Don Pendleton
Savannah Swingsaw
Man, when perfected, is the best of animals, but when separated from law and justice, he is the worst of all.
I often wonder how other people see Mack Bolan. Personally, I feel he's incorruptible, selfless and entirely committed. I don't think he necessarily likes what he's doing, but someone has to do it. And he's not bitter or cynical about this world. If all this personifies the perfect man, then so be it.
Dedicated to Sir Anthony Berry, British cabinet minister in Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher's government, who died as a result of a terrorist bombing at the Grand Hotel in Brighton, England, 1984.
1
The squad car chased Bolan into the dark alley. An unexpected flash thundershower an hour before had left the pavement slick and shiny under the full moon's harsh light. Bolan's feet splashed through muddy potholes as he ran, bumping overstuffed trash cans, spooking a prowling tomcat. Behind him, the police cruiser followed slowly, relentlessly, colored lights pulsing atop the roof. Bolan could hear the worn shock absorbers squeak as the car bounced over the ruts in the road. The only way out of this alley now was straight ahead. Another thirty yards of slimy wet hardtop would see him to the other end.
If the cops decided they weren't in the mood to chase him, then a bullet would be faster, easier.... Well, he'd worry about that then.
Bolan raced for the end of the narrow street, a plain brown paper bag twisted at the neck and gripped in one hand, an untraceable Smith and Wesson Model 67 38 Combat Masterpiece in the other.
He stuffed the sack into his worn leather aviator's jacket as he ran. The laneway opened onto Decatur Street, busy enough that he might get lost in the late evening weekend traffic.