"Over what?"

"Hell, that's what I couldn't learn. All I know is that something big — something superfragile big is about to happen out there in Seattle. And they're losing their minds over the Bolan presence."

"That's why you came down?"

"That's why. I've been ordered out there."

Brognola sighed. "How many guns you taking?"

"Just my usual crew. The killer force is being put together from St. Louis, Denver, Phoenix, and Frisco. Two hundred — now get this — T-W-O hundred guns. The meanest boys in the west. I don't have any command. I'm just there, as an advisor, strategist. Guy by the name of Franciscus will be the top gun. Heard of him?"

Brognola worriedly shook his head. "Me either. He's not a made man, either. Independent contractor. Ex-soldier, with combat credentials. The old men were heh-hehing all over the joint, rubbing their hands in anticipation and congratulating each other over the pickup on this guy. They seem to think he'll be a match for Bolan's combat M.O. But there's something else about this guy that ..."

"Yeah, what? Don't stop there." "The guy's already in Seattle."

"So he's been there, since before Bolan showed. That's too much for mere coincidence. Isn't it? I think ... Hal, I believe Franciscus was already there — for the other thing, the big thing whatever it is. And somehow it all ties in to ..."

"To what?"

"Hell, I don't know. How do you express gut hunches? This Franciscus is a military type. He was a captain of infantry, brushfire forces. And he's not made. So what the hell were they setting up for that guy in Seattle? Of all damned places, Seattle!"

Brognola's usually impassive face had settled into grim lines. "Treasury is looking into the Seattle thing, of course," he said quietly. "There were two hundred automatic weapons discovered in that warehouse out there this morning. So far it's being handled as a routine case of illegal trafficking in restricted weapons. But... now you say they're fielding two hundred gunners."

"Could that be a coincidence?" "I'd hate to bet on it," the official replied with a worried smile. "What the hell do you think they're doing?"

"I've thought of a million things, all too crazy. I don't know, Hal. I do know how hard it is to scrape up two hundred good gunners on a moment's notice. If the weapons were already there, and if the two hundred boys were already stashed around waiting for the call — then by God I'd punch the umpire before I'd settle for a coincidence call."

"You're right. And they couldn't have been primed and waiting for Bolan to show. That's too ridiculous."

"Aw no," the undercover man said quickly. "I told you, the old men are half out of their minds because the guy did show."

"Do you think those wiseguys were already putting together a paramilitary force? Are you saying that Bolan tumbled to it, and that's why he's there?"

Turrin gave a heavy sigh and cracked his knuckles through a long silence. Presently he replied, "Like I said, I haven't talked to the Sarge since New Orleans. I don't know what the hell he's onto. But I'd bet my life on this much. He's onto something, or he wouldn't be romping. And the old men wouldn't be stomping."

"Hell, I guess I'd getter get out there, too," Brognola decided.

"My plane leaves in an hour."

"So will mine," the official said. "Ill take fifty marshals. Maybe I can scrounge up another fifty when I get out there. Where will you be?"

"I'll be at the best hotel they have. Leave messages for Joseph Petrillo."

"Fine. You'll know where to reach me."

Turrin chuckled without humor. "Sure you can afford to leave Washington behind for a few days?"

"Hell, I'm traveling from one to the other, the city to the state."

"Yeah," Turrin said, "but what a contrast in smells, eh?"

"Well see," said the Justice Department official.

"Sure," Turrin replied. "I guess we'll see plenty."

They would.

Already, the war drums were throbbing throughout the Pacific Northwest.

Bolan moved his base camp to a commercial campground on the eastern approaches to the city. There he changed clothes and snacked while going through the stuff from Nyeburg's vault. The only thing of any immediate interest there was a ledger with some rather cryptic notations, and the lockbox — which contained twenty thousand dollars in crisp new $100 bills.

He dropped half of the money into his warchest and deposited the rest in his coat pocket, stowed the other stuff, and drove the Fairlane into Seattle.

It was six o'clock when he hit town. The rain had stopped but the skies continued to threaten and were bringing on a premature nightfall.

He scored on his first stop, which had been carefully selected from the list of possibilities. It was a small "models and escorts" agency located in the hotel district. Bolan could smell a guy like Nyeburg all over that joint.

The guy at the desk was about fifty, fat, balding, with a perpetual smile — and he looked as though he had perhaps grown into the chair.

Bolan placed a shiny new hundred in front of the guy and said, "Hi."

"Hi," grinning boy replied. "What's that for?"

"That's for you," Bolan said, matching the smile.

"Yeah?"

"Sure. I got nine more just like it to say that you're the man for me."

"Whatta you got — a sales convention?" The guy snickered. "Or do you just want to die happy."

"Doesn't everybody?" Bolan kept right on smiling as he counted off nine more bills and asked the guy, "What will that get?"

"Any damn thing you want," said laughing boy.

"I want a guy with about a two hundred dollar a day habit."

"Huh?"

"Guy about forty. Never won a beauty contest but not too horrible, I guess, as Johns go. Pretty wealthy. Likes 'em for lunch, likes 'em for dinner, and now and then for a midnight snack. I think you've been servicing the guy. I'm trying to locate him."

The smile hung in there but the spirit didn't. "Hey now wait a minute there. I don't know what you're saying and I don't want any. I get involved in nothing, bud, nothing."

"You'd better get involved in this, bud. My way or trouble's way."

Eyes that had seen everything and every kind of guy were now sizing up the Executioner. "You're not a cop, huh."

"Course not. But I want the guy and I want him tonight." Bolan's smile outdid itself. "Save us all a lot of trouble. Make yourself a thousand bucks in the bargain."

The fat man carefully picked up the money. "I think I know the guy."

"You sent him somebody today. Right?"

"Sure. Every day. With this guy, it's a constantly revolving door. I sent him something an hour ago."

Bolan placed his warbook on the desk and opened it to a clean page. "Put the address there."

The guy did so, in huge block print. Then he asked Bolan, "You know about where that is?"

Bolan glanced at the book and replied, "Not exactly."

"I figured you're not from here. Who is, these days, eh?" He sighed. "It cost my client twenty bucks extra for cab fare. It's across Lake Washington on I-90 East. Take the first offramp to Lake Sammamish. Stop at a gas station out there and ask for directions. It's a wooded area. You get lost easy."

"He get service out there regularly?" Bolan idly wondered.

"Out there? Naw. Once or twice before this, maybe. When this guy needs, he needs. He don't care where he is. You're right — that bit about lunch. I send 'em to his office — isn't that rich. Every man's fantasy — a broad under the desk keeping him alert during the boring daily routine."

"Not every guy can afford to indulge that fantasy," Bolan said.

"This one can. You said two hundred a day? Try three and four, some days."