Bolan grunted and flung away the idea. Introspection, a review of one's deeper motivations, was a good thing up to a point. But too much questioning of one's self could send a finely tuned mind into disarray, also — and what greater flaw could there be than that? Hell, he had known what he was getting into when he declared this lousy war… he was no greenhorn in this business of impossible warfare, and he'd known that he was re.nouncing all the good and simple things that made life worthwhile,.
He had not, of course, expected to survive this long. He had overestimated the enemy and underestimated his own life expectancy. His last mile, he'd called it — and what a long, grim and bloody trail that last mile had become. What a lonely one. Yeah, that was the worst part — the enforced aloneness, the total isolation from the things that made life good.
He had learned to live with blood and thunder, with constant jeopardy and the ever-present specter of sudden and violent death. If he should live that long, would he ever become accustomed to the role of total outcast? Of course not. And, he realized, he had no right to even expect it. This was part of the price he'd accepted, and this was the "life" that he would push to the absolute outer limit, to the last staggering step of that final bloody mile.
The life? Wasn't every strike against the enemy a lifetime of its own? Sure. Sure it was. The Executioner had certainly lived more lives than one. And, as part of the tab, he had died many deaths. His first death had been back there in Pittsfield; he'd died first with Mama and Pop and Cindy. He had died again with Chopper and Flower Child, Whispering Death Zitka and Bloodbrother Loudelk and Boom-Boom and Gunsmoke and Deadeye Washington — that fantastic Los Angeles death squad — and he'd lived to die again with Doc Brantzen at Palm Village, with the little soldada in Miami and the cute kid who'd become a Mafia turkey in New York. Deaths, yes, very real deaths for some very real and dear people, and deaths of the soul, also, for Mack Bolan. And how many deaths could the soul survive?
And how about those others — the symbolic deaths — those very real lives which Bolan dared not approach again for fear of carrying his plague to them? Johnny Bolan and Val and all the one-life friesds he'd picked up and hastily dropped off along that bloody mile of survival — one-lifers who must forever remain in the shadows of Bolan's multi-life form of existence.
Even Lyons… even a toughi cop like Carl Lyons… Lyons had a multi-life existence of his own to worry about.
Bolan sighed and lit a cigarette.
"You want a smoke, Sergeant?" he called back.
"I quit," came the weak response. "Haven't you heard that it's hazardous to your health?"
Bolan chuckled. His "guest" was sounding more like his old self. It would take more than a bit of pummeling around to put down a cop like Carl Lyons. He took a deep drag from the cigarette and sent the smoke toward the rear of the van. "Lots of things are hazardous to health," he commented.
Sure, lots of things. War, for example. And trying to cram too many lifetimes into a final, bloody mile of dying.
The enemy blood did not bother Bolan. He lived for their blood, and for nothing else. Hell, he was dying for it. Intellectualism aside, there was but one way to beat the Mafia, and that was to play their game — their way. Up to a point, of course. The game changed only in those rare moments such as Bolan had experienced back on that mountainside when, during an orgy of bloodletting, he had abandoned his battle plan to drag a dying human back into the ranks of the living.
Uh-huh, and there was the intellectual explanation. It was the name of the game. Beat them with their own methods… but don't join them. In Bolan's mind, this was the sole, differential between himself and his enemies. He was still a human being. How long, he wondered, could he remain so — and continue to play the game? How many more deaths could his rotting soul survive? There would, of course, be one final death… the one written in his own blood. But… would the man himself die in the interim? Would his soul depart, somewhere in there, from the onslaught of repeated interim deaths, leaving behind a deranged and half-human jungle beast to prey mdiscriminately in an unrestrained exercise of the Mafia game?
Bolan chewed the idea and knew that this was one price he was not willing to pay for his war. Why replace one evil with another? Better to have it end now, tonight, and let his blood and his soul flow out together.
As though sensing his rescuer's thoughts, Carl Lyons spoke up from the darkness of the van and told him, "You've grown a lot since our first meeting, Bolan. But even with the face job I knew it was you at first glimpse. Or should I say at first blast. How the hell do you keep it going?"
"It becomes a way of life," Bolan muttered. Sure. Just commit yourself to unending warfare, then kill quicker and run faster than the other guy. He smiled and asked the cop, "What do you mean, I've grown?"
Lyons was gingerly sliding into the seat beside Bolan. "I mean you're not the same wild-ass warrior I faced in L.A. More class, or something."
Bolan sighed and replied, "Well, we keep learning, don't we? You feeling that good, to be sitting up here?"
The policeman winced and shifted about, seeking a more comfortable position. "Not really," he said. "But there's some things I guess I have to tell you before you drop me off."
Bolan nodded his head. "Fair exchange," he said.
"You remember the Washington whel in the Pointer Operation?"
"Harold Brognola," Bolan replied unemotionally.
"Yeah. He told me he talked to you at Miami. Listen. Washington has an interest in this operation I'm on now. Brognola again. We discussed you briefly during our last contact. He said you made too many waves in New York. And Chicago was the final straw. A congressman from Illinois is really laying the pressure on the Justice Department. A couple of others, too, with plenty of clout. They're saying the FBI is dragging its heels on this deal, that they could've brought you in months ago if they'd really been trying."
Mildly, Bolan said, "You're not telling me anything new, and it's costing you too much. Go on back and lie down."
"No, listen," Lyons went on raggedly. "The mob is in high gear, too. They've got a Bolan watch on, nationwide — hell, worldwide I guess. Just waiting for you to pop up somewhere. Well, you've popped. This town will be crawling with headhunters before dawn, bet on it."
"I'd already bet on it," Bolan told him.
"Double the bets then. The Taliferos are personally leading the head parties."
"We've met before," Bolan pointed out.
"You're not the only guy who's learning, you know," the cop replied. "Those guys have been sieving through every step of ground you've covered, and licking their own wounds all the way. By now they probably know you better than you know yourself. And they want youi blood, Bolan."
"They'll have to take their place in line," Bolan replied, scowling.
"Not these guys," the cop insisted. "Even a Capo walks lightly around the Talifero brothers."
Bolan's scowl became a faint smile and he said, "Okay, I'll walk lightly too. Is that all you wanted to tell me?"
"No. Brognola says you can forget his offer."
"I forgot it a long time ago."