"All right!" The lady was weeping. "I'll tell you. I'll give you your damned key!"

In the back of his brain, Bolan knew that an important domino had just toppled.

Up front, however, that was the least consideration.

More than dominoes, right now, he wanted Dianna Webb — alive and whole. Even if he had to drag her out of there screaming and kicking.

Seattle was a town that had seen its highs and lows — and was right now sitting somewhere in the middle, but with great hopes.

Beginning as a small lumber settlement in mid-nineteenth century and named after a local Indian chief, it received first substantial growth with the coming of the railroad in post-Civil War days then boomed into the turn of the century via the Alaskan gold rush, serving as chief port of supply and support during those fevered times, establishing itself as a major seaport for all times.

Growth had been mostly upward throughout the twentieth century, except for a few bad moments from time to time. Principal city of the Pacific Northwest, she'd surged mightily during W.W. II as a major shipping and shipbuilding center, then gone into the expansive semi-peacetime era as the seat of a growing military-industrial complex — with emphasis on aerospace and related technological sophistries.

Recent problems in the American aerospace industry had been particularly hard felt in Seattle — where a single large company had employed more than 100,000 skilled and professional workers only to drop its payroll to a lean force of 30,000 during a slump that still was evident. Dependent segments of the local economy were as badly hit, and the entire area was impacted by this mini-depression.

It was a town with guts, though, and a brave past. There were few outward signs of a city in trouble. She wore a happy face even if the guts were strained a bit — and Bolan liked the town. The beauty of the natural setting was unequalled anywhere. Built on seven hills and containing within her own boundaries four lakes and forty-five parks, majestically flanked by the Cascades east and the Olympics west — this beautiful city on Puget Sound held something worthwhile for any taste and every pursuit.

And that, at the moment, was what worried Mack Bolan.

In times of strain, overanxious city fathers would be more inclined to support rather than spurn new hope in the economic sector. They would, perhaps, rush to embrace without first closely scrutinizing.

And, yes, based on the meager revelations of Margaret Nyeburg alone, this appeared to be precisely the case at hand.

John Franciscus was a man with "an open past" but a peculiarly clouded present. If Nyeburg had been the face of the mob encroachment here, then Franciscus was most probably the muscle.

And that was a bit difficult to square with the known record. The guy was about Bolan's age. Like Bolan, he'd spent most of his adult life in the military — but with a difference. Franciscus was a West Pointer. He'd been a combat soldier, not a politician. Yet he seemed to have many political and social contacts, plenty of money, seemingly unlimited resources. He did not work, had not been born wealthy, and was not visibly attached to any business or financial concerns.

Margaret referred to him as "that playboy."

Allan, though, had been "frightened" by him, Dianna "clearly imbalanced" by him, and certain civic officials seemingly over-responsive to his "promotions."

Why that last? What was the guy offering Seattle that she did not already possess? Margaret could not answer that. Bolan thought that perhaps he could — with just a few more pieces of the puzzle in place.

The mission of the moment, however, was not to drain Johnny Franciscus but to spring Dianna Webb. Bolan had not been playing games with Margaret Nyeburg. He felt most overpoweringly that the lady's daughter was another moth with fragile wings fluttering too close to the consuming flame.

Bolan knew his enemy.

He knew their values, the things they revered, the prices they were willing to pay for success. And they would pay any life but their own.

If not already too late, he meant to see that Dianna Webb did not become part of that price.

Bolan checked the lady into a Holiday Inn under an assumed name, paid for the room cash in advance, and spirited her into the room wrapped in a blanket — with promises that she would remain until contacted and "play no more games."

Then he went to work on the warwagon, changing a few color panels to present a new "design" — replacing the license plates — rearranging various exterior dummy appurtenances.

The hour was nearing eleven when he wheeled the sleek "new" motor home to an address in Seattle's east-central sector. It was a high-rise complex in a parklike setting overlooking Lake Washington — an elite neighborhood for fashionable cavedwellers — security conscious, with electronic door interlocks at each building entrance, uniformed patrols on the grounds between the buildings and in the parking areas.

One building in particular did not seem overly confident of the normal security precautions. It was the address in Bolan's warbook. A car was parked at the yellow zone curbing just down from the lobby entrance, two guys in the front seat. Four more guys in well-fitted suits stood in a clutch at the entrance, chatting.

Not the usual mob guys, no. Soldiers nonetheless. Each of those four would have looked more natural in shiny combat boots and the spiffy trappings of the Military Police. That was Bolan's gut reading, at any rate.

He donned the yellow nightshades, pulled on to the curb directly opposite the entrance, and opened his window.

It was as good a time as any to probe the depths of Dianna Webb's defection.

Four pairs of eyes took that vehicle instantly apart, but none of the troops moved another muscle.

Bolan called over, "Pardon me. Which building is forty-two?"

One of the guys peeled away from the pack to take a couple of paces toward the curb. "This is forty," he replied in a not unfriendly tone. "Go back around the circle and take the first right. That should put you into forty-two."

Bolan said, "Thanks," as another of the four moved forward and squatted to peer at his undersides.

"That's quite an RV," the new one commented, coming out of the squat to flash a grin at the man at the wheel. "How's she do in the mountains?"

"I'll find out tomorrow," Bolan replied, grinning back. "Taking her up Olympus."

"I'd be interested in how she does," the guy shot back. "You live around here?"

"Not yet. Buddy of mine lives over in forty-two. We're spending the night here, taking off early tomorrow morning."

"What's his name?"

"Thompson. Know 'im?"

"Wish I did, no."

"Come in and take a look around if you'd like," Bolan grandly offered.

Genuine regret registered there as the guy flashed a sheepish glance toward his companions. "Some other time, I'd love to. How much it set you back?"

"God I hate to look at the papers and see," Bolan said, grinning. "It started out at thirty, basic. I just closed my eyes and signed my name. I'll look at the final price after I see how she does."

The guy laughed and stepped back. "I'll look you up when you get back."

"Do that," Bolan said, and moved on away from there.

No — not standard mob guys. These "boys" were all business — in a polished military manner. A high percentage of that friendly banter had been business-oriented. The guy dug the rig, sure — but he'd been primarily interested in establishing the status of it. Apparently Bolan had passed the inspection. Just as apparently, Dianna had betrayed his confidence.

He circled on to the next building and into the parking area separating the two, found a good spot for surveillance, and parked.