A guy on a stool at the opposite wall got his mouth open and never found time to close it, a 9mm Parabellum slug zipping in there with shattering impact and splattering the wall behind with more life forces than any man could spare.

Another guy, at the end of the lobby area, managed to get a hand inside his coat — his last bloody inch before doomsday.

Bolan reached back into the elevator car and threw the control to "out of service," then propped the door open with the sentry stool just to make certain. There was no other elevator service to this level. Penthouse visitors evidently were required to transfer cars at the next level down. An emergency stairway with a fire door was the only other access.

He stepped across the guy at the entrance to the apartment and kicked the door open.

An MP type just inside gawked then gurgled under the impact of another snorter. Bolan kept going and found another in the kitchen then another just exiting from a bathroom — and he left them there where he found them.

A large bedroom with two glass walls was empty; another, a mere cubicle with no glass at all, contained a dresser and a bed with a technically nude young lady spread-eagled and bound to the latter by wrists and ankles. A small handtowel was stuffed into her mouth.

The eyes became frantic at the sight of Bolan, and a muffled moan escaped the gag.

He stood over her and carefully removed the towel, then coolly inquired, "Is this some kinky game or is the young lady in trouble?"

It was a cheap shot, sure, but he was as angry as relieved and just couldn't let the opportunity slide.

She wore only the slinky chemise he'd first seen her in, plus bikini briefs. By her struggles or some other force, the dress had become raised in wadded folds to the breastline.

She turned away from the Bolan gaze and closed her eyes.

"Ready to go home, babe?" he asked her in a kindlier tone.

"God, yes," she whispered.

He cut the sashcord from her wrists and lay the stiletto on her bare belly. "Meet me at the elevator," he instructed. "Where's friend John?"

"I-I don't know for sure. And I don't care for sure. He left hours ago. Something about the Seattle-Tacoma Airport."

Bolan snapped, "Hurry!" and jogged out of there.

He scattered micro pickups all over that joint, even in the bathrooms, then made a run for the lobby.

Dianna was waiting for him there, standing astride the overturned stool in the elevator doorway, teeth bared and corners of the mouth pulled back in a horrified grimace as she stared transfixed at the former occupant of that stool.

"Know him?" Bolan growled. "Yes, th-that's David Turner."

"Was," he said, and pushed her gently on into the car then kicked the stool aside.

He'd just cycled the controls for a return to service when Dianna lunged forward with eyes glaring and a gurgling in the throat, terrified gaze leaping beyond Bolan's shoulder to something behind him.

He whirled to see the fire door half-open, a guy pushing through, others close behind on the stairwell.

The guy in front wore crepe-sole canvas shoes and casual slacks, turtleneck jersey, light nylon wind-breaker — handsome guy, wavy blond hair concealing the ears and curling to the rear in a mod fashion, facial expression altering rapidly from annoyance to alarm as those gazes clashed. The man directly behind looked like some moviemaker's impression of Aristotle Onassis — a chubby guy done up in swank suit with silk lapels, a boutonniere, smoked glasses, gray Homburg.

All of which was no more than a flashing impression gained via a microsecond of observation while Bolan was already reacting to the situation.

He launched himself in full flight, hitting that door with a double judo kick from six feet out, and it went all the way to full closure with a resounding crack, punching the blond man and entourage into a noisy descent along the stairway.

Dianna was a quick reactor, also. She'd punched the "door close" control and was holding the door open with her hand when Bolan recovered and began scrambling back. "Roof!" he yelled as he dived inside.

He again cycled to "out of service" as they were exiting, then grabbed the girl's hand and led the dash to the waiting 'copter. While she climbed aboard, he stepped over to attach an "exterior device" to the outside railing of the parapet.

"You still had ten seconds," Grimaldi observed drolly as they lifted off.

"Not really," Bolan puffed, but nobody heard him above the clatter of the rotors.

Nor did they need to.

Angry men were erupting from another housing just east of the stalled elevator and swarming across that roof down there.

One of them took a wild shot at the disappearing "eagle," but it was a vain attempt.

They were well clear and climbing into the mists above.

The girl gave him an uncertain visual contact then sighed and snuggled to him.

Grimaldi was making a sign with his headset.

Bolan donned his and asked, "Yeah?"

"Too close for comfort," the pilot commented. "It's zero-zero down there right now. You just made it, buddy. Thank God I was sitting, not hovering upstairs."

Yeah.

That, dear hearts, was what Mack Bolan called "on the numbers." With not a heartbeat to spare.

Grimaldi found a momentary clearing and set down a few hundred yards from where Bolan had left the warwagon.

Grim-lipped, he told the Executioner: "Terrified but safe. For now. Here you are, soldier. And the ride was paid in advance."

Bolan gripped his friend's hand in a warm clasp and said, "You're a real artist, Jack. Thanks. I'm releasing you. Need anything?"

The pilot shook his head. "But you do. I'll stick around a while."

Bolan smiled, lightly slapped the guy's hand, and took the young lady out of there.

As soon as they'd stepped inside the warwagon, she sank to the floor with a happy sound and declared, "I never want to leave here again."

He said, "Come forward," and went up to fire the engine. The girl slid into the seat next to him, contrite but eyes glowing — and he quit that place, headed for the motel where he had parked Margaret.

"Okay," Dianna said presently. "Start screaming at me."

He shot her a stern glance then grinned solemnly as he replied, "Well, we live and learn, don't we. If we live."

"That's all? You're not going to slap me around or anything?"

"Do you deserve it?"

"Sure. I guess I cornered all the deserve in town, huh."

"Maybe a pimple of it, here and there. I'm glad you're alive, Dianna. Save the apologies for Margaret. You owe me nothing."

"I owe her, though."

"Yeah."

"I owe you, too. Listen, what can I tell you? What do you need to know?"

He angled another glance her way and shrugged his shoulders. "What do you have?"

"I don't know. Ask me something."

"The blond guy. Was that Franciscus?"

"Yes. The rat. I thought for a little while that you two were very much alike. You're not. Not at all. He almost killed my mother, didn't he."

Bolan nodded. "Trying for me."

Her eyes hung as she reported, "Johnny was furious that they missed. But he didn't bat an eye over the way they handled it — my mother, I mean."

"These people don't care who gets in the way, Dianna."

"Yes, I — you told me that," she pointed out, small voiced. "I had to see it for myself, I guess. I'm sorry, Mack. I am genuinely sorry. For what good that does."

He dismissed it with a bat of the eyes. "Did you see the chubby comic on the stairway behind Franciscus?"

"A while ago?" She slowly shook her head. "It all happened so fast."

"Guy about sixty. Five and a half feet or so high.

Big belly, Hollywood glasses. Dressed for burial Ring any bells?"