"I can't do that," Kaufman said in a barely audible voice. "Now get out of here before I suddenly lose my mind and start yelling for a cop."
"He's your Achilles heel," Bolan said. "It's better to lose the foot than the head."
He walked out and left the guy standing there in contemplation of his feet. So much for the "Kosher Nostra."
Bolan had already written the guy off. He was so much dead meat, no matter what course of action Bolan may follow now. But a stubborn sense of rightness had sent the Executioner into a pursuit of that "parley" — a certain "combat honor" which was as important to maintain as the mission itself. And Mack Bolan had become known throughout the underworld for the sanctity of his word In dispensing those rare battlefield agreements or "white flags" to his enemies.
And, yeah, maybe also the Bolan heart had been touched just a bit by a loyal young lady who would hear no evil concerning her father. Well, he'd tried. Now the whole thing was in cosmic hands.
He returned to his battle-cruiser and pointed her toward the next link in the chain. As he pulled away, another vehicle entered the late-afternoon traffic and fell in behind him. He caught the maneuver immediately in the rearview but lost interest when the possible tail-car fell back and turned away. There was too much to occupy the combat mind now, to cloud it with vague worries.
But, sometimes, a little cloud changes the perspective. Bolan should have worried more.
Chapter 15
One more time
Abe Weiss had gone hard.
A vehicle with an alert wheelman was parked across the road from his driveway, and a guy with "gun" stamped all over him was loitering beside the hedges inside the yard. Another, no doubt, would be inside somewhere.
Bolan went on past and pulled into a service area a half-mile down the road — service station, small restaurant, fast-food grocery. He pulled on the shoulder rig, tested the action, and dropped a spare clip into the coat pocket as he pulled it on.
A few cars were parked at the restaurant, several more in front of the grocery. He activated the security system and locked the cruiser, then walked into the service station office. Two cars were at the pump, one headed east, the other west. A guy with greasy hands moved in from the garage area to give Bolan a questioning look.
He flashed a police ID wallet at the guy as he told him, "I broke down. They're sending a wrecker, but I have to get into town fast. Get me a ride, huh?" The guy frowned, said, "Sure," and went out, wiping his hands with a gas-soaked rag. He went directly to the westbound car and leaned in from the passenger side to make his pitch. Instantly he straightened and made a hand signal. Bolan strolled out, gave the guy a sour, "Thanks," and slid in beside the accommodating driver — a nervous man of about fifty wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a business suit.
""Preciate it," Bolan told the motorist with a flick of tired eyes.
"My pleasure, officer," the guy said quickly.
They sat in strained silence while the servicing was completed. As they pulled onto the road, the guy timidly inquired, "Should I put the hammer down?"
Bolan showed him a genuine grin as he replied, "No hurry. Actually I'm only going a half-mile or so. I'll tell you where."
It was a very sedate half-mile journey, almost like a driving test — and just as strained. He stopped the guy directly opposite the stake-car, thanked him, and sent him on his way.
The wheelman in the hardcar was giving plenty of interest. Bolan called over, "Relax, it's cool," and walked up the drive.
The yard man was on him immediately. Bolan had the ID wallet ready. He flashed it and said, "You're relieved. Beat it. Take your boys with you."
"I don't understand," the guy said, but obviously he did.
"He's getting an official detail. You won't want to be here when they arrive. Go on. I'll baby-sit him until they get here."
The guy started to say something negative, then checked it and substituted: "I got a man inside, that's all. Maybe I should phone first."
"And maybe you'd like to be here when the Secret Service boys arrive," Bolan said quietly.
"Oh! I see, yeah, I get what you mean."
The hardman spun about and went quickly to the house, Bolan right behind. The door opened to their approach and another torpedo stepped outside.
"Feds are on the way," the crew boss explained. "We're leaving. This guy's a cop. It's his worry now."
The inside man shot Bolan a glowering look as he moved past. The two went quickly along the drive without a backward look. Bolan waited until the vehicle pulled away, then he stepped inside the house and shot the bolt on the door.
