It was Mack Bolan, that same face that had grinned at him so winningly and framed the words: "Let's see, it's John Holzer, isn't it?"
Yeah, and even at that it was better than meatballs and spaghetti in upchuck.
But the vision was not holding to the script. What it was saying was, "Don't move. Stay calm. I'll get you out."
Shit! No flashback!"
The goddamn guy was out there, in the flesh.
Holzer tried his own mouth and found it working. And, of course, it came up with something appropriately stupid. "How'd you get here so quick, Stryker?"
"Just happened along," the big, cool bastard replied. "Listen now. It's a bad situation. The windshield has come down on you. There's a jagged edge poised right at your jugular vein. I can't move it. The roof is buckled in. The gas tank could go any minute. If I raise that roof, you're liable to get it in the neck. If I don't raise it, you're sure to either fry or fly. So I've got to raise it. Soon as you can get your hands free, protect your throat all you can."
"Got you," Holzer said, surprising himself with his own detachment. "How're you going to raise it?
"The only way I know," the guy said.
And then he was in there with Holzer, on hands and knees in that wreckage. Holzer could see the veins popping in the guy's neck, could almost feel the surge of vital juices flowing into challenged muscles as the guy groaned and strained to straighten himself.
"Watch it!" the guy grunted.
And then John Holzer felt the impossible occurring, the roof moving off of him, an arm loosening — and the guy strained on.
"It's coming," Holzer whispered. "Hold it ... wait! ... my throat — ungh — okay, got it. Shit, man, let's go."
Thinking back on it, Holzer realized what a fantastic feat it had been; at the moment it seemed as easy as smoothing a piece of rumpled Reynold's Wrap.
Suddenly the guy had him by the armpits, tugging him loose, pulling him free, grunting and damning and dragging in a mad frenzy — and then it went, the gas tank.
The heat from that towering fireball singed the hairs of Holzer's head, and all he could do was lie there and grunt, aware of being alive and thankful.
A hoarse voice close to his ear whispered, "Spit in her eye, Holzer."
The message did not register at first; he was transfixed by the staggering proximity and undeniable majesty of flaming death. When he did turn groggy eyes toward he sound of that voice, here was no one there.
He began crawling, and he called out, "Stryker! Are you okay? Stryker!"
That was when the sergeant from East Detroit came running up. "Oh, Jesusl" the cop yelled. "Is anybody in there?"
"Just John Holzer," Holzer replied. "I'll be in there for the rest of my life, amen."
"Who was that you were yelling for? Who was with you?"
Holzer struggled to his feet, surprised that he could stand. His hands were cut where he had grabbed the shattered windshield — but the damage was negligible and seemed to be his only visible injury.
"Who was with you?" the East Detroit cop yelled again.
"God," Holzer mumbled. "God was with me, man."
22
Fulfilled
Dumb? Dumb screaming providence, that's what it was!
She had hesitated for one frozen moment, the image of Bolan strong upon her peaking perceptions of this possibly final glimpse of life — hesitated... then again plunged the accelerator to full stomp and leaned into the wheel with everything she had.
The car leapt the curb at full throttle, becoming airborne momentarily, the rear end heeling over and striking the front corner of the armored vehicle, then swinging wildly out of that impact — pivoting while poised on front wheels only, the transmission freed and whining in full rev.
Then the rear wheels slammed into soft lawn and the wild gallop resumed, totally out of control now, goaded on by the unrelenting pressure of a tiny foot upon a willing accelerator — a mustang snorting its defiance against entrapment, rearing and pawing the earth in a plunging circle toward certain doom.
She was into the house before she saw it, crashing through boards and glass and plaster, pushing couches and chairs and draperies ahead — and, sure, it was like a mad dream of a crazy women's libber — FUCK HOUSEWORK in ten-foot flaming letters on a poster no artist could draw.
She briefly experienced the sensation of flight and knew that she had been flung from the belly of the arrested beast.
And she found herself in bed beside a startled elderly man who kept croaking, "What? What? What?"
Toby muttered, "You're dreaming, go back to sleep."
Her back hurt, and as she scrambled away from there, she felt like an oversized Raggedy Ann — all flopping legs and arms — but she seemed to be moving fairly well, so she kept going.
Through the shattered wall she could see cops in riot togs moving cautiously forward, while another cop, out of her range of vision, was insisting, "A woman, I'm telling you. Or a blond hippy. I saw the occupant clear as ..."
Toby was moving swiftly in the opposite direction, giving not a damn about how clearly the officer had seen her.
She let herself out the back door and ran across the yard, hurtled a low fence, dashing through the adjoining property and emerging on the next street east at full flight.
She did not stop running until she saw the bulk of that familiar vehicle parked in the alleyway several blocks along, though her belly was busting and her lungs were afire.
Her first reaction to sighting the war wagon was one of elation, but that disappeared under the immediate onslaught of a new anxiety.
Why was it still there?
He should have been miles away by now!
She slowed to a walk, clutching tortured sides in crossed arms and struggling for breath, and when she reached the vehicle she crumbled to the ground and wailed, "Well, damn it, just damn it!"
A gruff voice from the darkness commanded, "Off your tail, and on your feet, partner."
Yeah, sure, it was her guy — in one piece but slightly frayed here and there — a tail burnt off his coat and blood on his hands, but, God, what a big, beautiful bastard he was.
"What kept you, Captain Tortoise?" she panted. "That was a hell of a long two minutes!"
He picked her up and carried her into the van, placed her on the bunk, and tenderly inspected her parts.
"Damn it, Toby," he said solemnly. "Just damn it."
"I'm all present and accounted for, sir. Aren't I?"
"You sure are," he said.
Yes, she sure was. But the warrior wasn't.
"Captain Tearful!" she cried in genuine surprise and flowing concern, viewing his face clearly for the first time since the reunion — and she pulled the man's head onto her breast and held him there.
"Go ahead," she crooned. "Let it out, let it go."
"Can't," he muttered in a choked voice. "Guess I'm just not man enough yet."
Even so, it was cosmic magic — of a different sort. And Toby the Lady Fed had never felt more a woman.
23
Promised
Toby drove while Bolan changed into combat rig. They talked through the opening between cab and van.
"How were things in 1492?" she inquired with forced lightness.
"Enlightening," he replied. "And ominous."
"Well, how about giving a girl some ominous enlightenment."
"If I tell you at all, Toby, I have to tell it all. I don't know how to color it."
She cast a dark glance over her shoulder. "I've never asked you for colors."
He cinched up the black suit and gave it to her straight. "Crazy Sal sentenced Georgette to fifty days in the chamber."