace. I don't believe that, Bolan.'
'Thanks.'
'I believe you're the livingest son of a bitch I've ever seen. And that's what I want you to know… not just because you saved my life back there… but because I couldn't have much faith in a world that couldn't make room for a Mack Bolan. Okay?'
'Okay,' Bolan replied, tight-lipped. 'I uh… thanks, Lyons.'
'Sure,' Lyons said solemnly. No thanks were necessary, Lyons knew that. And Bolan knew it.
But that familiar tight feeling in the Executioner's chest was beginning to dissolve, and Bolan understood that also. The soul was still intact, and it could still respond to a simple act of human friendship.
'Thanks,' Bolan said again.
'I said sure.'
Bolan chuckled and returned the Colt to his friend the cop. 'These, uh, feds. They're after blood too, eh?'
Lyons sighed. 'Unofficially, I understand, the order is to shoot on sight.'
Bolan frowned at his cigarette and put it out. 'The mad-dog treatment, eh?'
'That's it,' Lyons replied quickly. 'And they'll consider it an act of mercy, if they can get to you first. The Taliferos, my friend, have some hideous programs in mind for you. Need I, uh, say more?'
No, the shadow from the Executioner's other lives needed to say no more. Bolan knew very well what to expect if he should be captured alive by the 'brotherhood of blood.' And the city of chance lay just ahead. This would be as good a place as any to face that wriggling finger of fate which Bolan felt crawling through his bloodstream.
The time had come to live again… to stride boldly through the valley of death. San Francisco could and would keep. Las Vegas was ready and waiting.
And let all souls beware… even the Executioner's own.
