Bolan replied, "Can't. The joint's alive with cops."

Stone moved on cautiously to the head of the stairs, his brows knit with thought. "Then I've gotten you into a pretty pickle," he announced. "I have been darting about for 20 minutes in an attempt to shake Nicholas Woods off my tail. I finally ditched my car several streets over and made it in through the back way. But I've no assurance that I lost them, not entirely."

Bolan asked him, "And who is Nicholas Woods?"

"A local mobster, and I'm surprised that you don't know. I believe he is also referred to as Nick Trigger."

Bolan said, "Okay, I make. Now tell me, how many of them?"

The Major shrugged. "At least five, perhaps more. I suspect they're prowling the alleyway at this very instant."

Bolan sighed, his mind racing ahead to his options. He could try bluffing his way out past the cops, and if they closed on him he would have no recourse. Bolan did not shoot cops. To reverse the Major's trail would undoubtedly run him into a direct confrontation with a superior force of gunners.

He told Stone, "Okay, I'm going over the top. Ann's waiting for you in room three." Then he charged on up the steps to the floor above.

A hardfaced little man occupied a wicker chair at the top of the stairway. His eyes quickly discovered the gun in Bolan's hand and he cried, " 'ere now, what's this?"

In a rough imitation of Harry Parks' speech, Bolan told him, "It's a pinch down below, mate. Get 'em all out, quickly now!"

The man's hand jerked to a button on the wall behind him, and Bolan could hear alarm bells sounding immediately in the rooms along the hallway. The little man was on his feet and intent on scurrying down the stairs, but Bolan restrained him. "Not that way," he growled, hoping for a different exit.

"There ain't no other way," the man screeched. He tore loose from Bolan's grasp and bounded down the stairs.

Already pandemonium was erupting into the hallway as men and women in varying stages of nudity spilled out of the rooms. An angry youth hobbled past Bolan, trying to get into his trousers on the run, a shirt clenched between his teeth, shoes beneath his arms. A pretty girl hurried along in the youth's wake, fumbling with the buttons of her dress and trying to cover nakedly heaving breasts while she hurled taunting insults ahead at the boy.

Bolan felt like hell about it all, but he knew the interrupted lovers would live this problem down; perhaps Bolan would not. He watched the unhappy group stream by, then he began a quick inspection of that upper area of Soho Psych. It consisted of six rooms, three to each side, and apparently covered only the rear section of the building. The rooms to the front had windowless, blank walls—it appeared that the upper story of the building was subdivided, with a separate mode of access to that part which faced on the street. The other three rooms each featured a small window over the alleyway. Bolan's recon consumed less than a minute and revealed that he was in a seemingly hopeless situation. There was no sign of a fire escape, no way to the roof, and nothing but a sheer drop to the alley some thirty feet below.

He was about to give it up as a bad stand when he found the way out. In the ceiling above a closet in the end bedroom was a trapdoor access to the attic. He hoisted himself up and through and carefully replaced the covering, then used his cigarette lighter to orient himself in the darkness. As he had hoped, the attic was common to the entire building and yawned out in front of him with no apparent obstacles. It was rough and without flooring above the ceiling beams, and with a low overhead—very low in spots, giving evidence of a gabled roof layout. This suited Bolan fine; gables meant an uneven roof surface, sometimes attic windows, and very possibly a way out.

He extinguished the lighter and began a careful exploration, crawling across the ceiling beams and seeking a light source. Here and there a rat scrambled across his path, setting Bolan's teeth on edge. Sounds of a wild commotion on the floor below were drifting up to him when he spotted his light source—a faint rectangle of dim light far ahead. He pushed on with greater haste, knowing that every second counted now.

The light was coming through a latticed ventilation window, set into a vertical section of roof just a few feet above the ceiling beams. The lattice was composed of wood strips which were brittle with age, and the opening was just wide enough to pass Bolan's shoulders.

The strips gave easily to his gentle pressure, breaking with a dull snap as one by one he quickly cleared the opening. A brief head-through recon showed a short drop to a flat section of roof just below but very narrow—and Frith Street angling off way below.

Bolan reversed his position and went out feet first, clinging to the rotted wood of the window frame for support. Something was going on down in the street in front of the club, but Bolan's line of vision did not afford him a view of that particular area. His interest was not especially strong in that direction anyway, and he was carefully working his way around the gable and toward the rear.

He then discovered that the roof was common to the entire row of buildings. It was an uneven and jumbled surface, however, and steeply sloping in spots, but some moments later he had made his way along to the far end and found a place to go over the side—an iron ladder set into the ancient bricks at the rear—and he descended quickly to the alleyway, alighting just a few yards from the junction of alley with street.

No sooner had he dropped to the ground then a rough voice exclaimed, "Hey what the hell!" and a large figure leapt out of the shadows of the building a few feet downrange. The voice was American and the revolver that swept into view was definitely antagonistic.

Bolan's sideways dive was an uninterrupted extension of his drop from the ladder, and he was slapping leather in the same movement. He hit the ground and the trigger of the Beretta at the same instant, the powerful little weapon phutted softly through the silencer, and the shadowy figure jerked about and crumpled against the building with a quiet gurgling sound.

A man in a long overcoat appeared immediately at the mouth of the alley and called out, "Johnny? What's going on down there?"

The Beretta whispered again, and the man in the overcoat probably never knew what was going on down there. He fell forward into the alley, a pistol clattering along in advance of the sprawl, and Bolan passed the remains at full gallop, erupting into the side street with Beretta swinging and ready.

At that same moment car lights flashed into brilliance, from the curb just downrange. Bolan saw the spurts of muzzle fire streaking out from behind the lights even before the thundering reports reached his ears, but he was already across the blinding glare and arching down toward the vehicle, his own quiet replies sizzling into the argument and dead on target.

A cacaphony of police whistles were sounding up on Frith Street and the sounds of excited activity were swirling around the corner and along the side street. A loud British voice of authority bawled, "This is the police! Cease your fire immediately!"

Bolan's fire had already ceased, as he was beyond the seal car and disappearing into the darkness, but someone in the vehicle was turning his fire toward the police. A volley of answering fire swept down the street and sieved the heavy car, and quiet abruptly descended as Bolan faded around the far corner.

He was clear, for the moment, and he had thrown death back into their teeth once again. But how much longer could it go on? How many more trap plays could he blitz his way out of, and how much longer could he remain clear of these wily men from Scotland Yard?

The London War was taking on a decidedly personal hue, and The Executioner was getting angry. He could not continue on in this purely defensive mode of combat. If he was to survive, he knew, he was going to have to take the offensive. His soul protested, but the battle-hardened flesh knew the truth. Full scale warfare, his kindof warfare, was the only route to survival in England.