Dianna had been involved in some sort of intrigue with Allan's business for several weeks — all of which was very mysterious and quietly alarming for the mother. She had called Dianna's apartment at six thirty and every fifteen minutes thereafter until past eight o'clock. Then she'd gone to the office and awaited word. Tommy Rentino came in at ten o'clock, sheepish and taciturn — insisting that he'd seen neither Dianna nor Nyeburg since early the preceding evening. Tommy had been, she'd thought, a sort of messenger boy and special courier for her husband. Under close questioning by Mrs. Nyeburg, the boy had admitted that "something had gone sour" — but he could not or would not explain further.
At eleven thirty, she turned on a small portable television in her office to catch the midday news — fearful and halfway expecting to hear something "grisly" concerning her husband's crisis. What she caught was a special program aired by the local affiliate, a repeat of a network news special of a few weeks earlier, chronicling the life and wars of one Mack Bolan — with local reportage of the events of the early morning hours in Seattle.
Then she'd really become worried.
She'd tried reaching both Nyeburg and her daughter by telephone at every conceivable location — drawing a blank, of course, each time.
By the time Mack Bolan strode into her offices, she was seriously contemplating calling the police with a missing persons report.
Bolan stopped off at a small variety store on the way to Richmond Beach and picked up a few items. A mile from the warwagon, he gave Margaret Nyeburg a pair of dark eyeshades and asked her to put them on, explaining simply that he did not wish her burdened with information she'd be better off without. She complied without complaint.
He removed the shades himself when she stepped inside the warwagon. Mother and daughter had a noisy and tearful reunion while Bolan went out and attached the rented car to a tow bar at the rear of the larger vehicle.
Inside again, he gave the ladies his purchases from the variety store — bluejeans and flannel shirts, deck-shoes, bandannas for the hair — and told them what to do with them.
While they changed, he sent the warwagon cruising north along the coast to a small beach house several miles along. This was his "rear base," rented shortly after his arrival in the area and not used until this moment. The house was semi-isolated, fully stocked with foodstuffs and other necessities adequate for a week-long stay, snug, secure. Bolan would have put his own kid in there.
He told the ladies, "There's no phone. Which is good — there won't be the temptation to start calling around for news. There's a radio — use that, instead. I want you to stay here and keep out of sight until you hear different from me personally. Your lives are now in your own hands. Keep it that way."
He went out then, and the younger lady followed him onto the porch. "So it's Prisoner of Mom," she said with a wry smile. "What's the matter — can't take the heat?"
He replied, "Well take up that question later. Love and death don't make a very winning combination, Dianna." He smiled. "I'll give you a chance to eat those words. Later."
She smiled back and said, "Sure."
"Watch her," Bolan cautioned, referring to the mother. "She didn't get the baptism you did. Make sure she doesn't have movie ideas about blood and guts."
The girl winced. She asked, "What are you going to do to Allan?"
Bolan shrugged. "The guy is wearing the mark of the beast. I didn't put it there. He did."
"Well sure, but ..." She tossed a quick glance through the open doorway. "She couldn't possibly love the man, Thor. But they have been man and wife for over six years. I-I just ... don't judge him too harshly."
Bolan frowned as he told the girl, "I don't judge, Dianna. I don't even condemn. I just read the marks, and I fulfill. These guys are their own judge and their own jury. Hell I'm just the executioner."
"That's tough, oh that's tough," she argued quietly. "Wish I could be that tough, but I'm not. Neither is my mother. Don't — please don't ..."
Tough, sure. Bolan's dreams were haunted by the wraiths of weeping widows.
"No promises," he said gruffly. "But I will play it by the ear. If the fates should smile on Allan, okay. If not ..."
She said, very quietly and almost conspiratorially, "You know, it's funny — I'm not the least little worried about you. You're so — so damn awesome. What are you, Thor Bolan? What makes you tick?"
The senior version edged through the doorway at that moment to officially join the conversation. Margaret Nyeburg said, "If you'd been watching television this morning, Dy, you wouldn't have to ask that. Go on, Mr. Bolan. Do what you must do. I'm sorry, yes, I have been listening. Don't risk one of your fingers for the sake of Allan Nyeburg."
Bolan gave them both a flash of warm blue eyes and a quiet farewell.
That was a mighty cool lady back there, he was thinking as he wheeled the warwagon back toward town. Some day, if she was damn lucky, the junior miss would be just as cool — and as beautiful.
Nyeburg really had to be some kind of sick dude — to shit on a woman like that. On women like that.
Bolan, however, was no doctor. He did not cure, he eradicated. This was his focus. To change focus would be to dilute the effect. And the "effect" was all he had going.
At that moment, he was "going" for Allan Nyeburg. With the active assistance of the man's wife. The lady had given Bolan a list of addresses and phone numbers. They pertained to Nyeburg's "illness."
If you're looking for a junkie, watch the pushers.
Bolan was off to watch the pimps.
At the far side of the country, an agitated young man with hat pulled low over his eyes was stepping into an official vehicle at the national airport in Washington, D.C. He was the object of the most closely guarded government secret since the Manhattan Project. His name was Leo Turrin. He was ranking boss of the Pittsfield arm of a larger Massachusetts crime family. He was a popular and "coming" young "executive" in the far-flung empire of la Cosa Nostra, enjoying the confidence and respect of the ruling council as well as the general rank and file. The secret was that he was also Sticker — the code name for the most sensitive government agent in the undercover ranks.
Only one man in Washington knew the true identity of Sticker. That man was Harold Brognola, the top official in the government's anti-crime program. Curiously enough, Brognola was also the official charged with the responsibility to "stop Mack Bolan."
Curious, because these two men were the closest friends Mack Bolan had in the world. It had been largely through Bolan's activities that Turrin rose so swiftly through Mafia ranks. And it had been largely through Bolan's mob-busting heroics that Hal Brognola had become such an impressive figure on the Washington scene. Both of these men privately acknowledged their debts to Mack Bolan even while discounting his own debts to them — which were many.
It was a rare occasion for Turrin and Brognola to make direct, personal contact — and very risky. Brognola was a bit testy, in fact, as Turrin slid into the car beside him. "What's the panic?" he growled.
They shook hands as Turrin growled back, "No panic and stop worrying. I'm well covered. The boys think I have a woman stashed down here. You are kinda cute, at that, you know."
Brognola cussed under his breath. "Maybe you're covered but I'm not so sure I am. This town has gone insane, Leo. Pure crazy. Nobody trusts anybody. I go over this vehicle with a de-bugger before every use. I'm afraid to make love to my wife in my own bed, except in whispers. The whole town is paranoid."