Shortly before his entry into Chicago, he penned this thought in his personal journal: "... it's going to be a wipe-out... them or me. I have lost the ability to judge the value of all this. But I'm convinced that it matters, somewhere, which side wins. It matters to the universe. I consign my fate to the needs of the universe."
A man's character ishis fate. The same could be said of a city, or of a nation.
But what sortof man would willingly and alone walk into The Chicago Wipe-Out!
Whatever else he might be, Mack Bolan, The Executioner, is that sort of man.
1
The challenge
In a matter of seconds, Bolan knew, the Chicago War would be on. The face in his crosshairs was the one he had been patiently awaiting for two hours on this crisp winter afternoon beside Lake Michigan. Faces had come and gone through the hairs of the 20-power, but this was the one he had wanted. Once it might have been handsome, or at least it might have possessed a potential for comeliness. Now it showed the indelible tracings of an inner rot, of power and greed too long unrestrained — a face that had seen death and brutality and atrocity far too many times to remain comely in the mirror of humanity — and, yes, this was a face to launch the War for Chicago.
For a second The Executionerhesitated. Some deep uneasiness over this hit was gnawing for a quick mental review of the situation. Two days of patient and cautious recon had failed to produce any intelligence which would dissuade him from making the strike at this particular time and place. The big lakeshore estate was reasonably secluded. There was no evidence of a hardset defense — the staff of this Mafia jointappeared both modest and relaxed — a small force of hardmen.