"Thirty minutes."
"Yeah, all right, I get the message."
Bolan rested one big hand on Leo's shoulder. "Watch yourself."
"Let's try, 'I'll see you later.'"
"Sure."
He closed the station wagon door, waited for a taxi and a family sedan to pass before he crossed the street. The park was green, inviting, but the Executioner could not suppress a certain apprehension. It could be a jungle as easily as it could be a playground, and he knew that Leo could be right. The marshals might be waiting for him, riflemen positioned for effective cross-fire. It would be so easy, if the President had set him up.
No altruist, the soldier still believed in certain basic values. Duty. Justice. Honor. And responsibility. Those ancient concepts had determined Bolan's course of action when he had returned from Vietnam to find his family in ruins. Those same ideals had brought him back to Washington, the scene of other conflicts in his neverending war, and they would keep him here until his job was finished — or until somebody dropped him with a well-placed bullet.
It could go either way, right now or in the coming hours. Bolan knew the odds, and he had been prepared for death since his arrival in the Southeast Asian hellgrounds. Nothing that had happened since had shaken his resolve to see his duty through.
But there were other duties, too. Responsibilities to friends, and to the country that had nurtured him. His parents had deserted other homelands for the shining promise of America, had borne their children here, and they had seen their dreams turn into dust, the promise nullified by savages who lived outside the law. Mack Bolan had a duty to that dream, to generations yet unborn, and he would serve their cause with every fiber of his being.
His meeting with the President was an unwelcome interruption of the soldier's newest life-and-death campaign. Each moment counted now, for Hal Brognola's family. But Hal had called the play and seemed intent on going through with his end of the bargain. Bolan would accommodate his friend to a point, but the Executioner did not believe that anything would come of his discussion with the chief of state. They understood each other well enough, and neither of them would be able to back down, reject his own responsibilities in favor of a compromise.
The President was not Mack Bolan's enemy, per se. He had responded to the Stony Man debacle with restraint, compassion and a willingness to see the Phoenix Program forge ahead once the battle smoke had cleared. It had not been the President's idea for Bolan to sever all — or almost all — official ties. The Executioner had simply realized that he could not wage war effectively beneath the government umbrella, bound to systems and superiors that made his lightning war a clumsy juggernaut.
Early in his war against the Mafia, the media had spoken of Mack Bolan as a "one-man army." There were implications that he thrived on loneliness, existed for the thrill of battle and sustained himself, like Dracula, on the blood of fallen enemies. The truth was rather different, but in one respect, the media reports were accurate. He fought a one-man war — when and where he could — and there had been no room for armies of supporting personnel in Bolan's scheme of things. The vision of an army at his back had been intoxicating, coming off his long last mile against the Mafia and reeling from a week of constant contact with the enemy, and he could not deny the victories that had been captured by the Phoenix Project. Neither could he venture to deny the costs. From the initiation of his private war, the soldier's greatest fear had been the sacrifice of allies who enlisted in his fight. The bloody roster haunted Bolan's dreams. So many lives cut short in pursuit of one man's own quixotic quest. How many times had Bolan sworn off the enlistment of another ally in his war? How many times had brutal circumstances forced him to recant that pledge? The list of dead and wounded, from his first campaign in California to the Stony Man disaster, was as long as Bolan's strong right arm. There had been others since his exit from the program, might be more before the day was out, but now the soldier had some measure of control regarding those who joined his war.
The men of Phoenix Force and Able Team, secure and satisfied beneath the wing of Phoenix, had elected to remain and fight their battles from within the system. Bolan could respect their stand, remembering that it had been his own not long ago, but there were always choices to be made. And for Mack Bolan, the decision had been simple, inescapable, inevitable. He was meant to wage his war on private terms, according to the rules established by his enemies.
The Secret Service agents met him fifty yards inside the park. There were three of them, all Robert Redford lookalikes in charcoal suits and mirrored aviator glasses, wearing tiny microphones like hearing aids. The flankers both held mini-Uzi submachine guns underneath their coats and took no pains to hide the weapons from Bolan. Their companion and apparent leader stood before him empty-handed, but his jacket was unbuttoned, granting easy access to the Magnum handgun nestled beneath one arm.
The soldier waited while they frisked him, examined the contents of his pockets and exchanged cautious glances when they found the empty shoulder rigging.
"You alone?"
Bolan smiled. "It looks that way."
If they were watching the perimeters they would have spotted Leo, marked him for an easy drop if he attempted to approach the meeting point or otherwise encroach upon the park. If they were unaware of him, it was not Bolan's job to point him out.
The leader stepped back and spoke into a small transmitter clipped to his lapel. A moment passed before he got his answer, and then he nodded to the gunners flanking Bolan.
"It's all right," he told them, turning toward the Executioner. "Let's go."
The gunners stayed behind, securing their backtrack, while the odd man out proceeded eastward, leading Bolan through some hedges, down a grassy slope, to intersect a narrow, curving drive. A limousine was waiting for them there, with three more 'Robert Redfords' standing watch around it. Bolan recognized the model at a glance, but there was something missing, and it took a moment for him to decide precisely what was lacking from the picture.
Presidential seals.
The limo's occupant was incognito, and while any resident of Washington would recognize the Secret Service escort at a glance, there were too many limousines in town for this one to attract undue attention on the highway. With the tinted windows, standard plates and lack of fender-mounted flags, the vehicle might have belonged to any diplomat or wealthy politician in the District.
Bolan let himself relax a fraction. If the Man had meant to have him taken out on sight, there would have been more gunners in the trees, and he would never have survived this far. He felt the agents watching him, their fingers itching for the draw, but he ignored them, willed his knotted stomach to unwind. It was a simple sit-down.
Except that he would be unarmed, conversing with the President of the United States, surrounded by the palace guard.
The nearest agent cut in front of Bolan, reaching out to catch the door and open it, retreating as the soldier slipped inside the limousine. A sidelong glance through soundproof glass revealed another agent in the driver's seat, eyes forward, both hands planted firmly on the wheel. Beside him, also facing forward, was a slender, nondescript accountant-type, a heavy briefcase resting on his lap.
"My bag man, so to speak." The President was smiling, but the smile was strained. "I can't leave home without him."
"Mr. President."
"Good evening, Colonel... no, I guess it isn't Colonel Phoenix, is it? Well, good evening, in any case."
Outside, the shadows had begun to lengthen among the trees, but there was still an hour or more of daylight left. Inside Mack Bolan's head, the doomsday clock was ticking, and he longed to be about his business in the capital.