Eternal Triangle

by Don Pendleton

  Lawrence fired a burst in the direction of the skylight, but the stars were beaming at him now. His prey had made the drop while he was scrambling for cover, and now he was alone there, in the darkness, with the Executioner. He knew that only one of them could leave the place alive. For the first time in a life devoted to revenge, Frank Lawrence wondered whether he was equal to the challenge.

  * * *

  Bolan was prepared when automatic fire erupted from the dark interior of the deserted offices and snatched the trench coat from his nylon line. He had retrieved the garment on a hunch, lowering it ahead of him after he'd opened the skylight. Now, with darkness on his side, he spied the hostile muzzle-flash at once and rattled off a string of parabellums from the Uzi in response. He would not take the gunner out that easily, but the fire would keep his head down for a moment, and a moment might be all the soldier needed.

  He slithered down the line, a moving target, vulnerable for the second it took to reach the floor. His adversary reacted, but too slowly; the gunner's second burst sliced through empty air a foot above Bolan's head.

  The office was deserted, stripped of furniture and devoid of cover. Bolan hugged the concrete floor, his Uzi cracking out another burst in answer to the probing automatic rifle fire. Downrange, he heard the bullets slapping into plaster, knew that he had missed his target once again.

  It would be suicidal to remain in place, but where was he to go? From memory he resurrected floor plans of the TIF establishment, which he had visited the morning after burying his family. He knew that he was in the lobby, separated from the office proper by a waist-high railing. The four working offices of TIF, were just ahead of him, two doors on either side of a bisecting corridor. Beyond lay rest rooms, storage space, an exit leading to the narrow alleyway in back.

  As far as Bolan could determine, his assailant was in the doorway of the nearest office on the left. Bolan wriggled along the floor, his Uzi still directed toward the deeper darkness of the doorway, just distinguishable now that his eyes were starting to adjust. If he could clear the gunner's line of fire, just long enough to close the gap between them…

  In the pitch-black office, Bolan's adversary had also been weighing odds and angles, revising strategy to fit the changing situation. Bolan was about to make his move when sudden fire erupted from the open doorway, sweeping left to right across the lobby, forcing him to hug the floor. He heard the pounding footsteps of his enemy, was standing to chase him with a string of parabellums, when a spherical metallic object struck the floor a yard in front of him. The soldier could not see it clearly, but he recognized the telltale sound as the hand grenade began to wobble toward him.

  Frantically he twisted to his left and scuttled off on hands and knees, putting space between himself and the explosive charge before it detonated. His assailant loosed a random, searching burst that rattled over Bolan's head, but bullets were his least concern. If the grenade contained a high explosive or incendiary charge, if it was fragmentation, he would not have time to clear its killing radius. He might be fried, or pulverized or riddled… but he would certainly be dead.

  It was a concussion grenade, meant to stun, to immobilize without inflicting mortal wounds — although a man on the receiving end might pray for the relief of death. Bolan's back was turned to the initial, blinding flash, but its reflection off the barren walls was sharp and painful to his narrowed eyes. The shock wave struck him like a giant boot and lifted him off the floor, propelled him with jarring impact into the nearest wall. His ears were ringing, deafened by the blast, and for an instant, as he fought to breathe, the Executioner thought he was dying. In another moment he would feel the burning pain of shrapnel, fading with the massive loss of blood — But when the moment passed and he was still alive, his addled mind quickly put the fractured pieces back in place.

  And his aching eyes were not on fire after all; the lights had come on above him, and in the offices and corridor beyond the wooden railing. His assailant obviously had had electric power restored to the premises in preparation for their showdown. It had been his secret ace, and he had played it wisely.

  Bolan felt the presence of another in the lobby, realized that he was not alone before he ever saw his enemy. The Colt Commando leveled at his chest was a familiar point of reference, but he did not recognize the face above the rifle. Bolan's enemy was watching him from twenty feet away, the weapon braced against his hip, one-handed, casual. He made no move to interfere as Bolan struggled to his knees, slouched back into a seated posture with his shoulders pressed against the wall. Before the move had been completed, Bolan realized he had lost the Uzi. Both his sidearms were in place, secured in their rigging, but his adversary did not seem to be concerned.

  "I guess I ought to introduce myself," the gunner said at last. "No, don't get up. We're casual here. The name's Laurenti. Frank Laurenti. It was 'Junior,' but you know how these things go."

  The shooter's voice hardened as he finished, but his words did not surprise the Executioner. Al Weatherbee's suspicion had proved, but Bolan would never have a chance to tell the former homicide chief that he had solved another mystery.

  Laurenti stepped closer. A flash of gold drew Bolan's eyes away from the Commando's muzzle to his adversary's belt. The bright detective's shield winked back at Bolan like a solitary, mocking eye.

  "Surprised? I guess you wouldn't think a loan shark's son could make the grade." Bolan's captor made no effort to disguise the anger and contempt he felt. His free hand rose to stroke the shiny metal of his badge. "It put me on the inside track, you know? This opens doors that don't exist for John Q. Citizen."

  "That's smart." The words were sand in Bolan's aching throat. "How long have you been tracking me?"

  Laurenti's voice went hard. "How long have you been on the road? You had me worried once or twice, I don't mind telling you. That business in New York was cute. You could've pulled it off if you'd had sense enough to let it go."

  "No choice," he told the steely eyes.

