Ripple Effect

Cocoa Beach, Florida Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, walked along a quiet, nearly vacant beach at sunrise. It wasnearlyvacant, since a beach bum and his lady had apparently camped out the night before, somehow avoiding the nocturnal beach patrol to plant their sleeping bags above the high-tide waterline. They were engrossed in each other as he passed, ignoring him, waking to yet another day of--what? Good luck, he hoped, and wished them well. A small crab scuttled out of Bolan's path, chasing the white Atlantic surf as it retreated. In his short-sleeved shirt, Bolan was conscious of a chill wind off the ocean, but he trusted that the sun would warm him soon enough. Right now, the chill felt good, a respite from the heat he knew was coming, guaranteed. It was a rare day when he could escape the heat. He'd spent the past two nights at the Wakulla Inn, taking a unit with a kitchen and more bedrooms than he needed, just to have the space. Two days of beachfront R and R had tanned him, while meandering along the main drag, two blocks from his pad, briefly immersed him in the tourist scene. He'd poked around Ron Jon's and other surf shops, happily admiring the bikinis, scowling at the baby sharks and alligators slaughtered into knickknacks for the Yankee set. And life went on. But not for long. That morning, he was meeting Hal Brognola, their connection arranged on Sunday evening via sat phone linkup from Stony Man Farm. Bolan hadn't asked why Hal wanted to meet in Florida, instead of someplace close to Washington. It simply wasn't done. As luck would have it, he'd been passing through Atlanta with some time and narcotraffickers to kill, when Hal had buzzed him to request a face-to-face. They met in person six or seven times a year, on average, but usually in proximity to Wonderland, D.C., where the big Fed held down a desk at the Justice Department, six blocks from the White House. Bolan had never seen Hal's office. It would be a no-win situation, all around, since he had been America's mostwanted fugitive--until his death, some years ago, in New York City. Now, with a new face and several identities to spare, he did the same things that he'd done before, but with the covert blessing of his Uncle Sam. He felt relaxed, ready to roll on whatever assignment Brognola might have for him. He didn't try to secondguess the man from Justice, having learned from long experience that it would be a futile exercise. Brognola would present the facts and arguments for intervention. Bolan had the option of refusing any job that went against his grain, in which case it would pass to other hands, but he had never exercised that right. One reason: he and Hal were well attuned to life, society and the preventive maintenance required to keep America the beautiful from turning into something else entirely. Bolan respected the Constitution and the laws that guaranteed all citizens their civil rights, but there were times when something happened to the system and it didn't work as planned. Sometimes corruption was to blame, or loopholes in the law that might take years to plug, while predators took full advantage of the gaps to victimize the innocent and weak. At other times, the system's built-in safeguards made the wheels of justice turn too slowly, costing lives and human misery before a verdict could be rendered, then appealed, then reaffirmed by higher courts. Brognola found some of the targets for him. Bolan found some others on his own. Financing from the nerve center of operations came from covert budgetary pigeonholes, while Bolan's pocket money often emanated from the predators themselves. He had no qualms about relieving drug dealers or loan sharks of their blood money, and if the scumbags suffered catastrophic injuries while he was taking out a loan, what of it? There were always more scumbags in waiting, never any shortage in the worPendleton, Don is the author of 'Ripple Effect ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780373615193 and ISBN 0373615191.