yet. It's just that... well, I'd like to try and understand you, why you do these things."
"Somebody has to do them."
"No." She shook her head emphatically. "I don't believe that. We have courts and laws to deal with criminals."
Mack Bolan smiled, without a trace of rancor. "Sure. And look how well they've done so far."
"We can't revert to vigilantism."
"I'm no vigilante. I'm in pest control."
"That's very glib, but we're discussing murder."
"Execution," he corrected her.
"The only legal executions are performed by order of the court, in manners prescribed by law."
"The law can't cope with syndicated crime," he said. "These savages have been evading laws and buying off the courts for something like a century, and that's just here, in the United States. In Sicily it dates back to the middle ages."
"Everyone has rights. The Constitution guarantees..."
"These so-called people threw their rights away," he interrupted her, "the minute that they started selling drugs to children, torching crowded tenements for the insurance, selling teenage runaways like cattle to the pimps in half a dozen countries. They convict themselves by every word they utter, every move they make. Their lives are one long guilty plea."
"And you're the self-appointed judge."
He shook his head. "I'm not their judge, Doc. I'm their judgment."
He was exasperating, so committed to his cause that everything she said was turned against her, twisted to become an argument on his behalf. And still she made no move to call Grant Vickers and report her wounded patient. She wondered if it might be something in herself that stayed her hand. Was she remembering the rage, the urge to kill that possessed her for a time, just after...
"This can't be much of a life," she said, determined to distract herself.
"It's not, but I get by."
She was amazed by Bolan's lone of resignation. "You've just been shot. You're stranded in a strange place, being hunted like an animal. I wouldn't call that getting by."
"I'm still alive," he told her. "What else is there?"
"Peace and quiet," she responded. "Home and family. A life without the guns and killing."
"Peace and quiet are expensive," Bolan said. "Somebody has to pay the tab. Besides my family's all gone."
"I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault," he countered. "The responsibility for that one's been assessed, the tab collected. It's old business."
"So, you're fighting for your family? For revenge?"
"In the beginning," he admitted. "But it didn't take me long to realize the savages were everywhere. My family's loss has been repeated every day, in every major city, since the mob got organized. If they're not bad enough, you've got the terrorists of various persuasions, racist groups and half-baked 'revolutionaries' killing for a cause that changes every hour, on the hour. Faces change, the propaganda varies, but they're all the same at heart. All savages."
"You're taking on the world."
"Not quite. I still believe that the majority of people would prefer to lead their lives without the threat of being raped or robbed or murdered. Live and let live. But before we get to that point, certain people have to die."
"And so you kill them, just like that?"
He thought about it, finally nodded. "Just like that."
"Because they're evil?"
"No. Because they're predators, and while they live, they have to feed. Unfortunately you and I are on the menu."
She was startled by a sudden frantic rapping on the door, and realized that she hadn't opened up the clinic. So distracted was she by her wounded patient that she had ignored the time.
The pounding was repeated, a percussion beat of desperation. She was halfway to the door when something made her hesitate and glance at Bolan.
"My guns," he snapped. "Where are they?"
The doctor shook her head. "I won't have killing here."
"You may not have a choice."
"Lie still. I'll handle it."
But she was trembling as she crossed the waiting room, caught up in Bolan's story, frightened by the
"Somebody has to do them."
"No." She shook her head emphatically. "I don't believe that. We have courts and laws to deal with criminals."
Mack Bolan smiled, without a trace of rancor. "Sure. And look how well they've done so far."
"We can't revert to vigilantism."
"I'm no vigilante. I'm in pest control."
"That's very glib, but we're discussing murder."
"Execution," he corrected her.
"The only legal executions are performed by order of the court, in manners prescribed by law."
"The law can't cope with syndicated crime," he said. "These savages have been evading laws and buying off the courts for something like a century, and that's just here, in the United States. In Sicily it dates back to the middle ages."
"Everyone has rights. The Constitution guarantees..."
"These so-called people threw their rights away," he interrupted her, "the minute that they started selling drugs to children, torching crowded tenements for the insurance, selling teenage runaways like cattle to the pimps in half a dozen countries. They convict themselves by every word they utter, every move they make. Their lives are one long guilty plea."
"And you're the self-appointed judge."
He shook his head. "I'm not their judge, Doc. I'm their judgment."
He was exasperating, so committed to his cause that everything she said was turned against her, twisted to become an argument on his behalf. And still she made no move to call Grant Vickers and report her wounded patient. She wondered if it might be something in herself that stayed her hand. Was she remembering the rage, the urge to kill that possessed her for a time, just after...
"This can't be much of a life," she said, determined to distract herself.
"It's not, but I get by."
She was amazed by Bolan's lone of resignation. "You've just been shot. You're stranded in a strange place, being hunted like an animal. I wouldn't call that getting by."
"I'm still alive," he told her. "What else is there?"
"Peace and quiet," she responded. "Home and family. A life without the guns and killing."
"Peace and quiet are expensive," Bolan said. "Somebody has to pay the tab. Besides my family's all gone."
"I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault," he countered. "The responsibility for that one's been assessed, the tab collected. It's old business."
"So, you're fighting for your family? For revenge?"
"In the beginning," he admitted. "But it didn't take me long to realize the savages were everywhere. My family's loss has been repeated every day, in every major city, since the mob got organized. If they're not bad enough, you've got the terrorists of various persuasions, racist groups and half-baked 'revolutionaries' killing for a cause that changes every hour, on the hour. Faces change, the propaganda varies, but they're all the same at heart. All savages."
"You're taking on the world."
"Not quite. I still believe that the majority of people would prefer to lead their lives without the threat of being raped or robbed or murdered. Live and let live. But before we get to that point, certain people have to die."
"And so you kill them, just like that?"
He thought about it, finally nodded. "Just like that."
"Because they're evil?"
"No. Because they're predators, and while they live, they have to feed. Unfortunately you and I are on the menu."
She was startled by a sudden frantic rapping on the door, and realized that she hadn't opened up the clinic. So distracted was she by her wounded patient that she had ignored the time.
The pounding was repeated, a percussion beat of desperation. She was halfway to the door when something made her hesitate and glance at Bolan.
"My guns," he snapped. "Where are they?"
The doctor shook her head. "I won't have killing here."
"You may not have a choice."
"Lie still. I'll handle it."
But she was trembling as she crossed the waiting room, caught up in Bolan's story, frightened by the
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