"That's the idea," Ecclefield replied, sighing. "Wait!-I have a late request."

"I'm waiting."

"Someone wants to talk to you. Someone high. They're on their way now. Can you wait a few more minutes?"

"I can," Bolan said. "But you can't. They'll be missing this guy and the other two. You have no numbers to waste."

"Well I-"

"I'll withdraw. Take your goods and seal it good. I'll be around. Tell your VIPs to show themselves. I'll find them."

The fed tossed him a little salute. Bolan faded to a tactical holding point and watched from the enshrouding darkness as two guys swept around Ecclefield and hurried over to the fallen prisoner. They hefted the chemist between them and quickly bore him away.

Ecclefield stood there for a moment longer, staring quietly toward the point where Bolan had stood. Then he turned abruptly and followed the others.

So. It had worked out okay, despite all the misgivings. Less than five minutes had elapsed since the purloined chemist requested permission to use the toilet. As intent as all those people had been in their business, it seemed unlikely that anyone would immediately begin to wonder about the time.

Bolan knew that fifty heavily armed federal marshals were waiting somewhere out there in the darkness-and this fact had given him the greatest pause. Bolan himself was the most wanted man in the country. Therefore he did not casually accept temporary truces with the police establishment. Regardless of who was wearing the badge, there was always that possibility… Even Ecclefield had not proven himself 100 percent reliable in Bolan's eyes-though certainly the blitzer would have felt much better about the operation from the start if he had known who would be running it.

Besides the SWAT-type marshals waiting out there, Bolan knew also that there would be a special van carrying a couple of official chemists and a federal judge. They were going for broke this time. Probable cause, search warrants, the whole bit-they meant to bust Clemenza in the act and they meant to make it stand up in court. The thing had been pitched to Bolan by Hal Brognola himself-the nation's top cop-which gave an indication of how badly they wanted Dandy Jack. Even so, Bolan had been a bit surprised to find Ecclefield running the show. He had expected to find a team of cloak-and-dagger Narcs. Of course, they wanted Clemenza for many more social outrages than dealing in dope. One handle was probably as good as another, if it would put the guy on ice for a few years.

But Bolan had felt all along that there was more to this operation than he'd been told.

And now he was awaiting some sort of tete a tete with a couple of exotics-from Wonderland, probably.

He sensed movements in the darkness-stealthy, purposeful-and knew that the hit teams were already moving into position against Delta Importers.

He tossed them a mental God keep and wondered how much longer he had to wait around. The deal with Brognola was that Bolan would be clear and running free before the fireworks started. If he could not control a situation his own way-then he preferred to be far from it. Once the firing started, there would be reactions from far and wide-police reactions, specifically. That feeling of discomfort began edging back into the Bolan gut. He made mental mark on his chronometer, representing the outer moment for Mack Bolan on this turf. No sooner had he done that than fireworks began: the chattering of automatic weapons away in the distance, sudden luminescence in the heavens as pyrotechnics lit the night, power-amplified voices wafting along in the night breezes.

It was going down.

And Bolan could see it all with his mental vision, but that was suddenly pre-empted by a physical stimulation-a movement of the night, a mere shifting of shadows in the vicinity of the rendezvous point.

Working that direction in a wary circle he found his "exotics" standing stiffly in the nest; outside the shack. There were two of them a man and a woman-a little guy wearing the threads of a rhinestone cowboy and a curvaceous blonde in a leather miniskirt and cowboy boots.

Even with the darkness and the weird costumes, Bolan recognized them instantly, from vibrations as much as anything else.

The "high ups" were none other than the ethnician Tommy Anders, hottest comic in the land, and the one and only Toby Ranger-God's answer to the lonely heart in every man.

Bolan stepped into the clear and quietly declared, "Roy and Dale, I presume. Where's Trigger?"

The blonde launched herself at him in instant response. He caught her on the fly and twirled her around in a warm embrace before setting her down. "Captain Courageous in the flesh," she murmured, clinging to him. "My God, you're beautiful."

He chuckled and lightly patted her high rise bottom as he replied, "Not as beautiful as I feel. What is this? Are you soggy people my VIPs?"

Anders came forth with hand outstretched, grinning ear to ear. Bolan ignored the hand and pulled the little guy into an embrace, then stood there holding them both and beaming down at them.

"I change my vote," the girl said quietly. "Anything that beautiful is downright ugly. Good thing you've got goop on your face, Bolan. I don't think I could stand you without it."

It was sort of weird, standing there embracing two of the most dear people in his life and grinning like an idiot, while the sounds of warfare swirled through the night.

He asked, "Are you two a part of this?"

"Listen to the guy," Anders replied in mock sarcasm. "Us two is the reason for all this."

Toby jerked free of the embrace and said, "Don't just stand here jawing! We're sogging it, Bolan. Are you in?"

He gave her a blank look. SOG-Sensitive Operations Group-was the designation for the elite team of federal undercover cops which included old friends Carl Lyons and Smiley Dublin. Bolan had not crossed paths with the group since Hawaii-and all he'd known at that time about their future operations was that they were "drifting west"-presumably to the Orient.

“Who's getting sogged," he asked soberly, Clemenza?"

“ Music City," Anders replied. "The land of the good ol’ boys and not so good ol' gals. The town of the living legends."

“He’s trying to say Nashville," Toby put in. " Memphis is only the tip of the Tennessee Iceberg. You kicked off the Tennessee strike, Captain Cuckoo. We thought maybe you’d like a place at the finish."

“Sorry," Bolan said, frowning. "I have urgent business elsewhere." That was not entirely true. He had just wrapped up the Arizona business when the urgent plea came in from Brognola. He'd deposited the Warwagon in a secure drop and flown directly to Memphis, arriving just hours earlier. But he had been looking toward Kansas City for some time and had planned a cruise, at least, through that area during his withdrawal from Arizona campaign. Also-as much as he liked these people-joint operations were not really his style.

"You'd better tell him," Anders muttered to Toby Ranger.

She did not respond.

Bolan asked, "Tell him what?"

"We've lost Carl and Smiley," Anders said flatly.

Toby flared, "We're not sure about that!" "Where'd you lose them?" Bolan asked, the voice frosted with cold emotion.

"Somewhere between Singapore and Nashville," the comic replied dismally.

"That doesn't exactly narrow the field," Bolan said.

"Nuts! They're somewhere in Nashville," Toby growled. "They hit our contact floater the moment it arrived and-"

"And that was a week ago," Anders said, horning in. "Toby is as worried as I am. She's just too damn proud to-"

"It's not pride!" she said angrily.

Bolan very quietly inquired, "What does Brognola say?"

"He called you, didn't he, Captain Cool?"

"He called me to Memphis. He said nothing about Carl and Smiley."