Suddenly it was back, heeling in from the other direction, and Bolan's eye slid over onto the eyepiece and his trained finger waited for a target. A white-maned head appeared in the vision-field, clear enough for Bolan to read the bubbling excitement in the heavy-browed eyes, and then his finger did its part, the big gun bucked, and the excitement went out of white-head's eyes as the chatter of the machine gun once again took up the challenge.
"I can see him!" Pappas said excitedly. "They see him too. Hey! They've got a machine gun in that chopper!"
"Gimme those damn glasses!" Weatherbee commanded.
"Here- hell-don't even need glasses! Hell-this is like the TV reports on the Vietnam fighting."
"This ain't Vietnam, kiddo," Weatherbee murmured.
"Hell, who'd know it?"
"That son of a bitch. How about that son of a bitch?"
The heavy cra-ack of the Marlin came loud and clear above the other sounds, then the heavier staccato of the machine gun, punctuated thrice more by the Marlin's reply. The thump-whump of the whirling blades seemed to take on a different sound and the helicopter lurched and wheeled crazily, plainly visible in the light from the still-high flare.
"Well, Goddamn, I believe he hit 'em," Weatherbee breathed.
"Damn right, that chopper is falling!"
"The Executioner," Weatherbee said flatly, "has come through Armageddon."
The Executioner would not have been so quick to agree with Lieutenant Weatherbee's assessment of the battle. His shoulder wound had reopened and the blood was soaking his left side. He watched the chopper disappear into the trees, waited for the explosion and grunted when it came, then limped back over to his drop and fumbled about for the first-aid box. He'd done something to his ankle during that final skirmish, and now he could hear sounds above him, somewhere in the woods. He hastily folded in a gauze compress over the shoulder wound and limped into the shadow of a tree, leaving the Marlin behind and wishing the damn flare would hurry and burn itself out.
Someone was coming down the hillside, obviously trying to be both quiet and quick, and the twain would never meet, not in these woods. A rock the size of a baseball was dislodged and came bounding down the slope to crash into a tree several feet from where Bolan stood. Moments later Leo Turrin hove into view, panting with exertion and tension, the cords of his neck standing out plainly above the V-necked polo shirt.
"Bolan?" he called softly. "Bolan, are you there?"
Bolan shook his head sorrowfully. "Will you never learn, Leo?" he asked, stepping out from behind the tree, the.45 out and ready.
"Goddamn I'm glad you're all right," Turrin declared fervently. "I came over to tell you about the helicopter, but damnit I couldn't find you."
"Who the hell you trying to kid?" Bolan asked, his tone clearly one of disgusted amazement.
Turrin held his hands straight out in front of his body and carefully sat on the ground. "Shit, I gotta give up cigarettes," he said. "I can hardly breathe."
"You gotta give up more than cigarettes, kid," Bolan told him.
"Can I take off one shoe?"
Bolan's shoulder was beginning to burn maddeningly. "Is that your last request?" he asked impatiently.
"Yeah, yeah, call it my last request. Can I take it off?"
The flare was growing dim and was beginning to disappear over the horizon of trees. Bolan moved closer and dropped to one knee, the.45-held grimly forward. "If you've been trying to delay me into darkness, you can forget it already," he said.
Turrin had the shoe off and was peeling out the insole. He withdrew a small plasticized rectangle and proffered it to Bolan. "Look at this first, will you?" he asked quietly.
Bolan studied the small card in the dying light of the flare, trying to keep one eye on his captive while doing so. Then he chuckled and returned the card. "You know how close you've been to being a dead undercover man?" he said.
"Shit, I've said so many prayers I'm about to get religion again," Turrin replied, smiling broadly.
"You not interested in arresting me?" Bolan asked whimsically. His fingers moved to the wound and pressed hard against the compress. The.45 remained steady in the weakening arm.
"I have no jurisdiction on this side of the canyon," Turrin said, still smiling. "God, did you unload on those bastards! Is there anything left for the law?"
"I doubt it," Bolan said. Another thought was forming in his mind. "About my sister, Leo..."
"I'm guilty," Turrin said matter-of-factly. 'It's part of my cover, of course. God, I feel like hell about those kids, kids like your sister. I tried to make it easy on them -you know-steer them into good dates their first few times out, but-well-I've been a lot of years into this case, Sarge. There are more important things than individual haywire kids. I just hope you can understand that."
"I can understand it," Bolan said tightly. "Okay. Get on back up the hill, and give my regards to the missus. Oh-by the way, Leo. These hot flashes I've been getting by way of Weatherbee. They come from you?"
Turrin nodded his head soberly. "And all the time you've been trying to toast my ass off."
"Hell, you should have gotten word to me," Bolan said grudgingly.
"There's just one thing I hold against you, Sarge," Turrin declared, his face going into a deep scowl. "I guess I'll never forgive you for tipping my wife. Now I'm going to have a worried female on my neck all the time, all the damn time."
"That's the only kind to have," Bolan said softly. He was thinking of another worrier, and he did not like the feel of his own blood trickling down his side. "Get on up the hill now. I have to blow this place."
Turrin slipped the shoe back onto his foot, stood up and tossed Bolan a military salute, and disappeared into the enfolding woods. Bolan grunted and moved painfully down the slope, back to his drop, and retrieved a few personally prized items, made another attempt to staunch the flow of blood from the old wound, then descended slowly to the canyon floor below.
Automobiles were racing around up topside on both sides of the canyon, and Bolan knew that the police were closing in to seal off the area and to pick up the pieces. A horse whinnied off to Bolan's right, and with a bravado born of bleeding desperation he called: "Over here. Hey! Over here!"
He stepped into a flowering bush and waited, and a moment later was rewarded by the appearance of a walking man with a horse in tow. Bolan smacked the.45 against the deputy's head and seized the reins, hoisted himself aboard, and headed out across the canyon. Day would be breaking in less than an hour. There wasn't much time to get back home to his worried woman. He knew he wouldn't make it all the way on the horse. All he wanted now was distance, and a little time, and a lot of luck. Maybe he would not be ingested this time, after all. Victory was not sweet for The Executioner. Victory was a burning shoulder and a nauseous gut and an ache in the heart for the tender woman who waited. But, at least, he had not been ingested yet.
9 - The Victory
Bolan awoke with a start and gazed up into the deep brown pools of Valentina's eyes.