Honest Abe was in the hallway, about six paces in, a Browning pistol at the unwavering eye level.
Very coldly, Bolan suggested, "Use it or lose it. Right now."
The senator hesitated for several heartbeats, then slowly lowered the weapon, turned away from the confrontation, and stepped into the den. He was at the desk when Bolan entered, the Browning at his fingertips, hard eyes giving nothing to the unwanted visitor.
"Sort of sad, isn't it," Bolan said softly. "A United States senator, a prisoner in his own home, skulking around with a boomer in his hand."
"I know how to use it," Weiss snapped, putting the intruder on notice. "I could have given you a third eye just now."
"I've heard about your kills," Bolan acknowledged, his gaze flicking across the stuffed trophies which decorated the walls. "Somehow it's different, isn't it, when the prey is looking back at you ... or if there's a possibility he could start shooting back."
"It wasn't lack of nerve, Bolan. What do you want?"
"Same thing," Bolan replied. "I want you out."
"You should live so long. Save my time and yours. Get out of here and mind your own business."
Bolan let out a long stage sigh and went to the window, turning his back to the man with the Browning, offering him a target, almost hoping he'd try it. He did not. Bolan turned back toward the desk and said, "I'm afraid you are my business, Senator. We can save the whole country a lot of pain. Put it down. Get out ... while you can. I just came from a parley with Kaufman. The feeling-"
"Don't try to snow me," Weiss snarled. "I heard all about your desert rendezvous with Morris. Your fireworks dazzle me not at all. And I am not particularly impressed by perfidy."
"Look who's speaking of perfidy," Bolan replied calmly. "The most traitorous son of a bitch ever to sit in the United States Senate. You're a national disaster, Weiss."
Taut muscles jumped in that granite jaw, but the guy did not rise to the bait. He smiled nastily instead and said, "This morning I was a puppet. Now I'm a traitor. You're not a very good fisherman, Mr. Bolan."
"Who's fishing?" Bolan asked casually. "I know what you are and you know what you are. The question is, what will you be tomorrow?"
"I'll still be here," the senator said with a glassy smile.
"Wrong," Bolan quietly told him.
Weiss snorted.
"You'll be in an unmarked grave at Paradise Ranch."
That brought a reaction, just beneath the surface of those steely eyes. "Bullshit," the senator said.
"It's his only out. He's setting it up right now. It's called cut and run, Senator. You understand the terminology. It's the opposite of stonewalling."
"Get out of here, Bolan. My patience is gone." The hand was hovering above the Browning. "And I patently dislike cat and mouse games. Especially those at the kindergarten sandbox level."
"See," Bolan responded softly. "You do understand. You'll be buried in a sandbox, Weiss." He walked casually to the door, again offering the guy a broad target, then turned back to say: "Remember me to the fallen angel. And don't forget that I told you first. Keep that Browning cocked and close. Why do you think the bodyguards left?"
That one struck close. Weiss stood up, the head cocked slightly, eyes working furiously. "I forgot to ask," he said.
"I brought them a message they couldn't refuse."
"Meaning wha
t, exactly?"
"Meaning that's the way it's done in these circles. Next, you should get a personal visit from the man himself. He'll give you a kiss. I don't know what your set calls that. The Italians call it the kiss of death."
"That's ridiculous," the senator replied, though not too convincingly.
"My sentiments exactly," Bolan said coldly. "But that's still the way it works. And it will be your last happy moment. So savor it. Once the kiss, then swiftly comes the kill." He went on through the doorway and headed for the exit.
Weiss called his name and ran after him. "Let's say you're right!" he cried. "Just for laughs! So tell me how do you know so much?"
