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  “You can hit the shower now,” he muttered, turning away from that implied invitation with nothing but sheer power of will. “It’s a small tank, though. So just wet down, turn it off, soap down, quick rinse. Got it?”

  She lay very still, hardly breathing. “You’d better show me.”

  “You’d better quit while you’re ahead.”

  “Who’s ahead? I feel like I’m running down a steep hill, plunging out of control. Show me how to work the shower.”

  Bolan growled, “Hell.”

  “Please. I really do feel very weak. I don’t think I can move, by myself.”

  He sighed a resigned sigh of the damned, lifted her off the bunk, and carried her to the small shower enclosure, opened the door, set her inside on her feet.

  The arms clung to his neck.

  She wouldn’t let go.

  Gruffly, he told her, “You’re not that damn weak.”

  “Yes I am,” she insisted. “I’m afraid to bend over. I’ll—how will I get my panties off?”

  Bolan was a goner, and he knew it. It was no time for this sort of thing—and especially with a kid like this—but what the hell was a guy supposed to do?

  He removed her arms from his neck and dropped to one knee at her feet to gently skin the flimsies from that delectable bottom—so full and charged and, he guessed, hurting. He remained there for a brief moment, gazing up at her. “You’re in a lot of trouble, young lady,” he said quietly.

  “Yes, I know. So are you.”

  “I don’t mean this.”

  “I do.” She turned on the water and quickly adjusted the temperature, then handed him the soap. “You started it,” she reminded him.

  Half of Bolan was outside, half inside the enclosure. He straightened up and turned off the water, took the soap and began working a lather onto her thighs and belly.

  She melted against him with a happy little sigh and huskily informed him, “You do have the touch. Get the back.”

  She was clutching him in a frontal embrace. He used “the touch” the full length of her spine and began working back toward the soft little shoulders. She shivered and said, “Lower, lower.”

  Bolan said, “For God’s sake,” and staggered out of there, whipped off his own sudsy clothing, and quickly rejoined.

  She gave a whispery giggle and turned the water on again. “Your turn,” she declared, seizing the soap.

  And that was not all she seized.

  Some time later they met the first penetrating rays of the sun curled limply together on the floor of the war room and gazing up through the one-way glass into the murky sides—and Bolan spoke the first rational words since the shower stall.

  “You’re different,” he told her.

  “I am? How?”

  He sighed. “I don’t know how. Just different.”

  “You’ll have to be more explicit than that,” she said, teasing. “I have two legs, two arms, two boobs, and all the other usual equipment. What’s different?”

  “You,” he said.

  “Oh. Not my parts.”

  “Well they’re okay, too. But there’s something very … very natural about you. You know?”

  She sighed. “Well that’s no compliment. I belong to the natural generation.”

  He had no comment to that.

  She went on, “We haven’t even been introduced. No names. That’s natural too, you know. For the now people, I mean.”

  “You’re a now person?”

  “Uh huh. Freedom, equality, all that.”

  “You’re Ms. Webb, huh?”

  “Oh! You do know my name!”

  “Just that part. What’s the rest?”

  “Dianna.”

  “Goddess of love. It fits.”

  “Thanks. What are you? Thor, the god of war?”

  He said, “You mean now or otherwise?”

  She giggled. “You’re very commanding. With a gun or … whatever.”

  “You remember that part, then.”

  “Oh sure. And by the way … thanks. I believe Tommy would really have used that gun on me. I mean, he’s insane!”

  A cold sensation floated along Bolan’s nude frame.

  He asked, quietly, “You know that kid?”

  “Oh sure. Tommy Rotten.”

  “Tommy what?”

  “That’s what the other men call him. I believe his real name is Rottino or something very Italian like that.”

  “Let’s try something non-Italian,” Bolan said. “How about Allan Nyeburg?”

  “That’s easy,” she said with a sniff.

  “How easy?”

  “Very easy. Allan Nyeburg is my stepfather.”

  Oh sure. Natural, yeah.

  If life was a game of craps, Bolan had just rolled a natural.