  Laurenti's mocking smile was gone, and the expression on his face had altered slightly, turning introspective. "Same with me," he said at last. "No choice, no options. I've been waiting for you all my life, and here we are."

  The rifle didn't waver as he took another cautious stride toward Bolan. There was something else he had to say, or Bolan would have been dead already.

  From the beginning of his private war, the Executioner had clung to his firm refusal to fire on a badge, no matter how the man behind it might have shamed himself, his oath of office. He knew he could not kill Laurenti now, not if it meant his life… but if the gunner took a few more steps, if he had a chance to slip beneath Laurenti's guard and grab the Colt Commando…

  As if he had read Bolan's mind, Laurenti hesitated, still too far away for any attempt to reach his weapon.

  "I wanted you to know why you were dying," Frank Laurenti said. "When it came, I wanted you to know who pulled the trigger. I owe you that much… and I owe it to myself." He grimaced, as if he had tasted something sour, and he said, "I owe it to my father."

  "Not tonight, Laurenti!"

  Bolan's captor didn't bat an eye or hesitate. He swiveled toward the unexpected voice, his automatic rifle gripped in both hands now and rattling before he verified his target. Bolan squinted past Laurenti, glimpsed Al Weatherbee beyond the office railing, both hands leveling a stainless steel revolver.

  Bolan saw Laurenti's tumblers tracking, chewing up the wall and closing in on Weatherbee. He recognized the Magnum by its report. Bullets ripped through Frank Laurenti's jacket; Laurenti's blood sprayed in Bolan's face.

  The impact lifted Laurenti off his feet and hurled him backward, ripped the Colt Commando from his hands. He slithered on the blood-slick floor, came to rest against the soldier's knees, his head in Bolan's lap. The upturned eyes stared into Bolan's, fading fast, and Bolan saw the life flicker out of them, the jaw go slack before Laurenti could speak.

  Another moment, and the former chief
of homicide stood over Bolan, frowning.

  "I finally put two and two together. Better late than never, I guess."

  "I guess," the soldier answered. He used one hand to close Laurenti's sightless eyes.

  Epilogue

  "It was the car that made me take a look at Lawrence… er, Laurenti. After that, I had to pull some strings and wake some people up, but there was still a record of the legal name change. Lucky break, I guess. If they'd been on the ball, it would have been destroyed years ago."

  "And he'd been waiting all this time."

  "Apparently." The ex-detective put his Buick through another turn and shade trees closed above them, blotting out the sun. "I never cared for Lawrence much — we never hit it off. But from appearances, he was a fair detective when his mind was on the job."

  "There must have been some sticky questions."

  "What, the brass? No sweat. I've got them all believing that I sniffed Laurenti out with great detective work."

  "No arguments on that."

  Al Weatherbee suppressed a grin of satisfaction.

  "I'll admit there were some doubting Thomases, but I convinced them that Laurenti led me straight to you… and you escaped while we were squaring off. As far as anybody knows, you're miles away by now."

  "I wouldn't want to disappoint them."

  Weatherbee was silent for the balance of their drive. He steered the Buick through the arching gates with wrought-iron angels overhead, and took the first turn on their left. He drove with confidence, and Bolan was surprised that his companion found the place without directions.

  "Well, we're here," the driver said, and noticed Bolan staring at him thoughtfully. "I guess I might've stopped by here a couple of times before."

  Bolan placed one hand upon the driver's shoulder, pressed it warmly for a moment, finally went EVA. The cemetery was deserted. He figured even devoted mourners generally visited on weekends or holidays. He and Weatherbee had the graveyard to themselves… but somehow, Bolan knew they were not alone.

  Three headstones, pressed as close as the family had been in life. He knelt before them, read the clean inscriptions to himself, although he could easily have quoted them from memory. Husband and father. Loving wife. Beloved daughter. All the names were his. Something of Mack Bolan had been buried here when three-fourths of his family was laid to rest.

  His war had come full circle. The warrior knew, as he had never known before, that it was time for him to let the old, familiar ghosts lie down to sleep. So many ghosts, from Pittsfield to the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia and beyond. If any of them traveled with him in the future, they would have to travel on their own; he could not let them hold him back.

  On Commerce Street, his war had changed again. Laurenti's death had reaffirmed the understanding gained in Bolan's first campaign: his war could not be strictly personal if he intended to survive. The enemy was far too numerous, far too diverse, for any soldier to approach the hostile camp with blinders on.

  He thought about Brognola's latest offer from the Oval Office. If he took Brognola up on it, he would retain personal autonomy, the freedom to select his targets free of interference from above. From time to time, he would be offered "sensitive" assignments, which would not detract in any way from the direction or the conduct of his private war.

  It was an offer worth considering, and for the moment, warrior Bolan was not closing any doors.

  He spent another moment in communion with the friendly dead, then rose and started back toward where Al Weatherbee was waiting in the Buick. Wherever home might be, it did not lie in Pittsfield any longer. Bolan wondered if he still had time enough to find it, time enough to see his duty done before a bullet dropped him in the company of strangers, and his life ran out on foreign soil.

  No matter.

  There was time for looking, time for fighting, and if time ran out tomorrow, he would still have beaten the odds. It was the best he could hope for, living as he was on borrowed time.

  But he had not forgotten how to dream.

  For a lonely soldier, ever on the firing line, dreams could be enough.