Bolan opened the front door and leaned against the jamb for a final look at the bedeviled man. "Because that's the way I called it," he explained. "I told you I just came from a parley. I laid it out for him. Bonelli wants himself a senator, and he's willing to walk over your buddy's dead body to get one. The solution for Kaufman is simple. He either gives you away or he wastes you. Who's going to fight over a dead senator? Figure it, man. It's as simple as one take away one. Who do you think gets the privilege of handpicking your successor in the Senate? Hell. You're expendable."
Bolan went on out and closed the door.
Again the senator pursued, throwing the door open to yell out, "Why do you come telling me this shit? What are you, some kind of a sadist? You come to taunt and walk away?"
Bolan came around with the Beretta in combat crouch. The guy's face went deathly pale and his own weapon sagged toward the ground.
Bolan held the stance as he coldly told the guy with precise enunciation: "You are garbage. I have given thirty minutes of valuable time this day to the salvation of garbage only because many people in this country have no nose for garbage and would therefore mourn your untimely passage. I give no more. What I brought, you take or leave. It makes no difference to me."
That mouth worked briefly before the words came. "But you have it all wrong. I'm no puppet. I run it. Understand me! It's mine, I run it!"
Bolan growled, "Run it all the way to hell then."
"Don't shoot! I'm going back inside!"
"Do that," Bolan icily suggested.
The senator who did it all himself did that.
Bolan holstered the Beretta and walked on down the drive. He did not know, yet, how to score the thing — but, for damn sure, something had busted loose in Paradise. Only time and the fates would identify and register the results. But Bolan had not been speaking idly during his closing remarks. He had given all he intended to give. From this point, the devil himself could pick up the marbles.
And maybe the devil wore skirts.
Sharon Kaufman was waiting for him at the curb, a tiny nickle-plated autoloader held knowingly in an unwavering little fist.
"I'm sorry," she said calmly. "Believe me, I am sorry. But I have to do this."
Chapter 16
Hearts
She directed him to a small car parked off the road just uprange from the house and said, "Get behind the wheel. You're driving."
He casually studied the neighborhood for a moment, then followed the direction. If any other hand in Phoenix had been holding that little gun, it would already have been chopped off and its owner left bleeding in the gutter. It could happen Yet, but Bolan was giving the girl her moment, letting the thing drift toward a possibly happier conclusion.
She did not even ask for his gun. He did not, of course, offer it.
He recognized the car. It had slid into the traffic behind him as he was pulling away from the city hall parley with the girl's father. He had to give her a gold star for the tail job — or perhaps she had simply stumbled onto him at Weiss's place. He wanted to know.
"Congratulations," he said coldly. "You'd make a good detective. I hope you kill as clean as you tail."
"Start the car and drive where I tell you," she said without emotion, ignoring his probe.
He started the car but told her, "No way do I drive where you tell me. I'm returning to my vehicle — and I thank you for the lift. But put the gun away. I don't want to hurt you."
"I'm not kidding," she said calmly. "I'll shoot you if I have to."
"Go for the eyes then," he growled.
She did not quite comprehend his meaning.
He put the car in motion as he explained. "Unless you hit a vital spot with the first shot from that peashooter, I'll likely kill you in reflex. So go for the eyes. Put one right through the pupil, angling slightly upward. That should scramble some brain tissue and minimize the reflex action. Of course, there will be a lot of blood and guck ... but I guess you can handle that."
Those young eyes wavered but the voice was steady. "I was on the shooting team at school. And I spent three months on a kibbutz in Israel. So don't challenge me. I'm no pushover."
Bolan sighed and sent the car on toward the service area where his battle cruiser awaited. Things were winding down in Arizona ... and quickly. He really could not afford to spend precious minutes in this fashion. At the same time, the kid had to be dealt with. Obviously there was no talking her down. He pulled in alongside the warwagon and told her, "Fire away."
"I'm making a citizen's arrest. I order you to come peacefully with me to the police station or I-I'll shoot."
The girl was twisted about in the seat, facing him, one leg down onto the seat to form a boundary between them, the little pistol resting on the knee in a convincing two-hand hold.
