Don Pendleton - Blood Testament

The tube was made of fiberglass, designed to telescope for storage but extended full-length now and primed to fire. The LAW — light antitank weapon — was, in essence, a disposable bazooka with a one-shot capability and an effective range of some four hundred meters.

More than twice the distance to the armored limousine, if he was quick and sure enough to do it right.

Brognola stumbled, cursing bitterly before he found his footing in the middle of the driveway, feet braced wide, the LAW across his shoulder. One hand was wrapped around the firing lever, mounted topside like a clothespin. He was watching as the man in black bailed out, his Magnum rounds deflected by the Lincoln's armor plating.

Gianelli had them beaten if Brognola missed his one and only shot. There would not be a second chance if he muffed it now.

And he was counting down from five, aware that flankers could be closing on him from behind, a backup car with gunners meant to convoy Gianelli out of town.

He squeezed the firing lever and felt the back-flash scorching empty air behind him, blinded for an instant as his stinger sped away downrange. He held his breath and waited through an instant that extended to eternity, prepared to run them down on foot if necessary.

The rocket bored directly in between those cherry tail-lights, an explosive missile striking home between the dragon's backward-looking eyes. It detonated in the trunk, an oily ball of fire enveloping the tank's hindquarters, rolling forward through the passenger compartment, greedily devouring flesh and fabric, leather upholstery and carpeting.

The Lincoln had become a rolling crematorium, decelerating as it reached the Wrought-iron gates, already standing open, and continued to the street beyond. It stalled there, blocking lanes in both directions, settling on melted tires, and Hal imagined that he heard a single, childlike scream before a secondary detonation ripped the night apart and spilled a rippling lake of fire across the road.

The empty launcher clattered to the ground, and he could see the man in black scrambling to his feet and favoring one shoulder, working at it with his other hand. The firelight on his painted face made Bolan look mysterious and savage, like some hunter from primeval times, transported to the present day in search of mythic dragons.

They had killed two dragons here tonight, and the leaping flames beyond those open gates were rapidly devouring the hurt, the bitter memories. In time, perhaps, he would be able to ignore the scars. In time. But for tonight, the fire itself was victory enough.

"So, DeVries was being paid by Cartwright?"

"Or by Gianelli. Either way, it cuts the same."

"I see."

The President was frowning deeply, glaring through the windows of his limousine past Bolan and Brognola, toward the glistening Potomac.

"And the so-called evidence on Hal?"

Brognola shrugged.

"It was accurate... as far as it went. Surveillance caught me talking to or meeting with a number of our key informants on the orgcrime strike force. They were seriously compromised."

"How many have we lost?"

"One verified so far — Tattaglia in Baltimore. And we've lost contact with two others. Bruno in Atlantic City and Morelli in New York. The rest have been reshuffled. Given half a chance, they should be free and clear."

"All right." The presidential scowl was lightening slowly. "So you could say we're status quo?"

"As near as possible." Brognola cleared his throat. "I feel responsible for any damage suffered by the strike force of the witness program, sir. If I had been less negligent..."

"We've been through all of that." He made a gesture of dismissal. "And the plain fact is, we can't afford to lose you at the present time. I'll hear no more about this resignation nonsense. Clear?"

"Yes, sir."

Relief was mingled with the sadness in Brognola's voice.

"And as for you..." he turned toward Bolan, hesitating momentarily before he spoke again "...I hope you'll reconsider your position."

Bolan had already reconsidered the proposal from the White House — a renewal of his pardon, yet another new identity, immediate resumption of his role within the Phoenix Program based at Stony Man — and he was smiling as he shook his head in an emphatic negative.

"I'm sorry, sir. It isn't possible."

"Of course, it's possible. I'll make it possible. One signature from me, and you'll be right back where you started."

"That's the problem," Bolan answered softly. "I'd be losing ground."

"Goddammit, you'd be losing all those wanted flyers, and the bounty on your head. You'd have protection from the government..."

"Like last time?"

There was sudden bitterness in Bolan's voice. The President looked pained, but did not flinch from Bolan's stare.

"You know what happened there as well as I do. It was unforeseeable, an aberration."

Bolan nodded.

"Like the move against Hal's family. Like Cartwright's team surviving Farnsworth and continuing to run Clandestine Operations for the Company.''

"I'm looking into that right now. It's top priority. If any of the bastards made it through last night, I'll personally supervise their prosecution.''

"Fine. And next time?"

"What? Why should there be a next time?"

Bolan smiled.

"There's always been a next time, sir. And always will be. Humans being what they are, you can't expect to operate without corruption and betrayal."

"Hell, if everyone was perfect, we'd be out of work," the President replied. "All three of us. But since they're not, God knows we need a man like you on our side."

"I've been on it all along."

"And your objection is?"

"Too many strings," the soldier told him flatly. "When you buy the license, you accept its limitations. I can't work that way. Not anymore."

"And how long do you think you can last alone?"

"I never gamble on tomorrow," Bolan answered.

"Dammit!" But the chief executive could see that he was beaten. "If you ever change your mind..."

"You'll be the first to know," the Executioner assured him, reaching for the door handle as the armored limo coasted to a stop beside his waiting rental car.

"God keep."

"And you, sir."

Bolan closed the door upon Brognola and his boss, already moving out before the driver dropped it into gear and pulled away. For half a second he was tempted to run after them, to call them back, and then the moment passed. He was alone. Again.

It was the price of everlasting war, this solitary vigil on the fringes of society. Before the day was out they would be hunting him again, on orders of the President, with Hal Brognola theoretically in charge of the pursuit. It mattered literally that the huntsmen had no spirit for the game; their gunners in the field would not be conscious of the reticence in Washington, nor would they falter if they found an opportunity to bag their prey.

Survival day-to-day had always been the name of Bolan's game. He had already sampled government security and found it lacking. Worse yet, he knew that once beneath the federal umbrella he would be constrained in choice of targets, limited in his ability to strike at will, against the cannibals who mattered most.

The enemy was constantly in flux yet never-changing. At the heart of it, where Bolan lived and fought, his opposition was the same as it had been in Vietnam, in Pittsfield, from the early days of his impossible crusade against the Mafia. The enemy was evil man, the cannibal who preyed upon his gentle neighbors day by everlasting day.

And Bolan's answer to the human predators today, tomorrow and forever — was the cleansing fire, strategically applied, without a host of bureaucrats to second-guess his moves.