He swallowed hard as he tucked the small flashlight back into his pocket. Moving quickly, almost sprinting, he slipped along the alley. He sidestepped the puddle of vomit and nearly slipped and fell.
Once he made the street, he allowed himself to breathe for the first time since reentering the alley. His heart was pounding again, but this time he relished it. Already he could imagine the result of his handiwork. Tomorrow around noon, he would wander by, just to make sure, and peek in to see if he could spy the corner of brown paper.
Then, across the street, his back against the wall of the newsstand, he could reach into his pants. He could already feel the smooth metal, warm from the sunlight on his pocket. He visualised the sudden rainbow of glass, pieces sparkling like fiery jewels as they arced high into the air, caught the sunlight and tumbled back to earth.
It would be good, and it would be the first of many.
2
Walt Wilson was a big man. His two hundred and thirty pounds looked out of place in the Brooks Brothers suit. His bull neck strained against a thirty-dollar silk tie, and his shirt, white on white, rustled every time he shifted his massive torso in the chair.
Mack Bolan watched him quietly. He had met Wilson before. The nickname "Rosebud" seemed out of place on a man so huge, but Bolan had never bothered to ask Wilson where it came from. He preferred instead to let the man have one secret.
And for that matter, to Wilson he was Mike Belasko, a friend of Brognola. So he had his own secret, and a high ace it was.
Nor did he envy Wilson his job. A troubleshooter for the Intelligence division of the State Department, Wilson had no place to call home and no base to call his own. Wherever it got hot, Wilson got sent. He seemed to thrive on the challenge, but Bolan knew just how old it could get, and how quickly it could age you. Wilson was on the edge of a downhill slide. The next crisis, or the one after that, could be the one that pushed him over the edge.