Dual Action. Don Pendleton

place, printed for the ARM. It rambles on about a Day of Judgment coming. Pretty standard for the Nazi fringe, except it mentions bolts from Heaven and a blazing lance.”

      “Could be our toy,” Brognola granted.

      “Or, it could be crap.”

      “That too. Let’s hope the author knew what he was writing, for a change.”

      “Still doesn’t help us track it down,” Bolan reminded him, “but if I find someone to squeeze, we may still have a shot.”

      “I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”

      “It couldn’t hurt,” the Executioner replied. “All right, I’ve got a plane to catch.”

      “It’ll be waiting for you,” Brognola assured him.

      There was red tape to be severed and finessed, but the big Fed’s assignment to the Stony Man project included top-level clearance and a short list of phone numbers virtually guaranteed to get results. He used them sparingly, but without hesitation when a pressing need arose.

      When he was finished making calls, Brognola sipped his coffee and considered what might happen if his judgment on the mission had been wrong from the beginning. What if Bolan could find nothing linking members of the ARM to the elusive supergun because there were no links? What if some other group of psychopathic misfits had the weapon and were plotting where to use it next, while Bolan chased the wrong suspects across the countryside?

      In that case, Brognola thought, he was up one very stinky creek without a paddle to his name. It might not cost his job, but he would find it awkward to continue, in good conscience, if his judgment was that flawed. If it had led to killing and the risk of Bolan’s life without due cause.

      He wouldn’t give up yet, of course. Bolan still had a few tricks up his sleeve, some sources to interrogate—if he could find them. Failing that, however, Brognola might need to think about another line of work.

      Or maybe he should just retire. Look for a beach somewhere, where he and Helen could relax and take things easy for a change. It would be nice. No crisis calls before sunrise, scrambling young men to kill or be killed at the farthest corners of the Earth.

      An end to secrets, as it were.

      Someday, Brognola thought. But not yet.