You know the kind of people who have vested interests in my death."
"For all I know, that bullet might have come from a police revolver."
"If you think so, make your call. But be damned sure before you do. You'll have to live with the results."
She turned away, was almost through the doorway when she hesitated, turned to face him again. Beneath the fear and evident confusion, there was sadness in her eyes.
"I hate the kind of life you lead," she told him. "I despise the violence."
Bolan faced her squarely and responded, "So do I."
* * *
Rebecca Kent picked up the telephone receiver, hesitated, listened to the dial tone for a moment, then replaced it gently in its cradle. If her patient had been truthful with her, if his story was not lies, half-truths and fantasy, she might touch off a bloodbath by alerting the authorities. If desperate criminals were hunting Bolan — if her patient even
was
Mack Bolan — his predictions followed a repulsive kind of logic. Violence fed upon itself, and men who made their living with the gun would not be shy about eliminating women, children, any witnesses.
She thought about Grant Vickers, wondering how he would cope with a full-blown shoot-out in the streets of Santa Rosa. He was big and strong enough, of course, but he was not a "kick-ass kind of guy." Despite a term of military service, he was no more of a match for armed professionals than she was. If she called him, if he recognized her patient, he would have to call the county sheriff, possibly the state police. Meantime, although he might be placed in custody, Mack Bolan would remain there, in her clinic, while his would-be killers searched the streets, eliminating his potential sanctuaries, one after another. If they knew that he was wounded...
She broke the train of thought before it reached its logical conclusion, looking at the problem from another angle. What if her persuasive patient was not Bolan? Or if he was the Executioner, suppose that he was running from police instead of criminals. What then? If she ignored her duty, she would automatically become the man's accomplice. She could lose her license, everything that she had worked for, suffered for, these past fifteen years. If she was so damned gullible that she believed the first lame story she was handed by a liar desperate for time, she might be sacrificing everything upon the altar of stupidity.
She reached for the telephone again, but hesitated. Something in the patient's eyes, his voice, had struck her as sincere. Rebecca Kent believed she was a decent judge of human nature — one appalling, hideous exception notwithstanding — and her instincts told her that the man had not been lying to her. There was danger close at hand, but having come that far, what could she ever hope to do about it?
If she could not hand off the problem to Grant without endangering his life, the lives of everyone in town, what
could
she do? She pictured Vickers in his uniform, the little half smile on his sunburned face, a pistol firmly planted on his hip. He tried so hard to be the classic Western lawman, but a town like Santa Rosa offered nothing in the way of challenges, no opportunities to deal with violence in a practical capacity. From dating Grant, she knew he was a gentle man, albeit rough around the edges. When he had tried to make a pass at her and she had shied away, he took the cold rebuff without a macho show of angry disappointment. There had been no bluster, no reminder of the money he had spent on dinner, nothing whatsoever in the way of force. She had respected him for that, and had been grateful at the time, but now she weighed the constable's potential as a rugged fighting man and found him wanting.
Rebecca Kent was not an expert, but she thought it must require a certain kind of man to kill professionally, in cold blood. Most men — most women, when it came to that — could take another life in self-defense, or in defense of those they loved. A smaller number
"For all I know, that bullet might have come from a police revolver."
"If you think so, make your call. But be damned sure before you do. You'll have to live with the results."
She turned away, was almost through the doorway when she hesitated, turned to face him again. Beneath the fear and evident confusion, there was sadness in her eyes.
"I hate the kind of life you lead," she told him. "I despise the violence."
Bolan faced her squarely and responded, "So do I."
* * *
Rebecca Kent picked up the telephone receiver, hesitated, listened to the dial tone for a moment, then replaced it gently in its cradle. If her patient had been truthful with her, if his story was not lies, half-truths and fantasy, she might touch off a bloodbath by alerting the authorities. If desperate criminals were hunting Bolan — if her patient even
was
Mack Bolan — his predictions followed a repulsive kind of logic. Violence fed upon itself, and men who made their living with the gun would not be shy about eliminating women, children, any witnesses.
She thought about Grant Vickers, wondering how he would cope with a full-blown shoot-out in the streets of Santa Rosa. He was big and strong enough, of course, but he was not a "kick-ass kind of guy." Despite a term of military service, he was no more of a match for armed professionals than she was. If she called him, if he recognized her patient, he would have to call the county sheriff, possibly the state police. Meantime, although he might be placed in custody, Mack Bolan would remain there, in her clinic, while his would-be killers searched the streets, eliminating his potential sanctuaries, one after another. If they knew that he was wounded...
She broke the train of thought before it reached its logical conclusion, looking at the problem from another angle. What if her persuasive patient was not Bolan? Or if he was the Executioner, suppose that he was running from police instead of criminals. What then? If she ignored her duty, she would automatically become the man's accomplice. She could lose her license, everything that she had worked for, suffered for, these past fifteen years. If she was so damned gullible that she believed the first lame story she was handed by a liar desperate for time, she might be sacrificing everything upon the altar of stupidity.
She reached for the telephone again, but hesitated. Something in the patient's eyes, his voice, had struck her as sincere. Rebecca Kent believed she was a decent judge of human nature — one appalling, hideous exception notwithstanding — and her instincts told her that the man had not been lying to her. There was danger close at hand, but having come that far, what could she ever hope to do about it?
If she could not hand off the problem to Grant without endangering his life, the lives of everyone in town, what
could
she do? She pictured Vickers in his uniform, the little half smile on his sunburned face, a pistol firmly planted on his hip. He tried so hard to be the classic Western lawman, but a town like Santa Rosa offered nothing in the way of challenges, no opportunities to deal with violence in a practical capacity. From dating Grant, she knew he was a gentle man, albeit rough around the edges. When he had tried to make a pass at her and she had shied away, he took the cold rebuff without a macho show of angry disappointment. There had been no bluster, no reminder of the money he had spent on dinner, nothing whatsoever in the way of force. She had respected him for that, and had been grateful at the time, but now she weighed the constable's potential as a rugged fighting man and found him wanting.
Rebecca Kent was not an expert, but she thought it must require a certain kind of man to kill professionally, in cold blood. Most men — most women, when it came to that — could take another life in self-defense, or in defense of those they loved. A smaller number
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