Bolan replied, "Sure. You guys hang loose. It's been, uh, like old times." "Sure has," Schwarz agreed. Blancanales whipped off a fat money-belt and thrust it at the Executioner. "The war chest," he said. "Not much gone. All I bought was the gear for Gadgets and the Corvette."
Bolan didn't even look at it. He growled, "Keep it. All I want is what I can carry in my pocket. I pick it up as I need it."
Schwarz grinned. "I guess your credit's always good, eh? How much have you banged the mob for, so far?"
Bolan smiled back. "Millions, I guess. Who counts? Easy come, easy go-right?"
"Well," Blancanales drawled, I guess we better...."
Bolan said, "Set yourselves up in business."
"What?"
"Use the war chest as a stake. Face it, you guys are living on the heartbeat, anyway. Eight? Make it pay."
"What sort of business?" Schwarz asked, interested.
"You'll think of something fitted to your talents." Bolan shrugged. "I can think of a couple right off the top. Industrial counter-intelligence. Large services to small nations. You've got the smarts. And if that's what you like best..."
The two men exchanged glances. A world of ideas met in that interchange of minds.
Blancanales said, "Just the same, if you ever need us ..."
Bolan grinned, shook their hands, and told them, "Split, will you? Keep the warwagon, Gadgets. I'll pick up another somewhere."
And that was the end of another brief partnership.
Blancanales and Schwarz trudged past the smouldering remains of the San Diego Siege, got into their vehicles, and headed west-into only God knew what.
Mack Bolan, forever the Executioner, the Executioner, pointed his Ferrari to the east. Somewhere over there was a U. S. highway ... and somewhere beyond that lay another hell called Philadelphia. pointed his Ferrari to the east. Somewhere over there was a U. S. highway ... and somewhere beyond that lay another hell called Philadelphia.
Howlin' Harlan, some nice people, and a fine old city he'd been glad to pass over, lay behind him.
Stretched out ahead was an infinity which the Executioner had come to think of as his "wipe-out trail" ... and an eternity which he had long ago identified as hell.
A guy would have to be insane to keep on with this.
But, then, he'd have to be dead not to.
Bolan grinned at the eastern horizon without humor, and, half-aloud, told himself, "Right on, man."
Philly was going to be a cold one.
-end-