What in hell do you say to an old friend and fellow warrior when he tells you that his sister, a girl as close closer than your own, has been trapped and torn by animals?
You tell him that you'll do anything to help, go anywhere.
Kill anyone.
Sure, all of that. You owe it to him, and to her.
You owe it to yourself.
"I'm on my way," the Executioner told his friend without hesitation.
And the meeting had been set for Holman Field, just over two hours from Stony Man by light plane. Bolan allowed himself an extra hour for preparation, and scheduled the meeting for midnight. The gratitude and relief in the Politician's voice was full of pathos, almost more than Bolan could stand.
Can you come?
Rather, ask: Can you turn your back on a friend in torment?
No.
It was not within Mack Bolan's power to ignore that plea for help. Not if he could answer in the affirmative with the last breath of life.
The quality of caring and of empathy for the wounded and dying of the hellgrounds had earned Bolan the nickname "Sergeant Mercy" on the Asian battlefields, even while his marksmanship and coolness under fire were winning him the "Executioner" label.
It took a big man to carry both names well.
And Mack Samuel Bolan was one hell of a big man.
4
After picking up a new rental car and ditching their riddled sedan on a lonely side street, Pol Blancanales and Mack Bolan drove directly to a fashionable apartment complex east of downtown St. Paul. They were not followed.
On their way up two flights of stairs, Pol filled Bolan in on some of the background to Toni's case. She had been living in St. Paul the past three months, working out of this same apartment building while handling some of Able Team's business that was unrelated to the covert Phoenix effort.
They reached a nondescript door on the third-floor front, and Pol gave a prearranged knock before letting himself in with his key. Mack Bolan followed his friend into a modest but comfortable living room, where the lights were kept on their lowest setting, casting shadows in the corners of the room.
Toni Blancanales was emerging from a rear bedroom to greet them, and Bolan was struck by the change in her appearance since their last meeting.
The Politician's kid sister was wan, almost cadaverous, and harried-looking. Her face wore the look, yeah, of a cornered animal. She was drawn and pallid, with dark circles under her eyes.
Toni's shoulder-length dark hair was mussed, looking as though it had been neither washed nor even brushed for several days. And she wore a loose-fitting housecoat, clearly designed to hide her young woman's figure, buttoned high around her throat and trailing almost to the floor.
She greeted them with a weak smile and a breathless monosyllable. Bolan watched her curl into a padded armchair, slim hands clasped tight around her drawn-up knees.
Bolan and Pol sat on the couch opposite, neither of them speaking for a long moment. Bolan used the time to study Toni closely as she sat there, her eyes averted, looking for all the world like a small child peeking through the top of some shapeless tent or sleeping bag.
Where her hands were clenched around her knees, the knuckles were white with tension, fingers tightly interlocked as if to keep those slender hands from trembling.
"I expected you back from the airport sooner," Toni said at last, breaking the awkward silence.
As she spoke, her eyes darted briefly to meet Bolan's, then skittered away again like mice frightened by a sudden noise.
"Yeah, well, we got tied up," the Politician told her.
"Oh?"
Bolan let Toni's brother brief her on their meeting at Holman Field and the violence that followed. Her gaze never returned to him, and he used the opportunity to study her more closely, picking out new lines and shadows that he had never noticed on her face before.
Worry lines, sure. And the shadows of a pain and grief that knows no voice, no expression. She listened to Pol's story.
"What does it mean?" she asked no one in particular.
"Someone is watching Pol," answered Bolan, "or me, or both of us. Beyond that, it's too early to say."
He hesitated briefly before going on. "I'd like to hear your story before we try putting the pieces together," he finished at last.
At the first mention of her own story, of her troubles, Toni Blancanales paled again, seeming to shrivel inward, withdrawing before Mack Bolan's eyes.
"I don't know how much Rosario has told you," she began at last. "Able Team does a lot of its regular business here in the Twin Cities. You'd be surprised how much of the country's big business is transacted right here." Rosario broke in, trying to help her out. "At last estimate, the area was tied with San Francisco for seventh place in the nation as a corporate headquarters site," he said tonelessly.
"You can imagine some of the fierce competition that goes on around here," continued Toni. "Industrial espionage and occasional sabotage, the whole bit. Anyway, we've been working a low-level snooping case, possible pirating of patents, that sort of thing. I had an evening meeting with our client, to pick up some surveillance equipment and collect the final installment of our fee."
"When was this?" Bolan asked softly.
Toni paused, thinking.
"Four days ago now," she answered. "God, it seems like a lifetime."
"Go on, kid," the Politician urged gently.
Toni swallowed hard and said, "Okay. I finished the meeting and went downstairs. The building has one of those underground garages that look like something from Phantom of the Opera."
"Anyway, I was stowing our gear in the back seat of my car when this... this man... grabbed me from behind. I never heard him coming.... I never... never..."
She stopped, choking on the words, one hand pressed over her mouth as if she might be ill at any moment. Her dark, hunted eyes stared out through space toward some invisible focal point, watching the nightmare sequence unfold again on a silent mental screen.
"I fought him, believe me, but... he was stronger.... He hit me, Mack, and he forced me into the back seat of the car. He had a knife, and... he said he'd kill me if I didn't... if I didn't..."
Bolan felt a hard fist clenching in his gut, his gorge rising.
"He tore my blouse," she said, "and then... he... made me undress. He... he... oh Jesus."
Sobbing raggedly, the young woman was in fierce pain. But something made her continue, something forced her story to unravel under its own power.
"When he was finished... somehow I knew that he was going to kill me. I knew it. He was crazy. I was able... I don't know... somehow I pushed or kicked him out of the car, and I slammed the door shut. I was so afraid of passing out from the pain and the bleeding. He was outside, clawing at the glass like an animal, trying to get in, when... when..."
The words dried up and died. It was as if Toni had lost the thread of thought and was too bone weary to go looking for it again.
After another long moment, Pol composed himself and finished the story for her.
"Our client came down to get his car about that time, Mack, and he scared the stinking son of a bitch away, although he never got a real look at him. Christ almighty, if only he'd been a few minutes earlier!"
"If he had, Toni might not be here," Bolan said gently.
"I've been thinking about that," she murmured, "and you're right. Another minute, either way..." She shuddered and said, "He was willing to kill me. I could feel it."