"See to it that he gets some proper rest this time," Rebecca Kent told Johnny Bolan sternly. Turning toward the Executioner as she began to stow her instruments, she softened slightly. "Doctor's orders."
"How can I refuse?"
The younger Bolan cleared his throat. "I'll get the Jimmy."
"Fine."
When he was gone, Mack Bolan faced the doctor with a solemn smile. "I owe you one," he said.
"You owe me nothing. It's my job."
"Okay." He hesitated, and the silence stretched between them like a frail suspension bridge. "About the girl... we've got a CB, and I'll send the cavalry first thing, soon as we're clear."
The doctor nodded thoughtfully. "Those things I said before, about the way you live..."
"Forget it, Doc. You called it right. I lead a miserable life."
"I don't believe that anymore. You help. You stand with people when they seem too weak to stand alone."
"You do a decent job of standing up yourself."
She blushed. "I haven't got your courage. I couldn't do... the things you do."
"The world needs healers, too," he said.
"About Grant Vickers... was he... I mean..."
"Brave?" the soldier finished for her, knowing it was not precisely what the lady had in mind. "I'd say he qualified. Whatever else he may have been or done, the guy came out a winner."
"Thank you."
Bolan heard the Jimmy grumble to a stop out front. "That must be me," he said.
"I don't suppose..."
He saw the question in her eyes, and knew the only answer that would serve. "I shouldn't think so."
"No."
The lady did not follow Bolan to the door, and it was just as well. The world had need of healers and of warriors, but they were different breeds. The healers settled, found themselves a home and served their neighbors with the skills they had learned, the talent God had granted them. A warrior, on the other hand, must be forever moving, seeking out his enemy, another killing ground.
The enemy was waiting for Mack Bolan, and he did not have to ask about the setting of his next campaign.
The goddamned war was everywhere.