And what was that supposed to prove? Was she expecting an Italian housewife to appear and dog Susan's footsteps through the house, encumbered by a tray of coffee, tea and cakes? So many women worked these days, so many others had a bustling schedule of activities outside the home. Why had she automatically assumed that there was something sinister about the seeming absence of Brognola's wife? It was the kind of argument a raving chauvinist would use, where two plus two made five... and still, she couldn't shake the nagging apprehension fostered by the empty house. If there had been some kind of threat against Brognola's wife, he might have moved her elsewhere, seen her safe before he turned to face the enemy.

It was the kind of thing Mack Bolan would have done.

But Bolan wasn't here, she told herself, and he had no connection to the story that was brewing in her mind. If there had been a threat against Brognola's wife, his family, and if the threat could be related to his other problems on the job...

Before she had a chance to chase it any further, she was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Hal had left the study, covered half the distance to the breakfast nook before she heard him, and the lady was surprised that he could move so quietly, despite the deep-piled carpeting.

Brognola's face was haggard, drained, as he regarded Susan from the open doorway of the breakfast nook. The hasty question she was struggling to frame escaped her in an instant, and she let it go.

"Is everything all right?"

A stupid question on its face, it was the best that she could manage for the moment.

"I have things to do," he told her, speaking with the tone of someone half again his age. "If you'll excuse me now..."

"Of course."

There had been nothing else to say, and she was off the stool, picking up her purse and preceding Hal along the hallway toward the door. From nowhere she was stricken with a sudden sense of claustrophobia, a need to put the house behind her. Brognola's sadness and anxiety surrounded Susan like a shroud and left her feeling stifled, short of breath. She thanked him for the interview, flashed a plastic smile and had to restrain herself from bolting as he held the door.

Inside the Honda she took a moment to compose herself. There was a story here, she knew that much, but she would have to find another handle, someone other than Brognola who would grant her access to the secret. Hal was being driven by some demon he could not, would not reveal — but there were always other ways to crack a story, raise the stone and flush out whatever huddled underneath in darkness.

Susan Landry was a pro at lifting stones, exposing secrets. Brognola had intrigued her, put her on the scent of something dark and dangerous. His possible suspension from the post at Justice was a portion of the story, but Susan sensed that there was more. A great deal more. And she would find no peace until she knew the rest of it.

It was her job, what she did best in life. Brognola knew that much; he would expect it of her. Susan would endeavor not to hurt him, but the truth demanded periodic human sacrifice, and if a choice should be required, she had a sacred duty to perform. Exposure of the world beneath the stones, at any cost.

She gunned the Honda into life and aimed it toward the heart of Washington. Her answer, or the clues to finding a solution, would be waiting for her there. Brognola might not know it yet, but Susan Landry meant to help him if she could. And failing that, she meant to share his story with the world.

The gunner's last instructions had been brief and to the point: "We've set the meet for midnight. It's at Arlington. You're visiting the Unknown Soldier. Bring the lists. You miss this meet, you've missed it all."

Just that. No chance to speak with Helen or his children, to verify their safety. Then a kind of menace to the buzzing dial tone until he slammed down the receiver with enough force to crack the plastic. It had taken several moments for Brognola to recover his composure, or what little of it still remained, and he was certain Susan Landry had been picking up the bad vibrations loud and clear.

He put the reporter out of mind. Someone had obviously tipped her to the stink at Justice, and she had been following her nose. Brognola hadn't thought to ask her how she had acquired his address, and he didn't care. He had too many more important things to think about.

Like Helen, Jeff and Eileen.

They might be dead already, discarded as a hazard to security. If they were still alive, their hours would be numbered now. He could not think of any reason for the gunners to let them live past the midnight drop. Once Hal delivered — once he pulled whatever damned fool stunt his fevered mind was able to devise — they would be so much excess baggage, useless to their captors and a certain liability to any clean escape. They could be dead before he made the drop, assuming always that the gunners didn't plan to kill him, too.

It was entirely possible, of course, although the scheme struck Hal as too elaborate for an assassination. There were countless opportunities each day for a determined hitter to score: at work, in transit, at the supermarket or at home. The syndicate had never lacked in opportunities to kill Brognola, and he had to think that there was something more involved. The murder of a ranking Justice officer would generate tremendous heat, and anyone involved would have to insulate himself sufficiently before he risked the flames.

Unless the sudden shadow over Hal's career might prove sufficient to diffuse the heat, convince a cynical establishment that he had gotten only what he bargained for in dealing with the Mob. But what of his family? If he was murdered while apparently cooperating in delivery of the secret witness list, how would annihilation of his wife and children be explained?

Brognola couldn't crack the riddle, and he finally gave it up, convinced that there was some other motive in the move against his family. If only he could crack the riddle...

But he didn't have the time for puzzles now. Six hours, give or take, before he was expected to present himself at Arlington, to do or die with everything that mattered to him in the world depending on his choice of a reaction.

And the man from Justice realized that he had been engaging in some artful self-deception. Everything depended on Mack Bolan now, and nothing Brognola did would matter in the least if Bolan muffed it. The Executioner was every hope and prayer Brognola had, and the guy was out there at that very moment, kicking ass and taking names. He would be raising hell with Gianelli's troops, with anybody else who tried to block his path, and Hal could almost feel a grudging sympathy for Bolan's human prey.

Almost.

The soldier's enemies were now Brognola's enemies, as well. The violent world outside had forcibly intruded on his private space, and only a strategic escalation of the violence could secure his family's safe release. Brognola's world was resting in Bolan's hands tonight, and if the soldier fell, Brognola's universe would tumble down around him.

There was nothing he could do but wait and chart the grim alternatives that would remain if Bolan failed. If something happened to the warrior, if Brognola was compelled to face the enemy alone, he knew that he would keep the midnight rendezvous prepared to die. With nothing left to lose, aware that Helen and the kids were doomed whichever way he broke, it would be left for Hal to track the bastards on his own. He might not ever see the members of his family again, but if he lived past Arlington, if he was able to secure the identities of their abductors, he would have a short-range motive for survival till the job was finished.