"I'll settle for a hint," the fed told the big man in black.
Bolan lit a cigarette and took a deep pull at it, exhaling the smoke with a tired sigh. Then he gave the fed his "hint" for the day. "A STOL aircraft was observed attempting a rendezvous with a large yacht fifty miles off the coast. Funny thing happened, though. It suddenly burst into flames and fell into the sea several miles short of its goal. No way could there have been any survivors."
Brognola lit a fresh cigar while he assimilated that bit of intelligence. "Strange things do happen," he commented after a moment. "How, uh, how'd you get that?"
Bolan smiled thinly, dropped his cigarette to the ground, and crushed it beneath his foot. "Grimaldi told me."
Brognola nervously shifted his weight and said, "He, uh you, uh...."
Bolan said, "Yeah. We thought it would be a good idea if he flew a bit of coastal cover during all this. He, uh, borrowed an F-16. You know, any eventuality."
The fed chuckled and stepped into his vehicle. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about," he said cheerily. "My official report is going to say that all mission goals were fully met."
"Or exceeded," Bolan suggested. "You could say that."
And, yeah, you could say that.