Deathbites

'So, I told Mr. Brognola that you could find the type of people he needs faster than anyone. I know the company, so I'm helping him find his way around.'

When the two recruiters walked into the chief executive's office, they knew they had been recognized. But they could not recall ever having seen the gray-suited, gray-haired man who stood up and came around the desk to shake hands.

'Sit down, ladies. Would you like a coffee?'

Both shook their heads. They held their attache cases tightly, knuckles white. Hal Brognola perched on the corner of his desk, studying the two women.

'How's Henry these days?' Brognola asked.

'Oh, he's the same as ever,' Susan said. 'I swear if I live to be a hundred, Henry will still be around and still be the same. We asked if he wanted to retire. He was really annoyed with us for...'

Her voice trailed off. Her face turned white. She looked at her sister who was holding her briefcase much too tightly.

'How do you know about Henry?' Jennifer demanded. There was anger and defiance in her voice.

Brognola smiled. 'Relax. I'm a friend of a friend.'

Neither women said anything. Their eyes were locked on Brognola and filled with suspicion.

'This friend,' Brognola continued, 'posed as an enforcer to get Jennifer out of the Sciaparelli house and then went back and carried Susan out.'

'You wouldn't have had to know him to know that,' Jennifer said. 'It was in the damn papers.'

'He told me some time later about how you kept the mobsters at bay. He said that his marksman medal exactly covers your navel.'

Jennifer's paleness was suddenly transformed to a mild tint of pink. 'That's something Mack Bolan had better have told only to a friend,' she said.

'So what's happened to you two since then?' Brognola asked.

'At first we hid from the Mafia. There weren't that many left in this area to hide from,' Susan answered. 'Then, when we thought we were safe, some capo sent us word that the incident involving our father was over and done with. If we'd forget, so would they. We kept the last name change. It was pretty close to Rossiter anyway. We went into this type of headhunting and so far they haven't bothered us.'

'You think the truce will last?' Brognola probed.

'Not a chance!' Jennifer replied.

'But we've given up running and hiding,' her sister added. 'When trouble comes, we'll meet it.'

'I still miss Mack,' Jennifer said softly.

'Why did he have to die in that damn explosion!' Susan exclaimed.

Brognola's heart ached to tell these two women that Mack Bolan still fought the good fight, still had to watch his back against those who should be helping him. But it would do neither. Mack Bolan nor the United States any good to broadcast that the warrior was still very much alive. Brognola wanted to tell them, but he had to settle for a sigh.

The Rossiter sisters — now the Ross sisters — also sighed.

'Back to business,' Brognola said, his voice brusque.

'What do you need?' Susan asked.

'Staff. At least temporary. Some will probably be taken on permanently when regular management takes over again. But I want this place busy and productive in three days.'

'Three days. You're joking.' Jennifer exclaimed.

Brognola shook his head.

The two recruiters looked at each other for a moment and then stood up.

'I'm sorry, Mr. Brognola,' Susan said. 'We're not interested in your business.'

'We need those people.'

'We're not in the habit of supplying live bait for traps,' Jennifer said.

Brognola stared at them.

'The bait is Lao Ti,' he said. 'Routine jobs are being filled by federal agents. Everyone will be evacuated under protection of those agents, if there's any danger. No one is bait except her.

'We need people to really make this establishment run,' Brognola added. 'We can secretly pump some money in, but in these days of computer record keeping, we can't fake a productive company. We need the real thing. They'll be safe, but we'd be wasting our time without them.

'Trouble's here,' Brognola told them. 'Are you going to meet it, or run?'

The two recruiters paused for a second before answering.

'We'll do our best for you, but no guarantees,' Jennifer said.

'I never ask for more than that,' Brognola assured them.

* * *

July 11, 938 hours, Atlanta, Georgia

The Atlanta office of Workers Against Redundancy was in a building in one of the city's new industrial subdivisions. When Nogi had taken Lyons into the WAR office at about ten the previous evening, volunteers were still bustling, stuffing envelopes, filing, answering telephones.

Behind the general offices were a few executive offices. Nogi headed straight for a door marked President. A tough-looking individual in a security uniform sat at the secretary's desk. He nodded to Nogi and pressed a concealed buzzer, admitting them to the president's office.

Nogi walked through the empty office and used a key to open what appeared to be a closet door. Lyons followed him through that into the back half of the building, the world of the Harassment Initiation Team.

Nogi led him to a long room filled with double bunk beds. About two dozen were occupied; the same number were empty, a tribute to the effectiveness of Able Team. Nogi unlocked a supply room and loaded Lyons with bedding, a toothbrush, a disposable razor, and a karate gi, or fighting uniform, with a white belt.

'Wear these and report to the dojo with the rest, tomorrow morning,' he ordered. He then left without another word.

Lyons considered exploring during the night but decided against it. He was willing to bet that someone was waiting for him to do just that.

Lyons took his sleep while he could get it. He made sure that he was neither the first man to do anything, nor the last. He rose, shaved, showered, and put on the supporter, giand sandals provided.

'You're new?' someone asked.

'Last night. When do we eat?'

'Not until after the first workout.'

Lyons cocked an eyebrow at the pimply youth who was speaking to him. The boy's yellow belt looked unsoiled. Lyons guessed that he had just been promoted from white and was feeling kindly disposed to lesser creatures.

'We have three workouts a day and one two-hour session in a classroom. How well you do determines how much time you get off. Each new belt means we get paid more money. Same thing goes for marksmanship.

'I'm afraid I'm never going to get a raise for my shooting,' the yellow belt confessed.

Ever since Lyons had been given the gi, he had been chewing on the problem of going through karate classes without showing his own proficiency. Perhaps if he stuck close to the yellow belt and imitated his mistakes, he could cover himself.

'I'm not too bad with guns,' Lyons said. 'I'll give you some tips, if you'll show me some of this judo stuff.'

'First, it's not judo, it's karate. Don't let Mr. Nogi catch you making that mistake. He'll cuff you around and make you do fifty push-ups or sit-ups or something.'

'That little Nip better keep his hands off me,' Lyons muttered, thinking he had better get back into character.