everything to lose and nothing positive to gain, would have to be a fool.
If Bolan bought it in the coming hour, at his meeting with the President, Hal's family was doomed. It would require a special touch to bring them out of this alive, and Bolan had that touch, in spades. The little Fed had seen him shake the very walls of Castle Mafia, not once but time and time again. His reputation was enough to rattle certain ranking mafiosi, and the ones who weren't afraid of him had never seen the guy in action.
It would be Turrin's job to see that Bolan was not betrayed before he left the starting gate. And if his sit-down with the Man turned out to be a gun-down with a troop of marshals in attendance, well, then Sticker would be forced to offer some diversion while the Executioner withdrew, intact. It was that simple. Sure.
Like juggling bottles full of nitroglycerin, or playing hopscotch on the high wire, minus safety net.
If he was driving Bolan into peril, it was Leo's task to see him safely out the other side, no matter what it cost him privately. It was the least he could do for someone who had saved his life, more times than he could count. He owed the warrior that.
And if the sit-down fell apart, it would be time to pay his debts in full.
The former capo prayed that Hal was right in his assurance of a safe, protected meet. If he was wrong, how would Brognola live with the knowledge that his plight had sent the soldier to his death? How would he live at all if Bolan bought it at the sit-down, if he never had the chance to attempt to rescue Helen and the kids?
Too late to think about it now. In a few more minutes they would be coasting into range of the rendezvous. Another block, and there would be no turning back. He fought an urge to park the station wagon, or to turn around and power out of there before the trap could close around them. Too late.
Committed, Leo held the station wagon steady, eyes alert for any sign of tail cars in the rearview mirror. He was in for the duration, and with any luck at all, he would be sitting down with Angelina later in the evening, thankful that his world was safe and sound, his family secure.
But he could not escape the nagging apprehension that his luck was running out.
9
Leo Turrin parked the station wagon on a narrow side street off the western fringe of Rock Creek Park. Directly opposite and half a mile away on the far side of the park, stood the Walter Reed Army Medical Center. Somewhere in between, inside the park itself, Mack Bolan had a scheduled meeting with the Man.
In preparation for the sit-down, he removed the sleek Beretta from its shoulder rigging and handed the weapon to Turrin.
"You might want to think about that," Leo grumbled.
Bolan shook his head. "I'm here to talk."
The little Fed did not appear to be convinced. "Well, listen, if you're wrong..."
"Do nothing," Bolan told him flatly. "If it sounds like I've run into trouble, start the car and drive away."
"Goddammit, Sarge..."
"Whichever way it goes, you're out of here in thirty minutes. Understood?"
"I should be going in there with you."
"Thirty minutes."
"Yeah, all right, I get the message."
Bolan rested one big hand on Leo's shoulder. "Watch yourself."
"Let's try, 'I'll see you later.'"
"Sure."
He closed the station wagon door, waited for a taxi and a family sedan to pass before he crossed the street. The park was green, inviting, but the Executioner could not suppress a certain apprehension. It could be a jungle as easily as it could be a playground, and he knew that Leo could be right. The marshals might be waiting for him, riflemen positioned for effective cross-fire. It would be so easy, if the President had set him up.
No altruist, the soldier still believed in certain basic values. Duty. Justice. Honor. And responsibility. Those ancient concepts had determined Bolan's course of action when he had returned from Vietnam to find his family in ruins. Those same ideals had brought him back to
If Bolan bought it in the coming hour, at his meeting with the President, Hal's family was doomed. It would require a special touch to bring them out of this alive, and Bolan had that touch, in spades. The little Fed had seen him shake the very walls of Castle Mafia, not once but time and time again. His reputation was enough to rattle certain ranking mafiosi, and the ones who weren't afraid of him had never seen the guy in action.
It would be Turrin's job to see that Bolan was not betrayed before he left the starting gate. And if his sit-down with the Man turned out to be a gun-down with a troop of marshals in attendance, well, then Sticker would be forced to offer some diversion while the Executioner withdrew, intact. It was that simple. Sure.
Like juggling bottles full of nitroglycerin, or playing hopscotch on the high wire, minus safety net.
If he was driving Bolan into peril, it was Leo's task to see him safely out the other side, no matter what it cost him privately. It was the least he could do for someone who had saved his life, more times than he could count. He owed the warrior that.
And if the sit-down fell apart, it would be time to pay his debts in full.
The former capo prayed that Hal was right in his assurance of a safe, protected meet. If he was wrong, how would Brognola live with the knowledge that his plight had sent the soldier to his death? How would he live at all if Bolan bought it at the sit-down, if he never had the chance to attempt to rescue Helen and the kids?
Too late to think about it now. In a few more minutes they would be coasting into range of the rendezvous. Another block, and there would be no turning back. He fought an urge to park the station wagon, or to turn around and power out of there before the trap could close around them. Too late.
Committed, Leo held the station wagon steady, eyes alert for any sign of tail cars in the rearview mirror. He was in for the duration, and with any luck at all, he would be sitting down with Angelina later in the evening, thankful that his world was safe and sound, his family secure.
But he could not escape the nagging apprehension that his luck was running out.
9
Leo Turrin parked the station wagon on a narrow side street off the western fringe of Rock Creek Park. Directly opposite and half a mile away on the far side of the park, stood the Walter Reed Army Medical Center. Somewhere in between, inside the park itself, Mack Bolan had a scheduled meeting with the Man.
In preparation for the sit-down, he removed the sleek Beretta from its shoulder rigging and handed the weapon to Turrin.
"You might want to think about that," Leo grumbled.
Bolan shook his head. "I'm here to talk."
The little Fed did not appear to be convinced. "Well, listen, if you're wrong..."
"Do nothing," Bolan told him flatly. "If it sounds like I've run into trouble, start the car and drive away."
"Goddammit, Sarge..."
"Whichever way it goes, you're out of here in thirty minutes. Understood?"
"I should be going in there with you."
"Thirty minutes."
"Yeah, all right, I get the message."
Bolan rested one big hand on Leo's shoulder. "Watch yourself."
"Let's try, 'I'll see you later.'"
"Sure."
He closed the station wagon door, waited for a taxi and a family sedan to pass before he crossed the street. The park was green, inviting, but the Executioner could not suppress a certain apprehension. It could be a jungle as easily as it could be a playground, and he knew that Leo could be right. The marshals might be waiting for him, riflemen positioned for effective cross-fire. It would be so easy, if the President had set him up.
No altruist, the soldier still believed in certain basic values. Duty. Justice. Honor. And responsibility. Those ancient concepts had determined Bolan's course of action when he had returned from Vietnam to find his family in ruins. Those same ideals had brought him back to
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