Could, hell.
He had to.
Any other course of action or inaction would amount to nothing more than a contempt for life.
Things were always in the saddle. The ride had something to do with that same cosmic magic that Bolan had contemplated an eternity or so ago with Toby Ranger in his arms. A guy could honor the ride — and gallop off into his own destiny — or he could try to throw the rider and slink back to a safe stable.
Eugene O'Neill once had a very similar thought.
"Contentment is a warm sty for eaters and sleepers."
It had been a long time since Mack Bolan had known contentment. He did not seek it now.
He would ride the good ride, wherever it might lead.
Let Death watch.
The Executioner was saddled and ready.
"Pete's sake!" Toby exclaimed. "This blooming truck is a rolling arsenal."
"Right, and she's going along for the ride," Bolan replied. "I want you to use the vehicle I came in. It's hot, so be careful."
"Great," she said. "With everything else, all I need now is to get caught with a stolen car."
"Worse," he said, smiling. "It's a police car. And they're onto me. So stay off the radio. I believe they're rolling around with direction finders."
Toby's eyes were wide, wondering. "You are the damnedest..."
Bolan laughed softly and told her, "I want you to run a little diversion for me." He pulled her into the van section and placed her in front of a large city map that was taped to the wall. His finger traced the line marking the division between Wayne and Macomb Counties at the northern boundary of Grosse Pointe Woods, then circled a specific point.
"That's where?" she asked.
"That's where. This street, this block."
"What is that?"
He said quietly, "Look again."
"Well, it's just..." Her breath drew in sharply. "What are those red numbers? The house numbering system?"
"Right."
She said, "Fourteen-ninety."
"Uh huh. And the house we're interested in carries the number 1492. Second house on the right, running north."
"Well, I'll be ..."
Bolan said, "Strange, isn't it?"
"I figured the number had to do with — it couldn't be a coincidence. Could it?"
He sighed and squeezed her shoulders. "I decided a long time ago, Toby. There's no such thing as coincidence in this magic-ridden old world. The man who lives at 1492 is, I think, our key to Georgette. I need to get in there and find out for sure."
"He's home now?"
Bolan nodded. "Holed up is the word. Hasn't budged out of there all day."
"So what are we waiting for?"
"The house is staked out. Two cars. One just north and across from the house, another around the corner and down the side street about a half-block east."
Toby was squinting at the map in the semidarkness.
Bolan flipped on a battery-powered lantern.
She said, "Okay, I see it. What do you want me to do?'
"I want you to drive that hot car in there."
"Oh, wow. Right up to the house, eh?"
"Yeah. But do it cute. Tie something about your head so that blonde hair doesn't show. Don't give them a good look at you. Turn off your headlamps as you're approaching, and leave them off. Roll quietly into the driveway and just sit there."
"What kind of driveway?"
"Crescent, about fifty feet long, circling in off the road."
She sighed. "Roll in and just sit there."
"Right."
"How long?"
"Long enough to get me quietly inside." He tapped the map. "I'll be coming in from back here. I'll leave the war wagon here and go on by foot. From the time you turn onto that street, I'll need about two minutes. So you've got to cute it for at least that long."
"Okay. I can do that. You want me to roll in past the side street stake-out."
"Right. I want them both to see you."
"You want them to catch me."
He squeezed her shoulders again. "I don't want them to shoot you, Toby. When they begin closing, the game is up. There's an element of risk. This is a Mad Dog alert."
"Yes, I know," she murmured.
"When they close, call out to them. Let them have a good look at you. From then on, it's your game. I guess you know the best way to play it."
"Sure," she said, still staring at the map.
He said, "Okay. Let's move."
"Mack..."
"Yeah?"
"Do you believe there's any chance that Georgette — that she — could she be in that house, alive?"
He told her, "The world is full of magic, Toby."
"Yes, I — okay, let's go."
She whirled and grabbed him, arms encircling his neck, lips at his ear. "Stay alive," she whispered.
"Name of the game," he muttered lightly.
"If Georgette is already lost — if she's — it's not a smart trade, Captain Cocky. Don't bury yourself in her grave."
"Who's cocky?" he quietly replied. "If you have a better plan, I'm all ears."
"It's a long shot, isn't it."
"In this game, Toby, they all are. You know that."
"Sure. Sure. Well ..."
He sighed and asked her, "You're not still dreaming of green pastures?"
She shivered, "Why not? I still belong to the human race."
"Right," he said. "That's why we have to get moving, Toby."
"Thanks for reminding me." She released him, swiped angrily at moist cheeks, and stepped outside.
Night had fallen. The atmosphere was still, oppressive, brooding.
Bolan followed her out, and they synchronized watches, all taut business once again. "Follow me to the neighborhood," he instructed her. "Stay about a block behind, but keep me in sight. I'll start my move two blocks west of target. You go it alone from that point, and you hit that drive precisely on the hour."
"Will do," she murmured. Then: "How and where do we rejoin?"
He said, "You kidding? You expect to talk your way clear?"
She said, "They have to catch me first."
Bolan stepped back and growled, "It's scrubbed."
"Oh, damn it! Down, Captain Gruff. I won't do anything dumb. But don't underestimate the jaw power of a lady fed. Now, where do we rejoin?"
He told her, in a flat and level tone, "Toby, it's a Mad Dog. Don't give them any reason whatever to start jerking triggers."
"How about the apartment? Okay?"
She was giving him the winsome smile, working him — and he knew it. He bunched his shoulders, growled something unintelligible, then said, "Okay. It's your game, too, Toby. The apartment's okay. Just don't bring a flock of badges with you."
"Just get yourself back there," she growled in the same harsh tone.
He lifted her off her feet, very solemnly kissed her, put her down, spun her around, and sent her off with a gentle slap on the bottom.
Then he climbed into the war wagon and went rolling into the jungle. It was a human jungle, the worst kind of all, filled with cannibals and head-hunters of every stripe and persuasion, patrolled by game wardens with ready guns who knew all the drops and preserves and poachers — and, yeah, at such times even Mack Bolan gave a thought or two to greener pastures.
But, he knew, green pastures were for the dead.
Warm sties and safe stables were no place to live the worthy life. There was no cosmic sprawl in such places, no magic worth pursuing.
Bolan's destiny lay in that uncertain sprawl that some men called hell. Bolan called it life. And he would live it, to the final gasp.