And yeah, the mention of Rickert's name brought grim memories flooding in upon both men as they sat there, bound together by a grievous common cause.

Charlie Rickert had been a bent cop, working on the Los Angeles force and taking payoffs from the mob in the early days of Mack Bolan's home-front war against the Mafia. And he had almost ended the Executioner's campaign single-handedly in the City of Angels — almost, sure, until another, honest cop named Carl Lyons had soured Rickert's play and let Bolan go with his life.

And both cops — the good and the bad — had left LAPD in the wake of the Executioner's strike in Southern California. Rickert had gone out in disgrace, banished to the netherworld of mob fringe activities, while Lyons had moved into the federal Sensitive Operations Group, assisting Bolan on several later campaigns.

Today, Charlie Rickert was dead, and Carl Lyons was a valued member of Able Team, one hard arm of Bolan's Phoenix operation in the war against international terrorism.

The good and the bad, yeah.

That was what the whole damned game was all about.

Pol Blancanales was nodding reluctantly. "I hear what you're saying, Sarge. But it's bitter."

And Bolan could accept that, too.

His own life had been bitter at times, and often. But it could be sweet, too, and he didn't want his long-time comrade-in-arms to forget that paramount rule of nature.

You go through the bitter to reach the sweet. Every time.

For a fleeting moment, the face of April Rose was locked onto Bolan's mental viewing screen, gradually transformed into the hunted, haunted countenance of Toni Blancanales.

The Executioner owed a supreme debt to both those ladies.

"You'd best get back to Toni," he told the Politician. "She can only stand so much solitude right now."

Blancanales nodded.

"Right, okay. I'll be manning the air and the landlines, buddy. If you need anything... anything at all... give a shout."

Bolan smiled warmly.

"Count on it."

They shook hands and then drove away in their separate cars, Pol returning home to his wounded sister, Bolan moving on toward a rendezvous with fate.

His fate, yeah. And, just maybe, someone else's.

The Executioner was going to drop in on a certain state legislator, and pass the time of day. Perhaps they would discuss the pains of friends... and family.

State legislator Thomas Gilman lived comfortably in suburban West St. Paul, within an easy five-minute drive of the fashionable Somerset Country Club. Mack Bolan did a preliminary drive-by, scanning the neighborhood for police cruisers or suspicious vehicles, and found none.

On the second pass, he turned his rental car boldly into Gilman's driveway and followed it around to park directly in front of the big Dutch colonial house. It looked as though politics had been quite kind to Thomas Gilman.

Bolan rang the doorbell and listened to melodic chimes sounding deep within the house. After several long moments, footsteps approached, and the door was opened by a middle-aged man dressed in vest and slacks without the matching jacket. His hair was graying at the temples, and he regarded Bolan with vague curiosity from behind wire-rimmed spectacles.

"Yes?"

"Thomas Gilman?"

The man nodded, his curiosity deepening.

"Yes?" he repeated.

Bolan briefly flashed his federal ID in front of the guy's face, pocketing it again before Gilman could focus on it clearly.

"Frank La Mancha, Justice Department," he said brusquely. "We need to talk."

Gilman raised an eyebrow.

"About what, may I ask?"

"Your son," the Executioner told him simply.

And it had the desired effect, yeah.

Tom Gilman paled underneath his professional sun-lamp tan, and for an instant Bolan watched him clutch at the ornate doorknob for support. Then the moment passed and Gilman regained control, stepping back to open the door and admit Bolan.

"Come in," he said, his tone formal, curt.

Bolan stepped into the entry hall, and Gilman closed the door behind him, leading the way to a combination library and study. He waved Bolan to a deep armchair and dropped into its mate nearby.

Bolan remained standing, hands in pockets, surveying the room and the man.

"When did you last see your son, Mr. Gilman?" he asked abruptly.

The politician's face showed mild confusion.

"Not in some time, why?"

Bolan countered with a question of his own.

"Was it before he escaped from the hospital?"

Gilman's face sagged, his whole body slumping as if Bolan had punched him hard over the heart. He plainly was stunned by the Executioner's words. His mouth worked silently for a moment; then he cleared his throat and tried again.

"I... I don't know what you're talking about," he offered lamely.

Bolan glowered at him.

"We don't have time to dance, Gilman," he snapped. "I believe you know why I'm here."

A movement in the doorway caught Bolan's eye, and he turned to find himself facing a woman of indeterminate age, her curious eyes shifting back and forth from Gilman to himself, and back again.

When she spoke, there was caution, even fear, in her voice.

"Thomas, you haven't finished your breakfast."

Gilman waved her off with a distracted gesture.

"Not now, Louise, I'm busy."

The woman began to turn away, but Bolan's voice stopped her on the threshold.

"Why don't you stay, Mrs. Gilman?"

She paused, looking again from her husband to Bolan with narrowed eyes. At last Gilman nodded, reluctantly, and beckoned her inside. She walked past Mack Bolan to stand beside her husband's chair, one hand resting on his shoulder.

"Louise," Gilman began, "this is Mr... er..."

"La Mancha," Bolan finished for him.

"Yes, quite. He's here about Courtney."

Conflicting emotions instantly twisted the lady's face into a kaleidoscope of mingled hope and horror. Bolan watched her fingers dig unconsciously into her husband's shoulder, making him wince.

"Have they found him?" she blurted. "Is he... is he..."

Gilman shook himself free, and snapped, "Louise! Control yourself!"

Bolan frowned at them both.

"He's still out there, Mrs. Gilman. I'm hoping you can help me find him."

There was a long pause as Gilman and his wife looked at each other searchingly. Finally, Gilman reached up to take hold of her hand, and she nodded to him, her eyes brimming with tears.

Gilman swallowed hard, and there was a catch in his voice as he began speaking.

"We don't know where he is. That's the truth. He... has no reason to trust us, Mr. La Mancha."

Bolan read the painful truth in Gilman's voice and saw the same hurt on the lady's face.

He believed the guy, yeah.

"All right. Let's start at the beginning."

Another soul-searching pause, and then Gilman resumed speaking, his voice broken.

"The beginning. How do you single out a point in time when you know your child is... different? Courtney was always a quiet boy. Introverted. Smart as a whip, but so damned quiet. Even as a child he could never open up or share his thoughts with us."

"He wasn't a bad child," Louise Gilman chimed in, sounding desperate.

Gilman gave her hand a gentle squeeze and continued.

"We both know what he was. What he is. By the time Courtney was six or seven years old, he had a violent, explosive temper. Not just the normal childish tantrums... there was real fury in him, deep down. He fought with classmates in grade school, and by high school he'd been in trouble several times. We changed his schools twice to protect him... from his own reputation."

"And to protect yourself?" Bolan asked, probing.

Gilman's head snapped up, eyes flaring angrily.