He held the Beretta up, chest high, imagining the outline of a man emblazoned on the stucco, and stroked the trigger twice, two short bursts ripping through the cheap construction, all six rounds impacting in a fist-sized circle.

A muffled grunt inside was followed by a crash as number three connected face first with the mirrored glass of the medicine cabinet. Bolan stepped inside and found the gunner wedged between the sink and toilet bowl where he had fallen. His riddled back and lacerated face were dribbling crimson pools that beaded up on contact with the waxed linoleum.

The bathroom's other occupant was stretched out naked in the overflowing tub, her face a precious inch or two above the waterline. And it was Lucy Bernstein, barely alive.

Bolan killed the tap and took a heartbeat to appreciate her beauty before he reached down between the floating legs to pull the plug. He caught her under the arms, lifting the lady up in one fluid motion. When she was clear of the tub, Bolan got an arm beneath her thighs and carried her back past the lifeless pistolero to the nearest bedroom. They might have been interrogating her, but more likely they had meant to kill her and leave it looking like a simple household accident. Whatever, someone in Minotte's camp had traced her here and, had it not been for Bolan's timely arrival, she would be another colored pin on Captain Reese's wall map.

He left her on the single bed and backtracked to the bathroom for some towels. The lady was alive and Bolan needed answers from her in a hurry. Later he could give thought to searching out a haven in the hellgrounds for her.

Safety was a slim commodity in Vegas, getting more scarce by the moment. Soon there would be no free zones on the battlefield. Before it came to that Bolan had to have some answers. Solutions to the host of problems that were plaguing him, binding his hands in what appeared to be at least a three-way war.

There was the Yakuza with Seiji Kuwahara at the helm, united in a singleness of purpose that could make them deadly in the clenches. And the Mafia — now anything but solidly united, from the glimpse that Bolan gathered of the meeting at Spinoza's just before he brought the curtain down. If anything, the family representatives seemed likely to attack each other, long before they got around to Kuwahara. There was the Bernstein faction — if it still existed as an independent entity.

Finally there was Bolan, taking on the world as usual, with every hand against him in the hellgrounds. The odds were with the house as always, but perhaps, just maybe, he could find the key to trimming down those odds a bit.

With good fortune and an assist from the kindly Universe he might even find a way to turn them around for a change. And there again he needed answers.

Insight.

Truth.

Another scarce commodity in Glitter City — but the Executioner had time to dig for it.

A lifetime, if it came to that.

Perhaps a deathtime.

Either way he was committed — to the end of the line.

Bolan gave the woman a brisk rubdown that slowly restored a ruddy color to her body. She started showing signs of life as he was finishing, first coughing, moaning like a trapped and injured animal, finally thrashing out with slender arms and legs in all directions. She had surprising strength — the natural result of desperation. Bolan held her down gently until all resistance ebbed.

When the first defensive spasms passed he brought the sheet and blanket up around her chin, tucking her in like a child. He turned the lights up so that she could see him when she woke, then sat astride a straight-backed chair pulled up beside the bed.

Her eyelids flickered moments later and she looked around, getting her bearings. The eyes settled on Bolan, sparking with recognition, and he was pleased to see her rigid form relax a bit beneath the coverlet.

"It's you, again," she said when she had found her voice."

"Afraid so."

She risked a little smile, without conviction.

"Don't be scared. I'm glad to see you."

There was a momentary silence, as she searched the shadows in each corner of the room for any hostile presence.

"The others..."

"They're not with us anymore," he told her simply.

"You... oh, I see." She was remembering Minotte's more than likely, and the showdown on the highway afterward.

He changed the subject, treading softly.

"Where's your roommate?"

"Working nights. She wasn't here when they showed up, thank heaven."

Bolan felt a measure of relief. He had been half expecting to discover yet another female on the premises, this one already cold and stuffed into a cupboard somewhere by the goons before they settled down to handling the main event.

"Okay," he said, "you'll need to warn her off before we leave. Police will have the place sealed off."

"Those men..."

Bolan read the question in the woman's eyes, and answered it forthrightly.

"I don't have time to move them out." He paused, then continued. "Some questions, then we have to get you out of here."

"I understand. I'll make it up to her... somehow."

She started to sit up and the covers slipped. Hasty fingers grabbed for the sheet, color flaming her cheeks before she made the save. For the first time Lucy Bernstein seemed to realize that she was naked — and that she had not put herself to bed.

She tried to feign bravado as she spoke to him again, putting a bold face on her obvious embarrassment, "I guess I don't have many secrets left."

His answer was a thoughtful frown.

"I wouldn't say that."

"Oh"... She saw that he was serious. Her small self-conscious smile evaporated. "You said you had some questions?"

Bolan nodded, jumped right into it with both feet.

"How long have you worked for the Beacon?"

Lucy looked surprised, taken off guard by his choice of subject matter.

"Going on three years now. I applied right out of journalism school. That's USC," she added, perhaps attempting to impress him.

Bolan was impressed already — by the woman's beauty, by her courage... but he was curious about her, too. And he could not afford to take her at face value.

He still needed answers, and he tried a new approach — direct now, sharp.

"I guess the family hookup helped," he said.

She looked confused again.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He shrugged.

"It means Jack Goldblume and your grandfather go back some forty years. It never hurts to know the boss."

"My grandfather..."

"What do you know about him, really?" Bolan interrupted, silencing her protest.

There was more color in her cheeks, and it was temper now, with no trace of embarrassment. She came up on one elbow, losing the covers again in the process and retrieving them distractedly, her full attention on the nature of Bolan's questioning.

"I know that he's a kindly decent person, Mr. "Blanski." Oh, I've heard the stories — all about his whiskey during Prohibition, and the gambling clubs. I know that he was questioned by Congress more than thirty years ago."

She paused, regarding Bolan with a fine hostility, and when she spoke again her tone was almost haughty.

"It's ancient history, my fine self-righteous friend. He's never been indicted, never been convicted — nothing!"

"What's that supposed to prove?" he asked her calmly.

She was momentarily speechless and the soldier took advantage of it, veering off along a different track.

"You're working on the Syndicate. I guess you've heard of Frank Spinoza?"

"Certainly." Her tone was stiff with barely suppressed anger.

"That's Frank Spinoza from New York," he prodded.

"I said I know who he is."

But Bolan would not let it go until he made his point.

"Spinoza from New York, who has his office at the Gold Rush."