She said, "Leaving without saying goodbye, Captain Chicken?"
"Did you come all the way out here just to say it?"
She wrapped an arm inside his as she replied, "No. I thought I'd give you one last chance."
"At what?"
"At me. You don't really have anywhere to go tonight, do you?"
His regret was genuine.
"I'm afraid so. Maybe there will be another time, Toby."
"Probably not," she replied spiritedly. "Well okay. Don't say I never offered. Uh, the others send their love. Carl got his call. He'll be meeting with Copa at midnight."
"Good. That's good."
"You're quite a guy. Know that?"
"Thanks. You're quite a gal."
"All's forgiven, then?"
"What's to forgive? We did the job, didn't we?"
She said, "I mean-well, you know. My mouth doesn't always have it together. And I go a little crazy sometimes. It's the damn work, I guess."
Yes. Bolan guessed that was true.
"And to tell the pure truth, Mack-I guess I couldn't get Georgette off my mind. That crazy night in Detroit. You know."
Sure. Bolan knew.
"I was afraid you were going to find Carl or Smiley like-like you found Georgette. I knew you'd go crazy if you did."
Maybe so, yeah.
"And that's why I was so uptight. You know I love you. And you know that I worry about you."
No, he had not known that.
He said, "Toby-"
"No, don't say anything. Nothing obligatory. I just wanted to… apologize."
Bolan grinned. "Must have been damned hard."
She smiled back. "Damned right."
He took her in his arms and kissed her; slowly, thoroughly; it was a very warm embrace. Certainly he knew where all of her was at. And he told her, "There'll be other times, Toby."
"I know there will," she whispered. "Take care of all that beauty, huh?"
He said, "You too."
She faded quickly, then, like so many of Mack Bolan's dreams.
He was still looking at the spot where she'd stood when a heavy voice from the wall of the building declared, "She nearly nailed you that time, Striker. It was getting downright embarrassing."
The man who stepped from the shadows looked more like a Wall Street executive than what he really was: the ranking cop in the country, the one and only Harold Brognola, chief of the U.S. government's official war against crime.
Bolan shook a warm hand as he said, "Fancy finding you here. You're a bit late. It's all over."
Brognola grinned with the reply: "I've been here longer than you. Which says something for your methods, I guess."
"I got lucky."
"Baloney. Luck is something we make for ourselves. You make it all, guy. We thank you."
Bolan said, "You didn't go to all this trouble just to tell me that."
"Course not. I thought I'd offer you an overview."
"Of what?"
"You know how it is when you're wandering through a forest? How all the trees look alike. I thought I'd give you a late picture of the forest."
"Okay."
"We don't think you've seen it lately."
"Seen what?"
"The forest. It's looking cleaner now than at any time in recent history. Thanks to you, mostly. The whole thing is coming unglued, Striker. Ever since New York. That really hurt them. They've lost faith in themselves. And there goes the quote organization unquote. They're scared, disoriented, afraid to trust anybody. And not a soul in Wonderland is reluctant to give you full credit for all that."
Bolan said, "Okay. Thanks for the vote. And thanks for the overview. But let's get to the bottom line. What are you really telling me?"
"We think maybe you broke their backs completely here in Tennessee. Or, that is, you've provided us with the tools to break them finally, forever."
"I can't buy that, Hal. These guys are a long way from finished."
"Sure. That's true. But it's coming apart under them. This is the overview we're trying to give you. Let me put it in your own language: we've just landed at Omaha Beach. The rest is preordained."
Bolan chuckled as he told the fed, "You wouldn't be forgetting the Battle of the Bulge or any of that good stuff."
"Like I said, though, it's preordained. The rest is pure mop-up."
"I hope you're right," Bolan said. "So where is that bottom line?"
"We have a consensus that-you shouldn't be wasting-you're too effective a soldier to be wasting your talents on a mop-up. Other people can do that, just as well. Maybe better. There's larger work waiting for you."
"Where?"
"Just look around. The Mob isn't the only devil loose in the land."
"Bottom line, Hal."
The chief fed sighed. "Hear it out. Don't jump at me. I've, uh, again been authorized to make you an offer. It includes full, official forgiveness and total remission of sins. And a freehand."
"How free?"
"As free as it can get under our form of government. You'll report directly to the National Security Council. You will-"
"That's no good, Hal. Sorry."
"I asked you to hear me out, dammit. I report to the NSC, you know. What that means, bottom line, is that I report to the President. Okay. Unruffle a bit. What it boils down to is a new chair at NSC. That new chair is your chair if you want it."
"I'd make a lousy bureaucrat."
"So do I. So what? I don't play their damn games, do I?"
Bolan chuckled. "What's the name of that chair?"
Brognola hesitated a moment for a bit of dramatic play, then replied sotto vase, "Sensitive Operations."
It was Bolan's turn to hesitate, but not from any dramatic considerations. He said, "SOG Chief, eh?"
"You've got it. But it's a brand new chair with its own authority. Equal to mine. What d'you say?"
"I say it sounds interesting. If everything you've said is true."
"I wouldn't shit you, guy."
No, Bolan did not believe that he would. He said, "Let me think it some."
"You would undergo an entire alteration of identity. But that should be a snap for you. And we've got the most bewildering damned problems facing us. We need-you're the man-I don't know anyone else could fill the job. And think of the positives. It would get what's left of the Mob off your ass. Not to mention a million or so cops."
"What kind of problems?"
"Huh?"
"You said bewildering problems."
"Oh, hell. Pick them from the hat. International terrorism, for one. Political intrigues in emerging nations-there's one that can spread to infinity. Sensitive military operations. Special diplomatic missions. You'd get the full territory."
"I couldn't sit at a desk, Hal."
"You won't have a desk, buddy."
"I'd have to pick my own key people." "Naturally."
"You think the Mob is about finished, eh?"
Brognola squeezed his neck as he replied, "More or less, yeah. We'd expect you to, uh, keep on top of any resurrections in that area, of course. And, look, you're going to find echoes of the Mob in everything you touch. It's the same war, guy, the same kind of enemy. You haven't been fighting people, you know. You've been fighting a condition."
Yeah, Bolan knew that. He said, "Let me think it, Hal."
The fed shoved a thin briefcase at him. "The particulars are in here. After you've read it, burn it. Then sift the ashes and burn it again. Let me have your decision within twenty-four hours."
Bolan accepted the briefcase, gave the guy a solemn smile, then turned away and walked toward the waiting plane.
SOG Chief, eh?
A new identity. A new life. Maybe even a new hope. Like a reprieve and a restart.
And end to the bloody last mile?
It was, yeah, a hell of an interesting offer. And he would think it some. Very carefully.
About Don Pendleton
Don Pendleton (December 12, 1927-October 23, 1995) was a pulp fiction and mystery writer, best known for the creation of American hero Mack Bolan. The series made the men's action-adventure genre popular in the 1960s and 70s, and got him the nickname "the father of action adventure".
Pendleton served in the U.S. Navy during World War II, serving in all theaters of the war. His enlistment ended in November of 1947. He returned to active duty in 1952 during the Korean War and served until 1954. He worked as a telegrapher for the Southern Pacific Railroad until 1957, and then as an air traffic control specialist for the Federal Aviation Administration. In the 1960s, he worked for Martin Marietta on the Titan missile program. He later served as an engineering administrator at NASA during the Apollo missions. Pendleton also worked on the C-5 Galaxy transport aircraft program.