"Tell me about it," Bolan said. The tiredness in his voice was gone as Brognola confirmed his suspicions.

Bolan had seen something out there in the snow he didn't like. If there was a chance it could happen again, he wanted to do something about it.

Damn right.

"What I've got," Brognola said, patting the stack of folders on the desk, "is proof positive. A dozen incidents at a dozen different locations, hundreds of miles apart, all nuclear installations. The statistical odds against any one of them being accidental are enormous. And when you figure the odds on all twelve, well..."

"Hal, we don't have time for a math lesson. I know probability theory. What are the particulars? What's going on? Who's behind it?"

"That's where we've run up against a brick wall, Mack. We know what, but we don't really know who. We can guess. You can, too, I think. But what we need is the goods. We need to make a case, and make damn sure it will stick. We want these bastards handled, and we don't much care how. Or by whom."

Bolan jerked forward, then stopped as Brognola waved a hand.

"No. I know what you're thinking, but no. The President hasn't given me specific authorization to put you on this thing. But he sure as hell knows I will. And," Brognola said, winking broadly, "he didn't tell me not to."

"That's it?" Bolan asked.

"Best I can do, Mack. Sorry."

Sorry. It seemed to Bolan he'd heard it a thousand times since Stony Man. He was good enough to do their dirty work for them. Oh, yeah. Just as long as he didn't tell them about it. He was a back-door man, somebody your servants dealt with.

Take what he's selling, just don't let him in the parlor. That was for polite company only.

He'd seen it all before-during the Mafia wars. Nobody wanted to acknowledge him then, either.

Oh, sure, some did — a good cop here and there, a grateful citizen now and again. But everybody else said, "Do what you can. Just don't bleed on the rug. Not my rug." And Mack Bolan did it. He did his job.