Bolan led the lady on shaky legs out of the bloody shambles of her bathroom and into an adjoining bedroom, where he flicked on the lights and deposited her in an upright position on the bed. He had snared some towels on the way, and now he began briskly drying her off from head to toe. As he worked, he noted the return of healthy color to her pale flesh.

Her first feeble protest was swallowed in another fit of coughing that brought up more water from her lungs, but within moments she was strong enough to wrench the towel away from him and hold it in front of herself as a shield for her nudity.

Bolan left her there, breathing heavily, one of her hands pressed to her head and the other holding the bath towel against her breasts.

He moved quickly, finding the kitchen and scanning the household items beneath the sink. He found a fat roll of paper towels, some rags, and a half-empty box of plastic trash can liners, then took all the items back to the bathroom slaughter-house with him.

After sliding an extra-strength trash bag over the mangled upper quarters of each lifeless man, Bolan set about swabbing the walls and tub area with the paper towels, careful to expunge all vestiges of blood and tissue.

He did not intend to leave any trace of the two hired killers behind.

When he was finished, he gave the whole room a quick visual inspection, then shoved the bloody towels inside one of the laden trash bags. As a last step, he rifled the pockets of the dead men, coming up with drivers' licenses that identified them as Philip Ciccio and Joseph Lupo, respectively.

Bolan pocketed the ID cards and moved back to the bedroom doorway. Inside, Fran Traynor was standing beside the bed, a large bath towel draped across her, toga-fashion, hiding her shapely form from collarbone to upper thighs. Still a bit unsteady, she stood with one slim hand braced against the edge of a bedside nightstand.

And the other hand was clenched tightly around a snub-nosed .38 special.

Aimed right at Mack Bolan.

"You don't need that," he said. "I'm not the enemy."

"So you say." Her voice was firm, no longer waterlogged.

Bolan shrugged impassively. "If I wanted you dead, I could have done it in there." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the bathroom beyond. "Or I could have let Mutt and Jeff finish what they started."

There was a trace of uncertainty in the lady cop's eyes now, and the stubby muzzle of her weapon slipped a notch lower, freezing somewhere on a level with the Executioner's groin.

"So... who are you?" she asked at last "What are you?"

Bolan moved a cautious step forward before the .38 snapped up again to freeze him in his tracks.

"An ally, Fran. Perhaps a friend."

For the first time that night, the lady cop looked not frightened or exhausted, but honestly surprised.

"I didn't drop in here tonight by accident," Bolan assured her. "I came looking for you."

The gun was slipping lower again, and Bolan sidled another step closer, farther into the room.

"So did those two in there," Fran Traynor retorted. "Are they both... dead?"

Bolan nodded. "We have to start thinking about who sent them after you, and why."

"We?"

She clearly was having a hard time accepting this dark stranger as a friend, even though he had just saved her life.

"I'm an ally," Bolan repeated patently. "For the moment, your enemies are mine."

"Who are you?" she asked again. She was sounding increasingly desperate.

"We can talk about that after I finish cleaning up and get you safely out of here," he said.

The .38's hammer snapped back into full cock under her thumb.

"I'm not going anywhere, and neither are they," she said sharply. Her gun flicked away in a swift gesture toward the bathroom and its lifeless tenants.

Bolan forced a casual shrug. "Suit yourself. If you'd rather wait here for the backup team..."

Fran Traynor tossed her head defiantly, flinging wet strands of hair back from her face.

"I can take care of myself, Mr... whatever. And I can have a police squad here within minutes."

Bolan nodded toward the bathroom. "Those guys were puppets, Fran. Think about it. I wouldn't make any calls until I found out who's been pulling the strings."

That shocked her, and the .38's muzzle did a rapid slide in the direction of Bolan's ankles. He knew that he could take it from her easily, but he let her keep it.

"What do you suggest?" she asked after a long pause.

"First, you get dressed. Meanwhile, I take out the trash, and then together we find you a safe place to stay. After that, we must talk."

Bolan left her to get dressed, and returned to the bathroom and the two corpses laid out headfirst in the garbage bags. He carried them out to the waiting Caddy one at a time, slung over his shoulder in the traditional fireman's carry. Outside, the ignition yielded up a key, and he dumped each man in turn into the trunk. Joey the driver joined them in that ignominious pile.

Trusting that Fran was confused and frightened enough to heed his advice and stay off the telephone, Bolan spared more precious numbers to fire up the Cadillac's engine and pilot the big crew wagon down the block to the next intersection. He left it sitting beside the trash dumpers of an all-night quick-stop market, and locked the keys inside.

Walking back, he retrieved his rental car and parked it in the Caddy's former place in Fran Traynor's driveway. A quick glance down the street showed him lights newly turned on in two of the houses, but there was no other sign of activity.

They wouldn't have much time to waste, even so. He meant to be out of there with the lady cop before being observed by any of the early-rising neighbors, or police cruisers.

When he reentered the house, Bolan found Fran Traynor dressed and ready to go. She was waiting for him in the bedroom, a purse and overnight bag on the bed beside her. The snubby .38 was nowhere in evidence.

"I didn't know when I'd be coming back, so..." She gestured toward the bags, leaving the sentence unfinished.

"Good idea," Bolan agreed. "And I hope it won't be for long."

"Let's go," she said, sounding suddenly disinterested, preoccupied. "It doesn't feel homey here right now."

Bolan and Fran Traynor drove in mutual silence to a comfortable motel set back several blocks from the tangle of downtown St. Paul. Bolan registered with a sleepy, disinterested desk clerk, signing the registry for Mr. and Mrs. Frank La Mancha. It was a name he would be using to significant effect in the events to come. Bolan then parked his rented sedan in front of a room at the far end of the motel's east wing.

He locked the door behind them and turned to find the lady cop standing beside the double bed, facing him, digging something out of her purse.

He sighed. "I thought we'd gotten beyond the gun."

Her cheeks colored as she produced a leather billfold and snapped it open, flashing her gold detective's shield into view.

"I want you to know who you're dealing with," she said.

"I know who you are, Fran. I told you."

She looked attractive as she very promptly became flustered.

"Well... damn!" was the best she could manage. She sat down on the edge of the bed.

Bolan spoke after a long pause. He was looking at her intently. "There are some questions I have to ask you."

"Not so fast, handsome." She raised a cautioning hand. "I've got about a zillion questions of my own, starting with who you are, and I am not in the best of health and humor, in case you hadn't noticed."

Bolan appreciated her spirit as much as her good looks. She was plucky enough to endure a deadly and humiliating ordeal, and then play cop. She was strong inside.