  7: PRISONERS

  Dianna Webb’s mother had married Allan Nyeburg when the girl was fourteen. It was a marriage of desperation for Mrs. Webb—a suicide widow with plenty of social connections but little else, not even an insurance policy that would pay off. Nyeburg had seemed “nice,” respectable, considerate—a young man “on his way” with plenty of financial stability already.

  Dianna utterly despised him, always had.

  “Inside that charming mask, he’s a maniac,” she told Bolan over breakfast, in that cool matter-of-fact tone which characterized her speech. “I’ll tell you what sort of man Allan is. He’s a compulsive skirt-chaser, and I mean any skirt. Always has a dozen women on the string. Every day without exception he has sex for lunch. I’m serious. A prostitute comes to the office at twelve sharp every day. Allan locks the door and they romp for an hour. Different girl every time. I guess it’s some sort of compulsion. I know it is. In the evenings he sometimes sees two or three different women.”

  “Where’s your mother through all this?”

  “Suffering silently on the sidelines. The marriage was strictly an arrangement, sure, not a Hollywood type romance—but there’s still such a thing as pride, you know. In my mother’s circles, especially. Imagine being married to a sex-driven—uh, what’s the male equivalent to a nymphomaniac?”

  “Lecher,” Bolan said. “Unless he’s really over the edge. Then a medical diagnosis could be satyriasis.”

  “Satyr,” the girl said, nodding, “that’s the word I was thinking of, and believe me, that’s Allan. He is over the edge. My poor mother. Things like that don’t remain quiet.”

  Bolan knew. He said, “Nothing does. Nyeburg has larger problems, though.”

  “He sure does,” she quietly agreed. “I think he’s really sick. He tried to put the move on me when I was fifteen. I was terrified. Didn’t know how to handle a thing like that then. I mean he came on real crazy, tearing my clothes and everything. I stabbed him.”

  Bolan blinked his eyes at that and said, “Yeah?”

  “Sure. Look, here’s a kid who gets sick and practically goes into shock if someone pricks a finger. My father was … well … we found him in the bathtub. He, uh, slashed his wrists. Ever since, well—I just can’t stand the sight of blood.” She wrinkled her nose at a conflicting idea. “I don’t know, maybe I’m over that now—after being baptized in the stuff last night. I honestly didn’t feel anything when I woke up a while ago—except your presence.”

  Bolan nodded his head, understanding. He lit a cigarette and said, “So you once put a knife into your stepfather.”

  “Scissors,” she corrected him. “And it wasn’t all that big a deal. Of course I suppose I could have killed him. Obviously he thought so, anyway. It just caught him in the hand—and I guess it damaged me more than it did him. But it scared him, all right. And got me out of a bad situation.”

  “Would you do it again?” Bolan asked. “Now?”

  “To him?” She mulled the idea briefly, then replied, “I suppose so, as a last resort. Actually, Allan does still try with me. I’ve learned how to handle the feints. And when he comes on real strong, I just tell him, ‘Allan, I’ll kill you.’ He believes it.” S
he sighed. “Well, you aren’t interested in this dirty linen, are you?”

  He showed her a faint smile and said, “Yes, I am. How does your mother feel about her husband’s interest in her daughter?”

  “She doesn’t know. I’d never tell her a thing like that. The first time, when I stabbed him, Allan told everybody he’d accidentally cut himself with a letter opener. She knows about the others, though, the million and one faceless ones. She knows the sort of man Allan is. Driven.”

  “He’s driven by more than sex,” Bolan said with a sigh. “Aren’t you curious about my interest in the guy?”

  She smiled soberly. “Sure. When are you going to tell me about it? For that matter, when are you going to tell me about yourself?”

  “You don’t know about me?”

  “Don’t tell me that you’re an undercover G-man.”

  Bolan chuckled. “Worse.”

  “Oh God, no! You couldn’t be a Narc!”