Both of Bolan's big hands came off the steering wheel faster than the girl's eyes could recoil and send the message below — the right smashing backhanded against the side of that pretty face, the left closing over both tiny clutching hands to completely cover them and wrench the little gun from her grasp.
It was no cap pistol. The mighty midget fired in the transfer, booming out with a report much larger than it deserved, punching an expanding slug into the car's dash.
The backhand smash had a shade too much on it, snapping the girl's head back against the doorpost. She was out. The guy with greasy hands from the service station came running over to investigate the disturbance. He instantly recognized Bolan from their earlier encounter, came to a sliding halt, eyes falling to the girl as he exclaimed, "Oh shit! Is she dead?!"
Bolan showed the guy the little nickle-plate as he replied, "She tried to be. Know her?"
The station attendant looked closer, then shook his head. "Never saw her before. What is it? Drugs? Prostitution?"
"Neither," Bolan told him. He got out of the car and went around to the other door, opened it, pulled the girl out. "This is a quiet detail. Understand? So keep it that way. I may need you later for a statement. Meanwhile, cool it."
"Sure, I'll cool it," the guy assured him.
Bolan carried the unconscious girl to the cruiser and got the hell away from there before the guy could start wondering.
Some minutes and several miles later, the shaken young lady came forward and sagged into the big leather chair at Bolan's side. The cheekbone was slightly swollen and discolored, the eyes a bit glazed, but she seemed generally okay. "Damn you," she said quietly.
"You almost did," he told her. "Now tell me why.
"I'm an ingrate, huh?" she replied tiredly. "Just because you want to trade my father's life for mine, I should give thanks and wash MY hands in his blood. Sorry. It doesn't work that way in this family."
"I hope that's true," he said softly.
He was watching her with about 25 percent of his visual perception. The rest was busy with navigation considerations and vehicular security. The corner of his right eye was surveying a miserable and confused young lady as he told her, "I could have taken your father as easily as I took you on any of three different occasions so far today. But Morris Kaufman lives. So what's all the fuss about?"
"I've seen you operate," she said dispiritedly. "I was at Echo Canyon this morning."
"Yes, I noted your arrival," he told her.
"My father was saved by the gr
ace of God. I simply could not allow you another attempt."
"He was saved by the grace of Bolan," the big man quietly corrected her. "All the attempts on his life have come from downstate. I told you I'd try, Sharon. Dammit, I've been trying."
She was a bit less sure of her position as she replied to that. "I'd like to believe it. I really would."
"He lives," Bolan simply stated.
The girl drew a shuddering breath and began weeping.
Gruffly, he said, "I'm going to do you a final favor. Truth is sometimes uncomfortable, but you can't build a life of false illusions." He activated the onboard computer and remoted it to the con, then deftly punched in a program code as the warwagon cruised on. Then he angled the viewscreen toward the girl and told her, "This is your life, Morris Kaufman. And the show is sponsored by the United States Department of Justice. I penetrated their computers and taped the entire program."
She peered through wet eyes at the small screen as it lit up with a still photo of her father, blinked rapidly as two others followed in quick succession — right profile, left profile — the sobs choking back as she then settled into an almost trance-like study. The official record of a living cannibal began appearing in electronic display, the speeding lines of dry facts and incredible figures moving almost too fast for the average mind to comprehend. Bolan made an adjustment, slowing the pace for the girl's benefit. Still, it was a dizzying progression of corporate rosters, shady stock transactions, real estate swindles and land grabs, frustrated and hamstrung federal investigations, political clout and governmental corruption, tainted judges and tampered juries — through it all the unmistakable thread of knavery, thievery, mayhem, and murder.
"You're making me sick," she murmured, long before the data bank was exhausted.
Bolan killed the display as he told her, "That's just the tip of the iceberg. Only God and Moe Kaufman know what lies below."
She shuddered, pulled her arms tightly about herself, and turned toward the side window.
Bolan muttered, "Sorry, kid. But you needed it. You'll be facing harder truths ... and damn soon unless I miss my guess."
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