None came.
Bolan waited.
Then he heard a soft, low chuckle.
A moment later Leo Turrin said, "Good move, Sarge ... but I stopped falling for that one years ago."
"You son of a bitch."
"Easy, Sarge. I'm coming out now. You shoot me and I'll never speak to you again."
"Come on." Bolan let the hammer down on the cocked revolver, holding his left thumb between the shank and the frame, then easing his thumb free when he had a solid hold and knew the hammer would not get loose from him and strike the cap of the bullet hard enough to fire.
"You crazy bastard," Leo said conversationally. "Why'd you leave the hospital?"
"Why would any hunted animal spring a trap?"
"Crazy."
"Sure."
"I mean it. Last place in the world either side would look for you. Like the purloined letter in Poe's story. The fuzz couldn't find it because it lay right before their eyes in plain sight, while they searched all the dark nooks and crannies and looked for secret sliding panels."
"Fiction."
"So?"
Bolan dropped his head, eyes closing. "How'd you find me?"
"A friend of friends spotted you coming into town." Leo kicked the Maserati's front tire. "Whizzing across the bridge in this shark wasn't the smartest move you ever made."
"Going to that doctor you set up for me turned out worse."
"Look who's getting choosy."
"The bastard hyped me, even while I watched every move he made."
"A hundred Large is a lot of dough, Sarge."
"Original thought... so what's next?"
"Hospital."
"That's crazy. I'd be wide open."
"Okay, you stubborn bastard, have it your way. Hit the streets in Wild Card Johnny's wheels again and look for a pad. Walk around leaking blood. Lie here and pass out — and when the Talaferi send more soldiers to find out what happened to these two assholes, they can carry you home like a baby asleep in momma's arms."
Leo spat on the gleaming hood of the Maserati. "You're the man, Sarge. You tell me."
"I'm sick. I've got to have help."
"Why the hell you think I'm here?" Leo spat again. "For kicks, to watch you play John Wayne?" Leo's voice took on a cruelly mocking tone. "It's okay, men, I'm only shot through the heart, both lungs and the head. Semper Fi and gung-ho, let's climb Surabachi and plant Old Glory."
Leo moved and leaned against the car beside the Maserati. "I hate like hell to muddy the image, Sarge; but this ain't that war, and nobody's arranged for a photographer."
"You bastard."
"As a matter of fact, I have papers to prove my father and mother were married for more than two years prior to my birth."
Leo's voice went hard as a keg of nails. "Now how about it? I've got my ass stuck out a mile on both sides of the fence. You want help or not?"
It tore Mack Bolan's heart, but he said, "Help me, Leo."
The nurse was not only young but delightfully pretty. Thick dark hair, high pert bosom, narrow waist, under-slung bottom, and legs with good meaty calves the way Mack Bolan liked legs on women, the all-too-rare times he could think about them. High-fashion could cram it. And hospitals could cram all these needles and tubes and most particularly the dripping bottles.
Handcuffs, leg-irons, and chains bolted to concrete walls could not have been more effective, but Bolan could have ripped loose and disengaged himself in seconds.
But the limber rubber tubes, the long needles taped into his arms, the clear glass bottles — they represented Life.
And Mack Bolan wanted Life desperately.
Not because he feared death. Long ago he passed that point in time and maturity. He no longer even prayed for himself, feeling he deserved nothing, but only for his brother, Johnny, and Val, and some pals ... as well as the souls of men rotting in Nam graves who would always be young and fair, for the dead grow no older.
Mack Bolan just did not believe in leaving jobs unfinished. A war not won came under the heading of unfinished business, and had the stink of defeat. No alternative for victory existed, so Mack Bolan's business had not ended.
He had a snake to kill.
Meantime, Mack Bolan's major concern was survival. Deads accomplished nothing, except stinking up the place.
The pert, high-bosomed girl, Mack's day nurse, had tentatively earned his possible trust. The night nurse — no.
She wore a name-plate reading, "M. Minnotte, R.N."
The name did not concern Bolan. Long ago he learned Italian did not equal Mafia. What did concern him was that M. Minnotte had not become his night nurse until a week after he'd been in hospital, and he'd never seen a hand so free with the needle. M. Minnotte would have hit him with a slug of dope every half hour, had Mack wanted it. And when he did not want it, she pouted.
And one other thing. M. Minnotte should never have been a night duty nurse. She had far too much seniority. In a mature way, she also possessed twice the beauty and a dozen times the raw sexuality of pert little dark-haired, "D. Douglass, R.N." Minnotte was the kind any reasonable man would expect to screw her way right up to Head Nurse, competent or not.
Yet, after a week, here she was Mack Bolan's night nurse, and wielding an ever-ready syringe.
Mack knew then... the Talaferi had found him.
4
Break-out
Despite his personal feelings, Leo Turrin was wondering whether Mack Bolan's time had finally come.
Not only had Bolan almost blown Leo Turrin's cover more than once, but The Executioner seemed to be getting much too careless with his own life.
Leo Turrin was a double.
He had been born into and held a capo, "boss" ranking in his hometown Mafia. His specific job was Chief Whoremonger. Leo himself "turned out" Mack Bolan's sister, Cindy ... made a call girl prostitute of her.
At the same time, Leo Turrin, former Green Beret, was a federal agent, and in that direction lay his true allegiance.
For that reason, reinforced by Leo's admiring, hard-won affection, he had not killed Mack Bolan in the parking lot. It was not the first time Leo'd had the time, place, and opportunity.
All the same, Bolan had become a pain in the ass. Everytime Leo helped Bolan, he jeopardized his own security. Not that Leo spent so much time "taking care" of the guy. Bolan possessed every instinct of a jungle cat; he was all bone and gristle with a remorseless desire for survival no matter who or what he killed to keep himself alive. So far he was succeeding beyond anyone's wildest dreams — or nightmares.
And yet, at the same time, Leo knew, Bolan was a gentle man, compassionate, loving and tender toward his younger brother. And then there was the girl, Val....
But playing both sides of the street could get Leo Turrin killed and he knew it. Dead, he would be totally without value to his government; and he honestly, truly believed that as an insider, a Mafia capo, he served better, performed his duties more responsibly, and had a hell of a lot longer to live than he did bodyguarding Mack Bolan.
Goddammit, he told himself, I did all I could. I got him into the hospital. I checked out everyone who might come near him, doctors, nurses, LVNs, even the scrubwomen and male hall orderlies.
Yet, something kept nagging at the back of Leo's mind. He cursed himself for having been a Special Forces officer, and having spent too much time with the CIA on special assignment. Having infiltrated VC and NVR lines, penetrated the enemy's innermost secrets any way he could — women, dope, liquor, catering to bestial tastes and human perversions.
Afterwards, Leo wondered why!