  It was a disturbing moment for Bolan, as were all such moments. Different individuals reacted in diverse ways to his unveiling. He’d assumed that the girl had known his identity since those first early moments at the warehouse—apparently she did not know but had accepted him on sheer face value. Soberly, he told her, “My name is Bolan.”

  “Bolan who?”

  “Mack Bolan.”

  “Oh.” She smiled. “Sure, it fits. It’s a nice, Thor-type name. But what’s the big deep secret?”

  He’d hoped that the name alone would have told the tale. Certainly it was a name that could be recognized by anyone who read newspapers and magazines or watched television news shows.

  She was saying, “I get the feeling I’ve heard that name before, haven’t I?”

  Bolan dug into the death trove and scattered medals across the breakfast table. “Some people know me by these,” he said quietly.

  She picked one up, inspected it with the eyes and fingers. “Hmmm. What in the world is it? Military, isn’t it? What is it—an iron cross?” She laughed. “Are you a neo-Nazi?”

  He shook his head, giving her the cool gaze. “The four-sided cross signifies, I guess, dedication and loyalty—something along that line. To me, it means judgment. The circles in the center represent a marksman’s target—a bull’s-eye. It’s a marksman’s medal.”

  The girl’s eyes danced and her cheeks puffed with air. She released the trapped air with a Donald Duck squawk that sounded like “Wow!” Then she slid deeper into her chair to peer at him over crossed hands. “Sure,” she said, reverting to the whispery voice. “I know you. I know all about you. You’re a very tough guy, Mr. Bolan. Well I feel … gosh, I feel … why didn’t you tell me? I mean, before … before … you know.”

  Indeed, Bolan knew. He said, “I assumed you knew. I identified myself when I stepped into that warehouse. You were there.”

  “Yes, but I—I guess I was thinking only about poor little me. I—I didn’t …”

  He asked, “Why were you there?”

  “I was dragged there. So what am I to you? Is this …?” Her eyes darted about the warwagon. “Is all this just …? I mean, am I just a business matter?”

  Gruffly, he replied, “Of course not. As long as you’re here, though, you could be of help. I need to know what you were doing at that warehouse.”

  She sniffed and said, “Allan’s bullycats dragged me down there. Made me show them where the stuff was.”

  “What stuff?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know what it was. I never know. They’re moving stuff into this country by the shipload. By air, too, I believe. But I don’t know what they’re doing with it.”

  He asked, “Why should you have to show them where it is? How would you know?”

  She tossed her head and showed him a wry smile. “I didn’t know until very lately, but I guess I’m their inside person. Allan got me this job with the exhibitor’s council—Expo ’74, you see. Stuff moving into the fair for exhibition enjoys duty-free status, you know.”

  “So?”

  “So they’ve been moving this stuff in under Expo licenses for months. Smuggling, I guess—I don’t know for sure. I work in the transportation section. It’s my job to see that all the stuff coming into the Port of Seattle for storage pending exhibit is received and properly stored. This is a big thing, you know. It could be chaos if we couldn’t keep track of the exhibit materials.”

  Bolan commented, “Yeah, I guess it would. So where does Nyeburg enter all this?”

  “He got himself named as an advisor to the Expo board of governors. And he worked a deal with several of the foreign exhibitors—to act as their agent in this country during all the complexities of getting this fair together. Spokane is—well, you know—it’s not a very large city. This is all quite a giddy experience for them.”

  “Back to Nyeburg,” Bolan prodded.

  “Oh sure. Well he’s a rat, that’s all. I found out that half the stuff coming through this port with his name on it has nothing whatever to do with the fair. His bullycats have been coming down here and taking the stuff out of storage and spiriting it away somewhere. Then he expects me to dummy the records. I believe they’re running narcotics, or something. I really do. I confronted Allan with my evidence last week. He laughed right in my face. Told me I’d better be a good little girl and keep those records straight. Otherwise he’d drag my mother through all the mud in Seattle.”

  “How would he do that?”

  “He incorporated a legitimate company. It’s called Pacific Northwest Associates. My mother is recorded as one of the officers.”

