Assault on Soho by Don Pendleton Page A

the Western World.
    Bolan had gone for more than sixty hours without sleep. During that period he had been under constant stress, harassed by lawmen and the underworld alike while effecting a "tactical retreat" covering hundreds of miles and many different modes of transport. He had fought his way out of four death traps and eluded the police of three nations, yet he had failed to make his way back to "safe" territory. And now he was at the point of complete physical and mental exhaustion, his last bit of reserve strength fully gone, occupying a narrow ledge of questionable refuge in a world trying its best to swallow him.
    Lesser men would have succumbed to the pull of defeat far sooner than this. For Bolan, the moment of defeat had come as a reaction to a young woman's visible disgust, and the wave that inundated him was the cresting of his own mind and soul in a deep pool of self-doubt.
    For one infinite and timeless moment he hung there in suspension between the instinct for life and the comfort of death as he let go and slid beneath the actual waters of the warm bath—and then he came threshing out of it, coughing and spluttering and lunging for the Beretta.
    Though his present danger was totally within himself, the depths of his exhaustion projected phantom enemies somewhere
out there
, and Bolan's response came from the very core of himself. When Ann Franklin stepped back through the doorway, in response to the commotion, Bolan was sitting upright in the tub. His fist was full of Beretta, suds were clustered about his face, his eyes were straining for focus, and he was muttering, "It's okay, it's okay."
    The girl immediately understood the situation. She dropped to her knees at the tub, one arm going out to encircle his shoulders, the other hand gently and carefully working at the deathgrip on the pistol.
    "Give me the gun, Mack," she whispered.
    "It's okay," he told her.
    Bolan was technically unconscious, and Ann Franklin knew it. "Give me the gun," she urged, "before you get it all wet." The struggle ended then. She took control of the Beretta and carefully placed it on the floor, then pulled the plug from the drain and put a towel about Bolan's shoulders. "Let's go to bed," she whispered.
    He struggled out of the tub and steadied himself with a hand against the wall while Ann towelled him dry, then she moved inside the arm and helped him into the bedroom.
    "It's okay," he told her again as she fought the covers back and guided his head to the pillow.
    "Yes yes, I know," she assured him.
    "Where's my gun?"
    She returned to the bathroom for the pistol, showed it to him, and shoved it under the pillow. "How's that?" she whispered.
    "Great." Bolan's eyes focussed on the girl then, awareness flashed there, and he muttered, "Hell, I'm naked."
    "Utterly," she replied, smiling solemnly. "Body and soul." She flipped the covers over him and said, "Get some sleep now."
    He was laboring to hold the focus. "You asked… why I bother to live. Okay. I live to win. When I die,
they've
won. Can't let them win, see. Show them… they're not God. Throw death… back in their teeth, see."
    "Yes, yes, I see."
    "That's all it means. Not ego… not cockalorum… it's tactics. That's the game. Beat them… at their own game, see."
    "Yes. I understand that now." She began removing her clothing, her eyes steady on his.
    "What're you doing?" he asked thickly.
    She removed her bra, waved it delicately over the bed, then dropped it to the floor. "Getting ready for bed," she replied. "Girls sleep too, you know."
    Bolan lifted himself groggily to one elbow as she stepped out of the panties. "Better not," he growled. "I'm not all that beat."
    "I wouldn't be so sure of that," she replied solemnly. She slid in beneath the covers and snuggled over to him. "I have a survival problem also, you know," she confided in a quivery whisper.
    He clasped her in both arms, pulling her in tight, and murmured, "This is great."
    "Uh huh." A moment later Ann felt