No way.

Bolan never failed when it really counted. But Brognola couldn't help but wonder where he was.

As if tired of the unspoken question, the Executioner stepped into the office, still wearing his arctic whites.

He crossed the room quietly and sat wearily on the edge of a sofa across from the desk. Brognola waited a moment. When Bolan said nothing, the big Fed prompted him.

"Well?"

"Your intel was sound."

"And? Come on, man, don't make me pry it out of you. What happened?"

"Somebody planned to blow one of the high-level waste tanks."

"Well?"

"They didn't make it." Bolan sounded tired.

Whether it was from the night's work or the nature of his business, Brognola couldn't tell. And he didn't really want to know. It scared him to contemplate what things would be like without the big guy around. Bolan was practically an insurance policy on the nation's health. The damnable thing was that so few people knew it. But the Fed knew it had to be that way. Bolan brought his mentor up to date on the night's activities, pausing briefly before describing the fate of the chopper, and of the men who had been in it.

Brognola reached for his cigar and then got up from his chair to stretch. He paced back and forth in front of the window, until finally, unable to endure the silence any longer, he spoke again.

"And tonight is only the beginning. I didn't have time to tell you earlier. What was supposed to go down out at Dunford wasn't the first phony accident. And it isn't supposed to be the last, either."