Chicago Wipe-Out

Epilogue

The signboard outside the modest North Side home had been hastily altered to read: LEOPOLD STEIN, LEGAL ADVISOR.

Bolan smiled and punched the doorbell. It was four o'clock in the morning, sure, but the joint was ablaze with lights, and the cute kid who answered the ring was looking as though she could remain awake for another twenty-four hours. Her eyes Were glistening as she led him into the living quarters, and she announced, "Daddy, it's the man."

Bolan could not think of kinder words nor a nicer tribute, and he could not imagine a warmer welcome than the six-feet of foxy womanhood who flung herself into his arms.

She checked him out, limb by limb and almost organ by organ, oozing and worrying over the miniscule losses of flesh here and there, and Bolan had to allow them to fuss over the wounds with antiseptics and bandages — and finally he was seated at a big dining table with Jimi on his lap and a heftily-laced cup of coffee in his hand, and he told his host, "I see you changed your shingle outside."

Stein grinned and replied, "The groundhog came out early and failed to see his shadow. To hell with that slime, Mack. I'll never hide from them again."

"Be careful, Leo," Bolan advised him. "The clout machine is probably as strong as ever."

"You forget," the lawyer reminded his guest. "We got the whole report on television, nearly an hour before you toddled in here. I never heard of such a slaughter. Out of the whole hierarchy of the Chicago syndicate, there's nothing but a few lieutenants and one lousy subcapo still alive. A guy named Meninghetti is in the clink, also a Drago."

"How about Benny Rocco?" Bolan asked. "And Spanno."

Stein shook his head. "They've seen their last appeals court."

"Okay, I'll scratch them from my book," Bolan murmured. "Uh, I meant what I said about being careful. There's still a lot of dirt in this town, Leo."

"Oh hell, I know that. Tell you what. I'll promise to be as careful as you. Okay?"

Bolan smiled soberly, trusting that the universe would be as concerned for men like Leo Stein as for wildass warriors like Mack Bolan. He realized, however, that the universe cares only for those who care for themselves — and for it— and the brief interlude of stolen camaraderie with friends he could trust was about used up.

He got to his feet and made ready for his re-entry into' the jungle of survival. He shook hands with his new friends, the Steins, and he pulled Jimi into the office foyer for a private farewell.

"You watch it," he growled, and poured an accumulation of loneliness and pent emotions into that goodbye kiss.

She clung to him and breathlessly asked him, "Where will you go? What will you do now?"

He whispered, "Down!" — and she stiffened momentarily in his embrace, then she shivered and clung to him all the more.

"That's where I live, Foxy," he reminded her. "It's home, and the only place I canlive."

"Well, you watch that beloved flesh, you hear?" she said huskily.

He disengaged from the embrace and went to the door, turned around for a final look, and then he was through the doorway and moving briskly into no-man's-land.

A man moves steadily, he knew, from the womb to the grave. It mattered little where he entered the world or where he left it. What counted was that route between the two. And Mack Bolan's only route lay in the jungle. It was the place where he lived. One day it would be the place for him to die. This was both his character and his fate. The Executioner accepted both... as a heritage. He would move forever along the wipeout trail, until the final decision was rendered.

Somewhere, somehow, the whole savage and bloody thing mattered. It was not a senseless game, from which a guy could just disengage any time the going became a little rough.

It was life, and Mack Bolan meant to live his to the bloody, bitter end. This was, simply, the kind of guy he was.