As for the future... He couldn't focus on the days and weeks beyond. Reality had shrunk to the here and now; there was no future after midnight, nothing tangible beyond his scheduled face-to-face with death.

Brognola meant to keep that grim appointment, take his private pain and ram it down the throats of those who had already traumatized his world. And if it was the last thing that he ever did, well, he could live with that — or die with it — and screw the rest.

But for the moment there was Bolan, out there in the darkness, stalking.

Hal Brognola said a silent prayer for all concerned and went to clean his guns.

Raenelle Gireau had not been blessed with beauty. The ugly duckling of her class in any given year, she waited patiently at first, and then with mounting irritation, for the transformation that would make her into a graceful swan. Her parents and a host of doting relatives made light of her concerns, assuring her that she was a "late bloomer," destined to achieve a beauty all her own... in time.

But time had not cooperated, and at twenty years of age, Raenelle had finally decided that the hand of nature needed some assistance from the hands of man.

Raenelle admitted to herself that she was plain, and early on she had determined to be beautiful. What she had lacked in glamour, the young woman more than compensated for in keen intelligence, and she had found a way of earning money for the magic transformation she desired. In junior college, she had introduced herself to half a dozen independent prostitutes in Buffalo, New York, and offered them her services as manager, accountant, general troubleshooter. With her knowledge of computers, she had organized a thriving out-call service, booking contacts in advance and reinvesting income for "her girls" at only ten percent commission. Word had spread like wildfire on the streets, and at the end of Raenelle's second year in business, she was managing a ring of more than sixty girls full-time.

She had been able to afford the plastic surgery that had turned her into someone her parents wouldn't have recognized. It scarcely mattered, since they had already learned of her activities at college and had disowned her. They would not take her calls, her letters were returned unopened and she finally stopped trying to secure their approval. She had finally blossomed, but no thanks were due to them, and when Raenelle lost her virginity at twenty-three, it was the first completely happy day of her life.

In time, the out-call service had attracted more than customers. The local Family was interested in anything that turned a profit on the far side of the law, and after an examination of the books, their representative had made an offer that Raenelle could not refuse. The syndicate absorbed her operation, bought her out at a substantial profit and installed her in the nation's capital. In three short years, she had become the ranking madam in a three-state area, with roots in Washington itself. Her girls had serviced diplomats from half the countries of the world, and they had not been overlooked by the domestic crop of politicians, either.

Raenelle's base of operations was the Venus Spa and Health Club, a retreat with membership reserved for an exclusive clientele. No member of the club had ever lifted weights or done aerobics on the premises, but that is not to say that they refrained from working out. Raenelle employed a staff of nubile "therapists" who were adept at handling the kinks their clients had developed in the course of diplomatic service. Stressing hands-on therapy and frequent repetition of procedures that produced the best result, her staff had never failed to satisfy.

Of course, the operation had not been her own since she had signed her contract with the syndicate, but when she thought about it, Raenelle told herself she didn't mind. The pay was excellent, the hours flexible and at her own discretion she could move among the girls herself, receiving from her guests the adulation and affection that had been denied her for so long. She did not concern herself with the affairs of her employers, and although she was aware of hidden cameras in a number of the rooms, she asked no questions of the stone-faced men who came at intervals to change the videocassettes. If blackmail was involved, if certain guests were forcefully persuaded to participate in profit-sharing enterprises, she was not involved. The fault could not be hers.

The Venus always had a decent crowd on Saturdays, and today was no exception. Raenelle surveyed the parlor from the doorway of her office on the second floor, counting nationalities. She picked out Africans, a pair of military officers from somewhere south of Texas, here a clutch of Orientals, there a group of Arabs in their flowing robes. At times like this, Raenelle imagined she was queen of the United Nations, studying her subjects from on high. But it was better this way; she had never heard of any queen receiving bonus pay for overtime and holidays.

She picked out the handsome stranger a moment after he arrived. One of her girls — a redhead, Stacy — was attempting to attach herself and work some action, but the guy was having none of it. He scrutinized the crowd with narrow eyes, and from her lookout post Raenelle could recognize him now.

The guy was trouble.

She caught him halfway to the bar, put one hand on his shoulder and he turned to face her with the fluid motion of a cat.

"What can I do for you?"

"You run this place?"

"That's right. I haven't seen you here before." She put on her best smile in case he might be one of Gianelli's men. "If I can get you something special..."

"You've got sixty seconds to evacuate this place before it blows," he told her, looking past the plastic smile and staring at her soul.

"What?"

"You're wasting time. We can't afford to let your customers get singed."

It finally came across that he was warning her.

"Who are you?"

"Never mind, I'll spread the word myself."

He took a backward step and hauled out an automatic pistol from beneath his coat, unleashing two shots at the ceiling. Even with the ringing in her ears, the startled screams from somewhere at her back, she heard him loud and clear when he addressed the customers and girls assembled in the lounge.

"We've had a bomb threat. Everybody out! Right now!"

As if on cue, a hollow thunderclap erupted from the general direction of the kitchen, rattling the walls and tinkling the chandelier above Raenelle's head. She smelled the acrid smoke before it started wafting through the parlor, and the crowd broke as a second, closer blast reverberated through the nearby dining room.

One of the Africans collided with Raenelle, and she staggered, would have fallen if the handsome stranger hadn't snaked an arm around her waist and kept her upright. He retreated toward the bar, and from that vantage point they watched the crowd stampede toward double doors that could not possibly accommodate them all at once. A shoving match erupted, and she watched as an Arab was pummeled to the ground by two Latin military types.

"My God, what's happening?"

"You're going out of business," he informed her.

Still carrying the pistol, he was fishing inside his jacket with his free hand, coming out with what she took to be a highway flare. He twisted off the plastic cap and swung it wide as sparks and colored smoke poured forth. A looping overhand, and Raenelle watched it sputter through the doorway of her office, out of sight. As she stood, dumbstruck, he removed two more of the incendiary sticks from hidden rigging worn beneath his coat, and lobbed them both across the railing of the second-story landing toward the bedrooms. Within a moment, more of Raenelle's girls and customers were scrambling toward the spiral staircase, breaking for the exits, most of them abandoning their clothes.