"I can make some calls," he said.

Brognola didn't answer for a moment. He was staring at the clock, as if he could advance the minute hand to noon by force of will alone. When Leo checked his watch, he found that five minutes were left before the scheduled call.

"I'd better get to work on it," he said, already on his feet before Brognola could respond.

"Take care."

The big Fed's voice was soft and faraway, the normal gruffness tempered by a sorrow that could never be described at secondhand. It had to be experienced — as Leo had experienced it for himself in Pittsfield during Bolan's early war against the Mafia. A faction of the Marinello Family had taken Angelina from him, looking for a handle that would make him crawl, ideally blow his cover and reveal Turrin as a mole. For a brief eternity he had been faced with the destruction of his life, the loss of everything he cared for in the world. There had been nothing Hal could do from Washington, no magic tricks tucked up his sleeves. The mission had required a specialist.

Like now.

A hellfire warrior who could bend the rules or break them as he chose, with the impunity of one who stands outside the system, looking in. A dedicated soldier who was ready to commit himself and risk his life on behalf of others without thinking twice about the costs.

Their situations were identical, and Turrin knew that Hal had used up his other options before he mentioned Striker's name. The guy was like a frigging doomsday weapon — you could not control him; you could only point him in the general direction, turn him loose and pray. There were no guarantees that he would finally succeed, no guarantees of any kind — except that he would do his best, use every means at his disposal to prevent unnecessary harm from coming to the innocent, to any noncombatant.