"There'll be more where those came from," the Executioner advised him.

"You telling fortunes now?"

"Just playing the percentages. Your town is primed to blow wide open."

"Never happens, fella. No one wants to kill the golden goose."

"The rules are changing, Captain. There's a wild card in the game. No way of telling where the chips are going to fall this time."

Reese stiffened, thrusting his jaw out.

"Whichever way they fall, we'll be there."

"Picking up the pieces?"

"Playing by the book, dammit. Chapter and verse."

"So you start out three innings behind." The captain's face and tone were sour.

"Tell me something I don't know already." Bolan shifted gears. "I understand the Daily Beacon's working on a series that could turn some heads around your town."

Reese raised an eyebrow.

"It's news to me — no pun intended."

Bolan frowned.

"You sound surprised."

Reese shook his head.

"Not really. Old Jack Goldblume's always got an ax to grind."

"Who's Goldblume?"

"He's the Beacon's owner, editor — you name it. Likes to call himself the "Voice of Vegas." Been around forever. Mostly he takes potshots at the IRS or FBI. He doesn't care much for you federal boys."

"His privilege."

"Yeah." The captain's tone informed him that the feeling might be mutual. "It's funny no one briefed you on him..."

Bolan's gut was telling him that it was time to disengage, and he could feel the numbers falling in his head.

"I assume that I can count on your cooperation, Captain?"

Reese's face was devoid of all expression as he answered.

"By the book, LaMancha. You've got your job; I've got mine."

Bolan nodded.

"Fair enough. We understand each other."

As he retraced his steps along the corridor to daylight, Bolan thought he understood the homicide detective. Reese had the typical Nevadan's thinly veiled suspicion of the federal government, the world outside the borders of his state.