Blood Run

by Don Pendleton

  "A few days, anyway."

  "I've got the perfect place."

  "That so?"

  "Believe it. I was thinking you might bring the kid along, rest up awhile and put the pieces back together."

  "Let me think about it."

  "Sure, no hurry. Take your time."

  "What happens with Aguire?"

  "They released him, four o'clock this morning. Last I heard, he was en route to parts unknown."

  "So, tell me, was it all a waste?"

  "No way. You took some heavies off the street and closed Pratt's show at the DEA. That has to count for something."

  "I suppose."

  Fatigue was setting in, and Bolan found that he was losing interest in the conversation. "Can I call you back about that R and R?"

  "My time is yours."

  "Okay."

  And no, he thought it hadn't been a waste. No victory was permanent in everlasting war. You faced the enemy and met the challenges as they arrived, aware that you might have to do it all again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.

  It was the life that Bolan had selected for himself, and he had no illusions left, no dreams of saving mankind from itself. He was assigned to fight a holding action, and if that resulted in some minor victories along the way, so be it. He would have to fight again tomorrow. Or the next day.

  In the meantime, though, it might be nice to try some R and R.