They were solemnly glowing eyes and they belonged to the Foxy Lady... and there were no shadows or veils there now. In her hand was a cosmetic jar and upon that divine body was nothing but the painted likeness of a red fox.

Soberly, she said, "Thanks for remembering the body cream."

His mind traveled the several corners of the world before he replied, "Okay."

"I'll wash your back if you'll cream-off my paint."

He said, "You're on," and pulled her into the stall.

Soft arms went about him and the resilient body-bountiful welded itself to him in a shivery embrace. Her lips nipped at his shoulder and she moaned, "I'm Jimi James, let's get that into the record."

Bolan ran his hands along the luxurious flesh of her back as he told her, "Pleased to meet you, Miss James. I'm still Mack Bolan."

"Oh, and I'm glad, I'm glad," she whispered, and her mouth found his, and Bolan knew that she was glad. And so was he. Revulsion he could live with, sure — but this was something to live for.

If revulsion had indeed been present some moments earlier, it had certainly given way now to something more moving than violence, more jarring than a chunk of muzzle-heated metal, and infinitely more sublime than unending warfare. A man and a woman had found an exalted bond that surpasses all human definitions. And as the storm forces gathered about and above the landscapes surrounding them, there was engendered between them and by them a storm of an entirely different sort...

The sign on the specially constructed door read Communications, Ltd. — inside were rows of semi-enclosed tables, each equipped with a telephone and other devices helpful to the bookmaker's trade. This was the headquarters of a wire-betting service, a national operation covering race tracks and sporting events throughout the country. Tonight it was covering a different type of event; this was the Chicago nerve center for the War against Bolan. Several dozen men manned the telephones, displayed information, and passed along reports and instructions pertinent to the task at hand.

Larry Turk was holding court with several of his crew chiefs in a turret of desks and wirecages at the rear when someone observed, "Here comes Pete the Hauler."

Turk muttered, "What the hell does that guy want to be... ?" He jammed a cigar into his mouth and lit it while the portly underboss made his way along the line of wiremen.

Lavallo was puffing slightly as he rounded the corner into the turret. He gave a little hand signal and said, "Hi Turk. How's it going?"

"Fine, just fine, Mr. Lavallo. What can we do for you?" This was polite notice that the Caporegimewas neither wanted nor needed here.

"I'm just too nervous to sit around and wait," Lavallo admitted. "I thought maybe I could lend a hand."

Turk's eyes went to the ceiling. This was a delicate matter. At the moment, he was kingpin. Tomorrow, or next week, one day soon, Pete Lavallo's great rank could squash a dozen Larry Turks into nothingness. He told the underboss, "That's great, Mr. Lavallo. Not much happening right now, though. The guy's crawled into a hole somewhere, I guess."

The trucker dropped into a chair. "I'd rather be here than sitting around wondering," he muttered.

Turk exchanged glances with a crew chief. He told Lavallo, "We were just reviewing the strategy. We, uh, got a whole invisible crew tailin' you around, Mr. Lavallo. If you're gonna spend the night here, we need to put those boys someplace else."

Lavallo's eyes showed his surprise. "Nobody told me that," he said.

"No sir, nobody meant to."

"I got my own damn hardmen," the Caporegimehuffed.

"Yes sir, that's the idea. A double line. One obvious, one not — not even to you."

Lavallo lost the clash of eyes. His went to the floor and he growled, "It's your show, Turk. I, uh, won't be around long. I just dropped in for a look-see. I guess you got things pretty well in hand."

"Thanks. Look, uh, it would be better if you went on natural-like. Bolan tried for you once tonight. We expect he'll try again. We want him to." He slapped his hands together. "Then pow'tEh?"

"I get the idea," Lavallo said with a tired smile. "I just ain't exactly used to being a sitting duck, a decoy at that." He struggled to his feet. "Uh, what're you doing, uh, about that dollie?"

Turk shrugged. "The usual things. We got her name, her address, her hangouts. We know where she gets her teeth fixed and who gives her her pelvics. We know her momma and her poppa, and we've had a tap on their phone for over an hour, clear out in Montana. Don't you worry, Mr. Lavallo. When she comes out, we'll know it."

"You don't forget, I got an interest, a right. I wanta know about her and Louis. You don't touch her until I say so."

"My only interest is Bolan. Whatever I have to do to get to Bolan, Mr. Lavallo, I'll have to do. You know that. After that..." Turk sighed delicately. "... you're welcome to her."

A lineman had hurried into the turret and was anxiously awaiting a chance to break into the conversation. Turk acknowledged his presence with a sliding glance. The man told him, "Chollie Sanders, over at Neighborhood Protective, just gimme something. One of his pigeons, a dress shop on West Washington, called in a suspicious. About an hour late, but they didn't think anything about it until they got home and turned on the television. This guy's wife..."

Turk said impatiently, "Just give me the tip."

"Well this guy come into their shop just as they were closing. Bought a complete outfit for a woman, underwear and everything, gave the old lady the sizes and let her pick everything out." He glanced at Lavallo. "This was just a little while after the hit on L & A."

Turk was giving the man a harsh gaze. Presently he said, "So?"

"So the guy wasn't worrying about prices or styles or anything. He just wanted a complete outfit. And the sizes add up to that Foxy Lady. The guy adds up, too. Tall, kinda dark, wore sunglasses and they didn't get much of a look at his face. But he was dressed all in black, even his overcoat."

Turk grabbed the lineman's elbow and steered him to a large map which was opened across a desk. "Okay," he said quietly. "You just draw a circle where that dress shop is."

The man did so, adding, "Oh, and he was driving a white sports car. We didn't get no make or model but it was one of the big expensive jobs, foreign make."

Turk asked Lavallo, "Did you see his car?"

"No."

"Was he wearing an overcoat when you saw him?"

The underboss shook his head decisively. "No. I didn't get much of a look, we was just bangin' away at each other, but he wasn't in no overcoat. The black part fits, though."

One of the crew chiefs idly asked. "Wonder why the guy's so hung up on black. Does he think he's gonna psycho somebody?"

"He wears black," Turk said grimly, "for the same reason the commandos did. He works mostly at night, and you don't usually see 'im until he wants you to. And you better remember that."

"Goddam clown," Lavallo muttered.

"Pardon me, but he sure is notno clown," Turk corrected the Caporegime. "And we better all remember that." His eyes snapped to a crew chief. "Okay, Bernie. Maybe we got something here, maybe not. You got to find out what." A blunt forefinger was tracing a path on the map. "The way I'd read it, he come down off of the freeway right here, on his way in from the L & A hit. Mr. Lavallo says it was about five-thirty, the hit. That would give him time to... Sure, it fits. So I want a clean sweep of every hotel and motel in that area. You know what to look for."

"It's snowing pretty bad outside right now," Lavallo commented. "I hear the roads are closing up north and storm warnings are flying all up and down the lake."