"Up until an hour ago, I thought so too."

He pinned her with a steely glance.

"We were talking about the Yakuza," he said.

She smiled.

"Just rumors, bits and pieces." As she continued, the little smile became conspiratorial. "I might be able to come up with something, given the incentive. Say, for instance, we cooperated..."

Bolan cut her off.

"Where can I drop you?"

She looked stunned as if the Executioner had slapped her face.

"Wait a second, now..."

"Forget it, lady. I'm not planning any media events."

"Well, dammit!"

"Where can I drop you?" he repeated curtly.

Grudgingly, she let him have an address off West Sahara, a mile from the Strip proper.

"Is that home?"

She nodded silently, her profile reminding Bolan of a pouting child.

"Better try an alternate," he told her. "You might have unexpected company."

She got his meaning and the pout softened a shade, giving way to a new rush of fear and uncertainty.

"I didn't think of that." Civilians, right.

She shifted in her seat and turned to face him, clearing her throat.

"I've got a friend. She'll let me stay at her place, but I've got to make a call."

He took a side street off the Strip and drove for several blocks until he found an all-night convenience store. He pulled into the lot and waited at the wheel, the engine idling, while she made her call from a phone booth. She was back inside the car within a minute.

"It's set," she told him, rattling off another address.

Bolan put the car in motion, rolling toward the drop. They did not speak at all for the duration of their journey through the desert night. The warrior's mind was on his mission now — and on the lady, granted. She was civilian excess baggage, and he could not afford to carry her along with him into the hellgrounds.