There were savages out there, still hunting, most of them still blissfully oblivious to the arrival of their judgment day. And the Executioner did not plan to keep them waiting long.
3
Bolan sat inside his car with the driver's window down despite an early-morning chill. He was waiting outside a phone booth set against the wall of a deserted service station. The night warrior was restless, smoking in the darkness and checking his watch at frequent intervals, noting the time since he had placed the call to Washington. Almost ten minutes now, and he disliked the waiting, felt too damned much like a sitting duck despite the knowledge that no one was looking for him.
Yet.
Allowing for three hours difference in time zones, he knew his party should be up and free to call him back by now. If Leo Turrin had been able to complete the contact. If the inside man was able to return his call without attracting any heat or bringing down suspicion on himself.
Mack Bolan cursed the uncertainty and knew that there was nothing he could do about it. Voluntary choice had placed him on the outside, and along with that decision there came certain minor inconveniences, for sure. And minor inconveniences could get a careless warrior killed. Bolan sometimes missed his contact with the wily Leo Turrin, once his closest covert ally in an all-out holy war against the Mafia. From his position in the highest councils of the brotherhood, Turrin had been able to provide the soldier with the kind of battlefield intelligence that could be indispensable for someone fighting on the run.