Curt Varga grinned. "I'm the Falcon," he said calmly. "But I never thought to meet you under these circumstances."
"Nor I. But I do offer you thanks, anyway."
"You owe me nothing; I am here under truce. When I leave, our battle starts again."
Vandor smiled. "But you see, Falcon, that is where you are wrong. I thank you for bringing my daughter back, yes; but I also thank you for saving my men the trouble of running you down." His hand made a sharp imperative gesture. "Blank him out," he ordered.
There was no time to move, no time to think; there was only the split second of consciousness when he saw the smile of triumph on Vandor's face, and its mocking echo on the girl's. Then the dis-gun blast caught the Falcon squarely in its glow, sucked away all thought and dropped him into a blackened abyss that had no bottom.
The Falcon moved groggily, felt nausea cramping at his belly. He groaned, shook his head, forced himself erect. Chains clanked loudly, and he felt the coolness of their metal on his arms and legs.
"Hell!" he said feelingly, felt despair eating at his heart.
Jason Vandor moved slightly, sighed, then stood from where he sat across the cell. His grey hair was almost white in the gloom, and his face was hard and merciless.
"I want to talk to you, Falcon," he said harshly.