"That's the problem," Bolan answered softly. "I'd be losing ground."
"Goddammit, you'd be losing all those wanted flyers, and the bounty on your head. You'd have protection from the government..."
"Like last time?"
There was sudden bitterness in Bolan's voice. The President looked pained, but did not flinch from Bolan's stare.
"You know what happened there as well as I do. It was unforeseeable, an aberration."
Bolan nodded.
"Like the move against Hal's family. Like Cartwright's team surviving Farnsworth and continuing to run Clandestine Operations for the Company.''
"I'm looking into that right now. It's top priority. If any of the bastards made it through last night, I'll personally supervise their prosecution.''
"Fine. And next time?"
"What? Why should there be a next time?"
Bolan smiled.
"There's always been a next time, sir. And always will be. Humans being what they are, you can't expect to operate without corruption and betrayal."
"Hell, if everyone was perfect, we'd be out of work," the President replied. "All three of us. But since they're not, God knows we need a man like you on our side."
"I've been on it all along."
"And your objection is?"
"Too many strings," the soldier told him flatly. "When you buy the license, you accept its limitations. I can't work that way. Not anymore."
"And how long do you think you can last alone?"
"I never gamble on tomorrow," Bolan answered.
"Dammit!" But the chief executive could see that he was beaten. "If you ever change your mind..."
"You'll be the first to know," the Executioner assured him, reaching for the door handle as the armored limo coasted to a stop beside his waiting rental car.
"God keep."
"And you, sir."
Bolan closed the door upon Brognola and his boss, already moving out before the driver dropped it into gear and pulled away. For half a second he was tempted to run after them, to call them back, and then the moment passed. He was alone. Again.
It was the price of everlasting war, this solitary vigil on the fringes of society. Before the day was out they would be hunting him again, on orders of the President, with Hal Brognola theoretically in charge of the pursuit. It mattered literally that the huntsmen had no spirit for the game; their gunners in the field would not be conscious of the reticence in Washington, nor would they falter if they found an opportunity to bag their prey.
Survival day-to-day had always been the name of Bolan's game. He had already sampled government security and found it lacking. Worse yet, he knew that once beneath the federal umbrella he would be constrained in choice of targets, limited in his ability to strike at will, against the cannibals who mattered most.
The enemy was constantly in flux yet never-changing. At the heart of it, where Bolan lived and fought, his opposition was the same as it had been in Vietnam, in Pittsfield, from the early days of his impossible crusade against the Mafia. The enemy was evil man, the cannibal who preyed upon his gentle neighbors day by everlasting day.
And Bolan's answer to the human predators today, tomorrow and forever was the cleansing fire, strategically applied, without a host of bureaucrats to second-guess his moves.
It was the only way to fight a war. The only way to final victory, if any such existed in the universe.
"And how long do you think you can last alone?"
Not long, perhaps. Until this afternoon, perhaps tomorrow.
Long enough to strike another blow against the cannibals.
But not in Washington.
He could feel the heat already, and the soldier didn't plan to be around when it intensified. Safe passage had been guaranteed, provided that he took advantage of it now.
The Executioner was finished with his work in Wonderland. His enemies were waiting for him elsewhere, everywhere, and he did not intend to keep them waiting long.