Firebase Seattle

She understood. 'Do you have a cigarette, Mr. Bolan?'

He lit one and placed it at her hand. 'I've never lived in your moccasins, Margaret,' he said quietly. 'If you want to scream and yell, go ahead.'

She gave him a half-bright smile and took a pull at the cigarette. 'The time for screaming and yelling is long past,' she replied. 'I had already decided to divorce Allan. Awaiting only the right moment. There's been so much... intrigue of late. Still... well, there is an ache. I can't help that.'

'Wouldn't want you to,' he commented gruffly. 'Can we talk a little?'

'Of course.'

'How long had Allan been in this thing? To your knowledge?'

'I suppose... about a year. It began with a business trip to New York. Suddenly Allan became involved in real estate, proxy purchases. Then the Expo thing, shipping, meetings with strange men. Life didn't become frantic until just the past month or so, though. Since then it has been mysterious telephone conversations at all hours, armed men lurking about — that pathetic child, Tommy Rentino, forever in Allan's shadow. Was he a bodyguard?'

Bolan shrugged. 'If so, nobody figured your husband for being in much jeopardy. Tommy is not a very hard man.'

The lady sighed. 'Poor Tommy. He was madly in love with Dianna. A hopeless, hurting sort of crush, you know.' The eyes flashed at Bolan. 'Dianna favors more mature men.'

'How is Dianna? She had a rough — '

'I sent her away.'

Bolan stared at the lady, thoughts chugging and images frozen. 'You did what?'

'She has conflicting loyalties, Mr. Bolan. I convinced her that she should make a decision and act accordingly.'

He growled, 'I need more than that, Margaret.'

'She has a lover,' the lady reported, sighing.

So what and why not? As the young lady herself had observed, it wasn't 1940 — and, even then, many young ladies had lovers. But why had Boland blithely overlooked even the question?

He told the young lady's mother, 'I still don't understand. Unless you're saying that I'm a threat to her morals. There's a much larger threat waiting out there for your daughter, and it — '

She halted his speech with a pained expression and a hand at his shoulder. 'No, not that. I said 'conflict' and that is exactly what I meant. Dy paced around here for an hour, crying and wringing her hands. She's not nearly so sophisticated as she appears, Mr. Bolan. Dy is a — well, a very direct sort. She handles emotions at the heart level. She — '

'What's the conflict?'

'You. And John Franciscus.'

'Who's he?'

The lady shook her head. 'Dy met him through some association with Allan. I hadn't heard of them, though, until just today. Until Dy began pacing and crying, in fact. But I gather that he is in the enemy camp.'

It was a nutty family, Bolan was deciding. The lady had sent the Executioner after her husband, presumably because the man was a detestable criminal type whom she could simply not condone — married to it or not. The lady's daughter, who supposedly hated her stepfather, made love to his executioner and pleaded for his life though marked for death, herself, by the guy's associates. Now the mother was telling the executioner that she'd 'sent' her daughter into the death camp because of 'conflicting' loyalties — an affair of the heart with one of the enemy.

Bolan shook his head to clear it and growled, 'Wait a minute, now.'

'She felt that she had to at least try.'

'Try what?'

'Stop the killing.'

'And how would she go about doing that?'

'I haven't the faintest idea. But she felt compelled to try.'

'You're lying to me, Margaret,' Bolan decided. 'You didn't advise Dianna to do anything of the sort. You didn't 'send' her anywhere.'

The gaze wavered and broke. The lady sighed. She said, 'I suppose I'm not a very good liar. You're right, of course. I tried every piece of logic at my command — but Dy makes her own decisions, ill-based though they may often be.' The artful version of Dianna Webb raised creamy shoulders slightly and dropped them. 'She left here barely an hour behind you. I promised her that I would remain at least until morning, in case you should return.'

'She didn't expect me to return, did she?'

Margaret's gaze returned level to his. 'No.'

'She was going to turn me over.'

'I believe that was the general intent.'

'How was she going to do that?'

'Don't blame her too strongly, Mr. Bolan. She is quite young. And confused about love.'

Bolan said, 'Yeah. How?'

'She had a rather detailed description of your — your motor home.'

A moth to the candle, yeah. Bolan got up quickly and killed the lights in the living area. 'Get dressed!' he commanded.

'I don't understand.'

'Don't even try. Just do as I say. I'm taking your life back into my hands, Margaret. Now come on! Do you go dressed or do you go like that?'

'I'll dress,' she whispered.

Bolan's guts were now yelling in forty forked tongues. He growled, 'Second thought, forget it!' He grabbed her by the arm and hustled her to the screen porch, then pushed her low and led her through the doorway, taking her by the hand there and urgently whispering, 'Run!'

They broke cover at the front corner and plunged blindly into the mists toward the water on a dead run, and they had not covered twenty yards when the chilling staccato of choppers in concert tore the silence behind them.

Margaret faltered and almost fell. Bolan jerked her on and put an arm about her to keep her moving.

Three and possibly four Thompsons were taking that house apart at close range — and the lady understood the implications of that as well as Bolan did.

'Oh Dy, Dy!' she moaned.

'She couldn't have known,' Bolan assured her.

They were circling toward the drive when flames shot skyward back there along the water and a rumbling explosion shook the ground beneath their feet.

The death crew had come to 'stop the killing.' Apparently they'd known that Bolan was in there, and they were leaving no stone unturned nor board unburnt.

Scorched earth, sure.

A lone gunner had been posted at Bolan's rented Fairlane. He took the guy from behind, with a garrote — and the moth and the lady shook the flames of that place from their wings.

Close, yeah. Too damned close for chuckles.

12 Valuables

Leo Turrin sent his tagman on with the rest of the crew to handle the formalities of registration while he stopped off at the message desk.