But April Rose had her finger on a pulse much more important to her personally. The pulse of Mack Bolan.

At the other end of the communications room a door was flung open and Hal Brognola marched in.

"Any word yet from Striker?" April shook her head, continued reading.

"Damn," Brognola muttered. He patted his jacket for a cigar and finding none, looked over April's shoulder at the TeleCom data. The big fed laid a gentle hand on April's shoulder. "Don't worry, he'll call in."

She forced a smile. "He'd better. He absolutely needs this new information before he proceeds. The whole plan will have to be changed."

"The whole thing stinks," Brognola decided gruffly. He looked at his watch and felt a thin layer of sweat spreading across his forehead.

It was already ten minutes past Striker's contact time. There were a lot of reasons for Colonel John Phoenix to be late, including the one that neither of them would mention but both of them feared.

Brognola took a deep breath and patted his pockets again for a cigar, still coming up empty.

No, nothing could have happened to the big guy. Not now. Especially not now, after what they had just discovered about the Zwilling Horde. As the White House liaison on this project, Brognola had already been in touch with the president. Even the Man was worried, insisting that the ex-fed handle the situation as promptly as possible and as quietly as possible.

So Mack Bolan had better damn well be all right. Most of all because Brognola and Bolan were friends. One ex-FBI agent in a three-piece suit who looked like the vice-president of IBM, and one black-clad warrior reeking of sweat, cordite, combat. An uneasy friendship, sure, but powerful and deeply committed.