"Did Evie get home?" Bolan asked her.

"I don't know," she replied fuzzily. "I took a pill, and I… I guess I'm groggy. Just a sec. I'll go see."

She was gone for about a minute, and her voice was much steadier when she told Bolan, "No, she isn't back. And I think Rachel is flipping out or something."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean she's at the wailing wall, and I haven't seen that girl cry in the three years I've known her. What did you do to her?"

Bolan muttered, "Dammit."

"Well, what did you do?"

"Nothing, Paula. I didn't do a thing to Rachel."

"Okay. I guess that's why she's wailing. Well, what do you think? About Evie, I mean. Should I call the police?"

"Is it unusual for her to stay out all night?" he asked.

"Not at all," came the prompt reply, with emphasis on each word.

"Okay, then I'd say don't sweat it. But listen…"

"I'm listening."

"I think it might be a good idea for you and Rachel to pack off to a hotel for a couple of days. And get Evie under your wing as soon as you can."

A slight pause followed, then, "You think we're in danger?"

"You've been in danger from the first moment you saw me. Yes, I think you should get out of there."

"All right. I'll accept your judgment."

"Call it an instinct," Bolan told her.

"All right, and I accept that even faster. Now if I can just get Rachel to understand."

"Tell her that I said dammit just do it."

Paula laughed softly and said, "Maybe you should come and tell her yourself."

"Can't do that," he muttered. "I'm about out on my feet, Paula. I've got to put it down."

"Do so carefully," she said, and hung up.

Bolan stared at the telephone for a moment, dark thoughts of security and super-security edging through his mind, then he found another dime and placed a collect call to Pittsfield, the old home town where this war had been born. He identified himself as Sargent La Mancha, and the operator made him repeat it twice.

A sleepy voice from far away confirmed the connection on the second ring with a, "Yeah, hello."

The operator announced, "I have a collect call for anyone from a Mr. Sargent La Mancha in New York City. Will you accept the charges?"

"Call from who?" Leo Turrin asked groggily.

"The party says his name is Sargent La Mancha."

Turrin replied, "No, I won't accept any collect calls on this phone. Tell him to — wait a minute, I'll get that other number."

Bolan grinned and waited while the undercover cop and Mafia under-boss dug for the number of a pay station a couple of blocks from his home. Then the familiar voice returned to the line and recited the number, and added, "And tell him to use his own damn credit card, operator."

Turrin hung up and the operator asked Bolan, "Did you get that, sir?"

Bolan said, "I sure did. Thanks, operator." It was their own little arrangement. Bolan's voice never had to enter the hookup into Turrin's house number, but the contact was set up.

"Do you wish that I re-place to the other number now?"

"No, I'll wait a few minutes, thanks," Bolan replied.

He returned to his room and stripped to the waist, removed the bandage, and looked at his wound. It was pulsing and it had a sort of an angry look to it. Bolan muttered, "Oh hell," and applied medication and a new bandage, then slipped the shoulder rig onto bare skin, pulled on a shirt, and went back to the telephone.

This time he paid for the call himself and Turrin's crisp, wide-awake voice sounded pretty good to a tired and lonely warrior. Bolan told him, "Sorry to get you out of bed."

"In a blizzard yet," Turrin replied. "Temp in this phone booth right now is I guess about 69 below zero. You got snow there?"

Bolan chuckled and replied, "Plenty. Plus many warmer activities."

"Yeah, we're getting the vibrations all the way over here. You're rousting them pretty good, but listen — that's big-city you're fooling with now. Trying to bust New York is about equal to marching into Hanoi. You watch your step. Uh, what's on your mind?"

"I got to wondering about John-O." Bolan was referring to his kid brother, the sole surviving relative and weakest point of Bolan's defenses. "I was wondering if his security was still solid."

"Yeah, it's solid," Turrin assured him. "He digs that military school. I don't know why, I don't think I could hack it. But he's eating it up."

"Okay, I guess that's all I had on my mind."

"At — what? — three in the morning? Naw, you got more than that on your mind, buddy-O."

Bolan chuckled. "Have you seen Valentina lately?"

"Few days ago, same time I checked the kid. She sends you her undying devotion. Don't worry, she's secure."

"Like her work okay?"

"Yeah, she digs it too. Running an office is a bit different than running a classroom, you know, but she's there with the kid and…" Turrin laughed. "She says if nothing else shell wait until hegrows up and marry him."

Bolan said, "Leo, I appreciate you — "

"Oh hell, don't say it. I just wish I'd stumbled onto them sooner. Don't worry, they're under heavy wraps."

"Any money problems?"

"You kidding?"

Bolan laughed. "Well, I dipped into the bank today and I — "

"Yeah I heard about that too. Forget it, it's all coming out of the same pocket. The kid's all right and Val is fine. So stop worrying."

"I wasn't worrying," Bolan said. "I guess I just wanted to talk about them."

"You want to try rigging a trip back this way?" Turrin asked. "We could smuggle a meet, I think."

Bolan said, "Oh hell no. Don't even get me to thinking about that. Say, uh, how'd it go with you in London?"

"Clean," Turrin told him. "I came out smelling like a rose."

Bolan laughed. "I guess you're about the only one."

Turrin also was chuckling. He said, "Name of the game, Sarge. Listen, you watch your step in the big bad city. Something large is brewing over there and the five families are up tight, damntight. So you watch it."

"What's the brew?"

"Politics, baby. And you know how that goes."

"Isn't it the wrong time of the year for that?" Bolan asked, but something had already started crawling through his mind.

"It's always the right time for politics. You know that."

"Yeah, but, for a big brew?"

"Well… yeah, I guess you're right. I don't believe they have an election coming up there for… oh hell, when do they vote in New York?"

"Same as other places, I guess," Bolan replied. "And my nose says wrong timing."

"Yeah. Well listen. I'll see what I can pick up. You want to call me back or do you have a number there I — "

'Til call you back. Uh, Leo. Thanks."

"Go to hell you big slob."

A click and a hum told Bolan that the conversation had ended. He grinned and went back to his room, and then he stopped grinning as his legs buckled under him and he had to make a grab for the bedpost to remain upright. Too much too fast, buddy, he told himself. Put it down, put it down.

He put it down, clothes and all, and he was asleep before his head met the pillow, his hand resting upon the grip of the Beretta, and his mind resting upon the ties that held important lives connected to his own. And he dreamed bloody dreams.