The hotel lobby was huge, ornate, its ceiling three balconied stories high. Glass-enclosed elevators ran up and down one whole wall. In the center of the large open space was a fountain. On the opposite wall from the bank of elevators was the long counter where the hotel's guests checked in and out.

The security office was at the end of the counter.

Bolan was halfway across the lobby, almost to the gurgling fountain, when three men came hurrying out of the security office.

One wore a suit while the other two had on rent-a-cop uniforms, their heads swiveling from side to side as they anxiously cased the lobby.

Bolan knew they were looking for him.

The lobby was busy with guests checking in or leaving for the evening, plus the mass exodus of those who had attended the fund-raising dinner.

Bolan's pace never faltered as he moved to his right, circling the fountain, heading for a door marked Stairs.

In a high-rise hotel like this the stairs would not be heavily traveled. He could make it down to the basement garage and out onto the street that way.

Maybe giving the senator the white flag hadn't been such a bright idea, he told himself. Ditto, Randy Owens.

He wondered if he was going soft; or maybe, when it came to granting absolutes like life and death, some men deserved the benefit of a doubt.

Bolan reached the door to the stairwell and shouldered through it, casting a glance over his shoulder as he did so.

The security men back there hadn't seen him.

He let the door swing shut behind him and headed toward the steps to the garage... and came face-to-face with two security men, their uniforms identical to those in the lobby. The pair reached the top of the stairs, hurrying on their way from the garage to the lobby.

They looked jumpy, their hands hovering near holstered side arms as they gave him a careful going-over with suspicious eyes.

"What is it, officers?" he asked innocently.

"You just stand still," the one on his left ordered as Bolan came closer. "We got a report that a man answering your description tried to hold up somebody here in the hotel."

Bolan shook his head.

"Sorry, guys, but I don't know what you're talking about and I'm in a hurry."

He started forward.

The hotel cop on the right gestured at him.

"You're not going anywhere until you're cleared. You just come along with me back to the security office and we'll see what's what."

As he spoke, he reached down and started to un-holster the pistol at his hip.

"Really, officers, there must be some mistake," Bolan said, spreading his hands.

Then he brought those hands down sharply, chopping at both sides of the closest man's neck.

The man grunted in pain and went to one knee, but he was still able to yank the pistol from its holster.

Bolan lashed out with a foot and caught the guard's wrist with the kick.

The gun flew out of the man's numbed hand and clattered down the steps without discharging.

Bolan followed the kick with a sharp right cross that bounced the first man into the second, and they both went windmilling noisily down the steps toward the garage.

So much for that route of escape.

Bolan raced down the corridor that angled off from the landing.

He spotted a metal door at the end of the corridor. He tried it and found it closed but not locked.

He eased the door open, finding a storage area for the hotel's kitchen.

Large containers of foodstuffs lined shelves along the walls. On the other side of the room was a larger door that probably led into the kitchen. The storage room was empty at the moment.

He pushed the door open, striding through the storage room to the other door, heading through with a confident stride and an unconcerned expression, passing into the kitchen itself.

There were four men in the kitchen, not a chef's hat to be found among them. They did wear white outfits, though, and one of them had a menacing-looking meat cleaver in his hand.

Bolan grinned at them.

"Health inspection. Just go on about your business, guys."

The man with the meat cleaver stepped into Bolan's path.

"Don't give me that bullshit. There's no damn health inspection in the middle of the goddamn night. Now what are you doing back here?"

"Taking a shortcut," Bolan growled, dropping the pretense of good cheer. "Out of my way, pal."

The man's face flushed.

"You're the guy we heard about, the thief everyone's after." He glanced at one of his buddies.

"Call security, Al. I'll hold this guy until they get here."

He hefted the wicked-looking chopper meaningfully, glaring at Bolan.

"If that's what you want."

He turned the shrug into a punch, sliding the blow in over the cleaver before its wielder even knew what was going on.

The guy fell backward, the cleaver flying from his hand, and he slid several feet on the highly polished kitchen floor when he landed.

The other men retreated with all the speed of two souls who would rather be anywhere else in the world at that precise moment, letting Bolan know they had no intention of blocking his escape.

He headed for the outside door, not knowing what he would find on the other side. He pushed on through, out into the cold, dark shadows, knowing that those left behind in the kitchen would already be howling for the security men in the stairwell and in the lobby and elsewhere. There was no time to lose.

Two big dumpsters sat a few feet away, but Bolan saw nothing else in the narrow alley.

He glanced both ways.

The streets at each end of the alley were busy with traffic.

A car turned into the alley and came racing toward him.

He lifted the Beretta, ready to fire over the glare of the headlights, aiming for the windshield and the spot where the driver would be.

Before he could fire, the car practically stood on its nose as the driver applied the brakes, the screeching of rubber on pavement intensified by the confines of the alley.

The driver's door popped open and a voice he knew called out to him.

"Get in! Hurry!" a woman's voice urged from inside the Camaro.

Lana Garner had turned up again, just as Bolan had thought she would.

He ran to the driver's side of the car.

"Move over," he rasped.

In the shadows of the alley, he could not see her face but he had the feeling for a second that she was going to protest, then she climbed over the center console, letting him slide in behind the steering wheel.

He slammed the door, dropped the gearshift lever into drive and stomped on the accelerator.

The Camaro catapulted down the alley, picking up speed as Bolan swerved around the dumpsters.

He palmed the wheel into the turn at the end of the alley, shooting into a small gap between cars.

An irate driver honked on the street somewhere behind him.

Glancing at the woman, he saw in the glow from the instrument panel that her face was taut, expressionless.

"How did you know where to find me?"

"I didn't. I wasn't looking for you. I was just there in that hotel and spotted you, then security people started chasing you. I went back to my car and cruised around the hotel, looking for you."

He grinned at her spunk.

"That's easy. Senator Dutton. Nice to see you again, Lana."

"Nice to see you, too. You saved my hide earlier tonight. I'm glad I could return the favor."

Traffic had thinned out somewhat while Bolan was in the hotel, but the taxicabs changing lanes erratically and pedestrians everywhere made clear navigating impossible.

He steered the Camaro east, onto the Eisenhower Expressway, for a place to drive aimlessly for a while and talk.

"It's time to level with me, Lana. Just who are you and what's your connection with Dutton and all the rest of this? I know your name and that you plant homing devices in senators' cars. I do know your real name, don't I?"