  Bolan said, “I see. I know about PNA. And he’s right. He could implicate her. But you say they dragged you to the warehouse. Do you mean that literally?”

  “I sure do. I told Allan to go to hell with his little crooked games. Told him I’d keep quiet about all the stuff in the past, but I was walking out of the rest of it.”

  “Good for you,” Bolan said.

  “Not good enough, I guess. They had this real hot shipment that they were all going crazy over. It was supposed to have arrived several days ago. Nobody could find it. But one of the darned warehousemen called, right in the middle of my little scene with Allan, to say that the shipment had been located. I had to tell him where to put it. Allan’s gang of thieves went right down to get it, but the warehouse was closed. They broke in and still couldn’t find it. So late last night, the bullycats came knocking at my door. They threw me in their car and hauled me down there to find the shipment for them. I played as dumb as they were for a while, then they got tough. The head cat called Allan from the warehouse and told him I wouldn’t cooperate. Allan told him to slap me around some—those were the exact words that were relayed to me. The man didn’t want to hit me, or so he said. But he told me that he would, rather than go back empty-handed.”

  The girl sighed. “I decided I wasn’t all that heroic. I found the darned crate for them. I guess you know the rest.”

  Bolan did. He told her, “Your life isn’t worth a nickel right now.”

  Fear flickered in those cool eyes but the voice was casual as she asked, “Why not? I gave them what they wanted.”

  “You also saw what they wanted,” he pointed out. “Worse, you can tie it all back to Nyeburg—and puncture his claim of ignorance.”

  “I didn’t see inside those crates,” the girl protested.

  “That’s the least consideration now,” Bolan told her. “The police know, now, and you—dear heart—are a very vulnerable spot in your stepfather’s armor. The stakes are too high in this game, Dianna. Nyeburg won’t hesitate for a moment to take you out of play. He has probably been planning it since the moment you began to oppose him.”

  That shook her. She mused, “I believe he would.”

  “Sure he would. This is a mob operation. And not just a local mob. Nyeburg is fronting a worldwide crime syndicate. Whatever they’re up to here, you can believe they have millions invested and a whole world to gain. They’d snuff y
ou like a fly at a picnic table.”

  “That sounds pretty far out,” the girl said, still shaken but trying to argue the point. “Allan? Head of a James Bond bunch of heavies?”

  “He’s not the head, he’s just the face. And these guys have probably never heard of James Bond. In the movies, Dianna, everybody gets up and has a drink together when the shooting is over. This bunch plays for keeps. Nobody gets up when the shooting is over.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, shuddering, evidently remembering the gunplay of a few hours earlier. “I never realized that such … awful things happen to a person when—when they get shot like that. It’s like an explosion, inside of them. I mean gushing and … and …”

  “That it is,” Bolan said, sighing. “ Look, Dianna—I’m not just trying to scare you, but I do have to impress upon you the very grave nature of your predicament. I don’t want you running back to Nyeburg with a pair of scissors in your hand. It’s a different game now. You have to understand that.”

  “Yes, I—I’ll go to the police,” she whispered. “Mother will just have to—God! She’s in as much danger as I am!”

  Bolan shook his head. “Not yet. But you can’t go to the cops, for another reason.”

  “I will! I’ll just—”

  “No, Dianna.”

  “No?”

  “It would increase your visibility ten-fold. Even if you requested protective confinement, you could still be had. Many contractees have died while neatly penned up in a jail cell, or in a hotel room under police guard.”

  The girl shuddered. “Contractee?”

  He had to level with her. “Yeah. I’ll give you odds at a million to one that your name is already on a death contract.”

  “Oh!”

  “Scary, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. What can I do?”

  “Stay low. Don’t go near anywhere you’ve ever been before. Contact no one—not by phone or otherwise. Don’t use any credit cards. Don’t write any checks. Don’t use your driver’s license or social security card. Don’t drive any vehicle that could be traced back to you. Change your whole life-style, clothing, everything. Even the color of your hair.”

  “I’m a free citizen of a free country!” she said defiantly, angered now.