She stared at the tip of her cigarette and seemed to be talking to it instead of Bolan. "I left because I don't deserve your protection. And I came back because you do deserve mine."

He threw it back at her. "Thanks, but I guess I don't want it."

She appeared to be a bit confused. "You'd let me just walk out of here, I mean right now?"

"Sure, if you want to."

"Then you trust me?"

"No I do not."

The China doll chewed on her lower lip and crushed out the cigarette in an ashtray in a slow and deliberate mauling of the tobacco. "You're a very frustrating conversationalist," she told him.

Why not? That perplexing little chunk of Oriental beauty had crawled right back into his guts again, and it wasn't a nice feeling.

In a voice very tired but firm he told her, "Hell, Mary, I haven't slept for about thirty hours. I haven't eaten for sixteen. I've made two very hard hits on this town and I've killed a hell of a lot of people. Now I wasn't worrying about any of this until you walked out of here a couple of hours ago. Don't ask me why, it just bugged me suddenly and I had to puke the whole mess up. And I was okay again until I walked in here and smelled your damned coffee. So what do you want of me? What the hell do you want?"

She licked her lip and said, "Wow, you can talk."

He muttered, "Go to hell."

"What are you planning on doing now?"

"Nothing."

"I mean..."

"I'm sewed in. Cops all over the place. So I'm going to get some sleep."

"Oh. Well that's perfectly clear, I guess. The cops are all around, so you're just going to crawl peacefully into bed and catch a few winks."

"That's exactly right."

"You're weird, Mack Bolan. You're really weird. Why don't you pace the floor, like the caged rats do in the movies. Why don't you get drunk or beat me up or something. Why don't you go over and smash out the window, stick your gun outside and scream out your defiance to a world that's laying all over you."

Bolan laughed, and it felt good. He did not feel like puking anything up now. He told the girl, "You're something else."

"I haven't had much sleep either," she solemnly reminded him.

"Be my guest," he said, as solemnly.

"Okay. Have you ever had a Chinese bath?"

He thought it over briefly, then replied, "I guess not."

"I'll give you one."

He said, "Okay."

"Don't you start one-wording me again."

"You've got enough for both of us," he told her.

She said, "Weird. This is really weird. I don't believe it. This is the weirdest seduction scene I've ever been in."

He chuckled and asked her, "Who's seducing whom?"

She said, "If you don't know, we're both in trouble."

The two of them left the room clinging to each other and laughing, and Bolan was feeling better than he had for some time.

It wasn't so bad to have to stand alone. That wasn't the worst part. What really got to a guy after awhile was lying alone. Genuine human companionship could be a rare thing in a war zone, especially for a one man army.

For awhile, for a very brief period of detente, the Executioner would find some exquisite human companionship. Perhaps it would have to be enough to last him a lifetime. An hour, a day, perhaps even a week. Yeah, a lifetime.

Captain Matchison was in a steel-chewing mood and Sgt. Bill Phillips was feeling more the rookie than at any time in his career.

They were in the Brushfire mobile command post, and all of the detail leaders had been called in for an ass-chewing.

Bill Phillips was a detail leader.

It had been his job to pin the tail on the cat and he'd ended up with it pinned to himself.

It was bad enough to be black in a white man's world. It was plain miserable to be both black and incompetent. He'd had to tell the Captain the full story. What the hell. It was no time to be cute with your lord god.

Matchison was standing at the side window, glaring at the mess in the DeMarco yard. One balled fist was slowly beating out a controlled rhythm on the glass. The other hand was shoved deep into his pants pocket. The guy never showed much expression in the face. He didn't need to. Forcefields of anger radiated away from him like a satanic halo whenever he was feeling this way. A mad scowl or a cutting word would seem almost like a pat on the back at a time like this.

The other sergeants were semi-circled behind Phillips. He could not see them but he could feel them could sense their embarrassment and frustration. This was an uptight outfit. They had to be. Theirs was an uptight business. They were the elite in the town of the elite, and they had to prove it with every job that came up.

Matchison broke a two minute silence with, "I don't believe it."

Phillips said, "Captain, I..."

"Shut up, Sergeant Phillips," lord god commanded. "Don't remind me of your temporary insanity. I was just counting the stretchers out there. Do you know how many I've counted so far?"

"I guess a few," the Sergeant muttered.

"Try seventeen, and that's just for openers. The meds are still rounding them up and packing them out."

"Yessir, it was a hard hit."

"How many of those bodies do you figure are yours?"

The Sergeant wondered if he could safely light a cigarette. He decided not, and told the Captain, "No more than one or two, I'd say. The PM will tell. I use a .38 Positive. Mack had — the suspect was using two different weapons. One was a foreign job, not too heavy, probably a nine millimeter. Had a silencer on it. The other pistol was — hell I don't know what it was. I'd never seen anything like it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I'd never seen a gun like that before. About a foot long, looked like stainless steel. Hooded barrel with ventilators. I watched him refill the clip. I'd never seen bullets like those, either."

"Hand loads, maybe?"

"Probably, yes, sir. The guy is a gunsmith. Maybe he even made the gun."

"I'll want that in a written report," the Captain snapped.

"Yessir."

Matchison swung away from the window to directly confront his black cop with a hard and level stare. "Bill... I'm going to try to cover you this time."

"Thanks, I appreciate it," Phillips murmured.

"But I want that GI buddy of yours!"

"Yessir, I know that."

"You stay away from him!"

"Sir?"

"I don't want anybody screaming around town that the department is cooperating in a mob wipe-out!"

"Captain, I wasn't in on the hit with him, I just got caught in the crossfire, and Bolan pulled my ass out of there for me. That's all."

Matchison's eyes rolled and he said, "Not a word of that had better get in the press. Understand?"

"Yessir," Phillips replied miserably.

"Caen or one of those guys gets ahold of a story like that and the town will laugh us across the Golden Gate."

"Bolan saved my life," the Sergeant muttered.

"That's exactly what I mean! Now just look at the thing, Bill. Look at it from an outside viewpoint. We're on a full Brushfire alert. We have the town nailed down tight and just waiting for the guy to show. The powerful Brushfire Force, your city's answer to rampant crime in the streets, the elite squad of our police department — all of these great, highly trained, highly paid police officers — against one lonely and desperate man. And so what happens. The guy casually drops in through one of our stakeouts, rubs out at least seventeen of our citizens who are not — not, remember — under indictment for any crimes — and then not only gets away clean but hangs around long enough to rescue one of our officers. Now, Bill... I want that God damned story to die right here in this vehicle."

"It's dead," Phillips assured his Captain.