Don Pendleton: Save the Children

"Not just your partner," said Bolan.

"The family has the Chicago PD wired, that's not news," Laymon put in. "Les decided to keep it under his hat in case they had ears in our unit."

"I did a lot of sneaking around," said Griff, "and some open surveillance because that was my job anyway. It got so the gate guards at the Parellis' home got used to me, which is just what I wanted."

"I wondered about that," Bolan grunted.

"A lot of people did," growled Griff with no sense of satisfaction, "but this deal was so damn hot I knew it would go off like dynamite right in my face if I let anyone know how close I was. I had to sit on it until tonight, until the last minute, before I broke it to the captain. Believe me, holding out and knowing what was happening almost drove me nuts, but I didn't know where the Parellis kept the kids before they brought them here for shipping, so I had no choice." His eyes narrowed on Bolan. "Then you had to come to town and destroy all the legwork I did."

Bolan glanced back at the carnage, and at the children being handed over to the medics.

"Looks like we got the same result, with maybe not so many skunks running after high-priced lawyers to keep them out of jail."

"And that's where we differ, cowboy," said Griff. "I go by the book, see, and the book says everyone gets their day in court. That means you, too. We call that democracy, and law and order."

"What about the book that says an eye for an eye?"

"The Chicago PD doesn't go by that one, I'm afraid," Detective Laymon said, and he looked sideways at his partner, "but I'm thinking that sometimes we should."

A uniformed officer passed by on his way from the tractor trailer truck to the line of ambulances, and he carried a little boy who twisted in his arms and waved when he saw Bolan.

"Hey, mister! Thanks!"

Bolan grinned and raised a thumbs-up sign back at him, recognizing the child as the one who had smiled at him from inside the truck.

Griff took a deep breath and sighed.

"Aw, shit," he muttered. Then he nodded to Laymon, who stepped forward, reading his partner's intent, handing Bolan's Beretta, AutoMag and Ingram back to the Executioner.

Griff looked around uneasily.

"You're wanted by every cop in the world, aren't you, buster?"

"That's right," Bolan admitted.

"For all kinds of charges."

"Right again."

"I even heard the Russians are after you."

"The KGB would shoot me on sight."

Griff holstered his pistol.

"Get the hell out of here, Bolan, and don't look back."

Laymon cracked a wide grin.

"There's enough confusion here for me and Harry to cook up a good story," Griff told Bolan. "We're on different sides of the law, big guy, but after what you went through for those kids tonight, I'm not the man to bring you in. Now beat it, damn you, and take this young lady with you. You may not handle it by the book, but you sure as hell handle it!"

A look of understanding passed between Detective Sergeant Lester Griff and Bolan then... two men from different sides of the fence, but on the same side, too.

A paradox.

The world needed men like Mack Bolan, Detective Lester Griff thought.

And women like Lana Garner.

The sergeant turned to his partner, praying that Harry Laymon would not be able to guess what he was thinking.

"Come on, Harry. Hell of a lot of mopping up to be done around here and we can't be in two places at once, can we?"

"No, we sure can't, Les," Laymon replied, playing along as if Bolan and the woman were not there. "Guess we better tell the captain that Bolan got away... like he always does."

Griff paused for one last look at the warrior in black.

"I imagine it'll be a little while before this old heap of ours is missed," he said, with a nod to the unmarked car he and Laymon had arrived in.

The police vehicle had a removable flasher clamped atop the roof on the driver's side.

Griff worked his way back toward the activity centered around the rescued children. They were being transferred from the truck to the ambulances for attention. The survivors of the Parelli hardforce had surrendered and were now being handcuffed and herded roughly toward other waiting vehicles.

The buildings were being hosed down by the fire fighters, too late to save anything of the structures, Bolan could see. And he saw that the office where he had killed David and Denise Parelli had already burned down to nothing but a smoldering rubble.

He turned to find Lana staring after the two cops, and beyond Griff and his partner toward the cluster of children being cared for. A look of profound sadness crossed her smudged features.

"I wish we could save all of the children who need us. These are the lucky ones. With proper treatment, they stand a good chance of normal lives. I wish we could help them all..."

"Maybe we have," said Bolan. "When people like the Parellis get involved, and a Mafia family is toppled, it makes headlines. And that's what this problem needs... all the attention it can get. Publicity about what's happening could put an end to it. There was a time when a kid was safe playing in his front yard. Maybe there'll be a time like that again."

Lana looked back at him.

"What about us?"

The fires were reflected in her eyes, Bolan saw this close. He caught the scent of her and it was natural and exciting to him.

He nodded to the unmarked police car.

"Climb in," he invited this comrade in arms, this special person with whom he would now be forever bonded by that singular comradeship born only of two people surviving enemy fire together; a bond forged in combat is unlike any other. "We've done our share for tonight, Lana. Let's find out about us."

"You've got it, soldier," she said, grinning.

They climbed into the car.

Bolan took the wheel. He headed away from the ever-growing cluster of flashing police lights and flames licking the sky; away from a battle that meant something to him.

No one tried to stop them.

He felt a gentle pressure on his upper thigh. He looked down and saw that Lana had rested the fingertips of one hand, feather light.

The electricity of her touch crackled between them just as it had when they had first met, those fast few hours ago.

A lifetime spent on the field of battle is a living hell.

Mack Bolan's life was hell.

But living on the edge as the warrior did, there were times when he crossed paths with others who lived as large as he, and although those occasions were infrequent, Bolan felt they were a touch of heaven... the reward for a lifetime spent in hell.

Bolan had decided that before leaving Chicago he would make time to seek a touch of heaven with this woman, if that was what she wanted.

He switched on the unmarked cop car's flasher light and piercing siren to clear the traffic ahead. Then he fed the vehicle more gas, gunning away from there into the waiting night.

The next mission, the next hellground, the next enemy would not be going anywhere, he knew from bitter experience.

For the Executioner, hell on earth would always be right around the next corner.