"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 you 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.

"So are the others," he pointed out. "They're free to kill. You're free to die."

"I just can't believe this," she muttered angrily.

"You'd better. I've been believing it for a long time now, Dianna. I remain alive. You can, too, by believing — and acting accordingly."

"My God," she said miserably.

"It may not have to last long. If I can break the thing up, quick and hard, there'll be no contracts left for anybody."

"That's your thing, isn't it," she said.

He nodded his head. "It is."

The full import of the situation was settling in on the girl. "But where would I go?" she cried. "I don't know where to start! I even left my purse — I don't have a dime! How do I ... ?"

Bolan sighed and broke contact with those troubled eyes. "Okay," he said tiredly. "You do have one option. But it could be even more dangerous than the other."

"Options? I'll take them," she said. "Besides, what could be more dangerous?"

"Me," he said quietly.

"Huh?"

"You can stay here a while. It's safe, for the moment. But everybody with a gun in this town will be looking for me. You could find yourself in the middle of a very hot war, which is contractee times a hundred. Also, the same conditions will apply. You're to show yourself to no one. You'll be a prisoner of this van."

Those eyes were beginning to dance again. She said, "Prisoner, eh?"

"Prisoner at large," he replied, smiling soberly.

"How about prisoner of love? Think we could work in something along those lines?"

"Don't bet on it," he told her gruffly. "I'll be a very busy soldier from here on."

"But I will bet," she said with a whispery laugh. "What do I have to lose? I like your option, Mr. Bolan. War and all, I like it very much. But you really didn't have to scare the pants off of me just to — "

She noted the glint of despair in Bolan's eyes and cut herself off with a grimace.

"Hey, I'm sorry. Really. I was just clowning. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean that. It really is a pretty tough deal, isn't it? I mean, your deal. You're a prisoner, too, aren't you? Of your own war."

"It's pretty tough," Bolan admitted. "But I dealt the hand, Dianna. It's my game. Make no mistake about that. Don't start building romantic fantasies about what a poor, misunderstood soul I am. It's my game. And I play for keeps, too. It's my game."

She shivered and reached for him.

"It's mine, too — now," she whispered.

It was raining as it can only in Seattle. A brooding nimbostratus lay over the entire coastal region, sending down a steady torrent which had not let up for two drenching hours. Bolan could have closed his eyes and imagined that he was back in 'Nam during monsoon — except for that clammy chill settling into his bones.

A cape-style raincoat had kept him relatively dry from the shoulders down to just above the ankles — and the rain itself, heavy enough to substantially restrict visibility, provided pretty good cover for a surveillance mission. But that was about all the good that could be said of the situation. His feet were awash and the persistent moisture of nature's universal solvent had discovered pathways into the cape and down his neck.

The time was two o'clock in the afternoon; the place, just outside the small suburban office building that housed the headquarters of Pacific Northwest Associates — Nyeburg's outfit.

Bolan had been on station since noon, positioned for surveillance of both entrances to the building. PNA was the only occupant. Dianna Webb had sketched the interior layout for him; he knew the building as well, probably, as anyone who'd ever been in there. It was a small, squarish structure — single story. Built originally to serve as a branch bank, it sat off to the side of the parking lot for a large shopping center. A drive-up window remained in service — Dianna explaining that Nyeburg conducted "quite a bit" of business via that handy device.