All the yelling brought someone who might know, though. She was a lady all the way, still quite lovely in a mature fashion, a senior edition of Dianna Webb as she stepped quietly in from the adjoining office. Cool eyes swept from the quaking youth to the tall man in the other doorway. The voice even sounded like Dianna's as she inquired, "What is going on here?"

"I'm looking for your husband," Bolan replied, just as coolly.

"He's out of town. Tommy, sit down."

Bolan said, "He stands! Open that door all the way, Mrs. Nyeburg, and come on in here."

Those cool eyes faltered a bit. She said, "I see," and did as she was told.

Bolan stepped past her and took a quick look into the other office. A heavy vault occupied one entire wall — a holdover, perhaps, from branch banking.

Bolan told the lady, "You'll have to open the vault."

She replied, "What if I refuse? Will you shoot me?"

He said, "No. But I might take another shot at the kid."

"I'll open it. But you won't find Mr. Nyeburg in there."

"Maybe I'll find his tracks, though," Bolan said, smiling despite himself. She was a cool lady. "Do it," he said, still smiling faintly.

Tommy Rotten gasped, "Do it, please, Mrs. Nyeburg. This guy is Mack Bolan. The Executioner. You know. Do it, please!"

Yes, she knew. She had already known. As she returned to the other office, she told Bolan, "The police sketches on television don't do you justice, Mr. Bolan. You look twice as mean, in person."

He said, "Win some, lose some."

Tommy Rotten was accorded a wag of the head. The boy moved quickly to follow the woman. Bolan stepped in behind them and closed the door.

As Mrs. Nyeburg worked on the vault, Bolan worked on the boy.

"Are you a made man, Tommy?"

"No sir, not yet."

"Who's your sponsor?"

"Sir?"

"Your connection — who's sponsoring you?"

"Danny Trinity."

"Too bad. You've lost a sponsor."

"Yessir, I been wondering. I mean, I lost everybody."

"Related?"

"Sir?"

"Were you related to Danny Trinity?"

"Yessir, we're cousins."

"Were."

"Yessir. We were."

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"How long you been connected?"

"Just, uh, since we come out here."

"From the Bronx."

"Yessir, from the Bronx and Staten Island. Hey, I never done nothing like this before."

"What have you done?"

"Sir? Nothing! I ain't done nothing! I just got outta school."

"You should have stayed, Tommy."

"Yessir."

"You know Tony Vale?"

"A little. He's Danny's boss."

"Was. Danny's dead. Remember?"

"Yessir."

"You like the guy?"

"Tony? No sir."

"Feel like working for him some day?"

"No sir."

"You have a car here?"

"Yessir. The Vega parked just outside."

"Okay. Get in that Vega. Take off. Don't look back and don't come back. Next time I see you, Tommy, I'll take you. Don't let me see you again."

"Yessir. I appreciate — I promise — you won't never see me again."

"Before you go, tell the lady here all about it."

"Sir?"

"Tell the lady why you're here."

The vault stood open. Mrs. Nyeburg had been staring at the youth with a perplexed frown. He looked toward her and his eyes fell. He stared at the floor and told her, "Mrs. Nyeburg, I been working for the organization — the mob, you know, the Mafia. We come out here on a special detail to back up your husband. He's mob, too."

She said, coolly, "I see."

Bolan said, "Okay, Tommy, take off. Use the back door."

The boy left, eyes downcast.

Bolan waited until he heard the click of the rear door, then he told the lady, "You married a rat, Mrs. Nyeburg."

She merely sighed.

"That boy who just walked out of here was holding a gun at your daughter's head a few hours ago. He was ready to shoot her. I believe he was authorized to do so. By your husband."

That jarred the lady. The eyes flared then settled down again as she asked, "Do you know where she is now? I've been worried sick."

Bolan told her, "I could trade with you — your daughter for your husband — but that would be dishonest. She's safe and well where she is. No thanks to good old Allan, though. I have good reason to believe that he has ordered her death."

She really reacted to that one. Her legs must have suddenly gone weak. She sagged onto a desk and passed a hand across her brow. "I have been stupid," she whispered. "Stupid!"

"You've suspected, haven't you?"

"I've been wondering."

"Time to stop wondering, Mrs. Nyeburg." Bolan moved to the vault and took a look inside. There wasn't much. A few stacks of official-looking papers, a couple of ledgers, a locked metal box. He scooped the whole works into a stack and asked the lady, "You want to come with me?"

"Where?"

"I'll take you to Dianna."

She stood up, working at her emotions, cinching them in.

Bolan put an arm about her shoulders and led her out.

As he was draping a raincoat over her, she swiped away a tear and said, "Did I say 'mean,' Mr. Bolan? You don't look mean. You look beautiful."

Sure. He was a beautiful bastard. Knocking over dominoes, and she simply happened to be at the head of the line. But there was, he reminded himself, no morality in a holy war. "Stay hard, Mrs. Nyeburg," he muttered.

Bolan had to believe that the lady was leveling with him. She had neither seen nor heard from Allan Nyeburg since he "ran out of the house" at about six o'clock that morning. He had not told her where he was going or when she could expect him back.

He'd made several phone calls earlier, from their bedroom, after being awakened by a call which "did not last thirty seconds."

Her husband had been very nervous and excited. One of his calls was long distance, direct-dialed; she could tell this by the long combination of digits. His voice during that conversation had been low, guarded, urgent. She understood none of it. That conversation lasted about five minutes. Then he made several local calls, all short, all very urgent in tone. Then he got out of bed, dressed hurriedly, and left without breakfast or even coffee.

And, yes, she'd been worried.

Dianna had been involved in some sort of intrigue with Allan's business for several weeks — all of which was very mysterious and quietly alarming for the mother. She had called Dianna's apartment at six thirty and every fifteen minutes thereafter until past eight o'clock. Then she'd gone to the office and awaited word. Tommy Rentino came in at ten o'clock, sheepish and taciturn — insisting that he'd seen neither Dianna nor Nyeburg since early the preceding evening. Tommy had been, she'd thought, a sort of messenger boy and special courier for her husband. Under close questioning by Mrs. Nyeburg, the boy had admitted that "something had gone sour" — but he could not or would not explain further.

At eleven thirty, she turned on a small portable television in her office to catch the midday news — fearful and halfway expecting to hear something "grisly" concerning her husband's crisis. What she caught was a special program aired by the local affiliate, a repeat of a network news special of a few weeks earlier, chronicling the life and wars of one Mack Bolan — with local reportage of the events of the early morning hours in Seattle.

Then she'd really become worried.

She'd tried reaching both Nyeburg and her daughter by telephone at every conceivable location — drawing a blank, of course, each time.

By the time Mack Bolan strode into her offices, she was seriously contemplating calling the police with a missing persons report.

Bolan stopped off at a small variety store on the way to Richmond Beach and picked up a few items. A mile from the warwagon, he gave Margaret Nyeburg a pair of dark eyeshades and asked her to put them on, explaining simply that he did not wish her burdened with information she'd be better off without. She complied without complaint.