When the coffee was nearly consumed Bolan lit a cigarette and handed it to her along with his first words. "You're looking better," he growled.

"Thanks," she said in an unsteady voice. "Feeling better."

A police car with beacon flashing tore past on a northward track, weaving through the traffic on a hot call to Bolan guessed where — and followed closely by a second and then a third. His guest was huddled in the topcoat and working hard at the cigarette, exhaling with audible tremors, but she had also noted the passage of the police. She wriggled about on the seat and murmured, "Thanks for getting me away from there."

He grunted and tried the heater, found it mildly warm, and told her, "Out of the frying pan and into the fire."

"What?"

"That's you. You picked a hard taxi, lady."

She raked him with sky blue eyes and made a stab at a smile. "I know," she said. "You're Mack Bolan, aren't you?"

"Stretch your feet to the heater," he commanded gruffly.

She did so, carefully arranging the coat to capture the warmth. Then her gaze became fixed on Bolan's profile and he felt it quietly absorbing him. Presently she announced, "I'm a Foxy Lady."

Bolan gave her his full attention for a moment, inspecting her with a sober gaze. He pegged her age in the low twenties. The eyes were luminous and intelligent; under different conditions she would be a girl who laughed easily. Maybe she would be capable of warmth and sincerity. She returned his stare, and nothing more — no invitation, no challenge, no bid for sympathy — simply a frank return of interest.

Bolan showed her half a smile and told her, "Yeah, you're pretty foxy."