"Now I know why mama died," she whispered. "Who could live with that?" Bolan said nothing, giving the moment to the girl.
Presently she sighed raggedly and said, rather defiantly, "He's still my father. Look at me, dammit."
He looked.
She was unbuttoning her blouse, the fingers trembling and having a bit of trouble with the chore. But the huge breastworks were exposed and jiggling proudly in the release. Bolan growled, "Cut it out, Sharon."
"Do you find me attractive?"
"I find you entirely appealing. But your timing is lousy."
"Let's make a deal."
He tossed her an unbelieving glance, then slowed the chariot and pulled off the road, crossed his arms over his chest, closed his eyes, and let the chin droop toward the chest.
"Say that again," he muttered.
"Virgin pure ... almost. Say the word and it's yours."
Without looking up, he growled, "Like father, like daughter. I don't believe this."
"Why not? I'm entirely serious. I'd do anything to ... stop YOU."
He dug for the little pistol and tossed it to her. "Do what's honest, then," he suggested. "Go ahead and stop me."
Her gaze wavered and fell. She did not pick up the pistol. The tears began flowing again — tears of frustration probably.
More gently, he said, "I've washed my hands of Morris Kaufman. He's the author of his own fate — and probably nothing I could do would rewrite that script now. Loyalty is a great thing, Sharon, when loyalty has been earned. But it's a lousy kick in the cosmic seat when blind loyalty supersedes everything noble and good in the human experience. It's time you face that."
But she was not yet ready to face it. The blouse was completely off now. She cupped the breasts in both hands and urged those delicacies toward him. "I'll go with you wherever you say. For however long you say. Just save him. Please. Save him for me."
"Get off it!" he growled with false anger. "It's time you learned what I am all about. You think my work is so casual that my decisions come from my loins? Think again, kid. And cover yourself up. I'm not all that damn immune to invited rape."
"You'd rape my heart, though, without a thought. Yes, I know what you're all about, Mack Bolan. You have a grim reaper complex."
"Call it any way that comforts you," he replied coldly. He put the vehicle in motion. "And get dressed. I'm dropping you at the first opportunity." But, yeah, his heart hurt for her.
It always hurt for such as these, the innocent victims of jungle justice. But Mack Bolan's combat decisions came not from the heart, either. They came from the injured seat of a kicked cosmos. The Executioner was simply kicking back.
Chapter 17
Rift
Yeah, the Arizona game was winding down quickly, for sure. Bolan's intelligence computer was fairly running over with collections from the automated monitoring station and the big problem of the past twenty minutes had been to simply sort and assimilate the fast pace of events.
Weiss and Kaufman provided a say-nothing shouting match via telephone, followed by a promised eyeball meet at Weiss's home "damn quick!"
Paul Bonelli, "heir" to Arizona, and his forty fighting guns from Tucson had gone to ground near an old airstrip in the desert, waiting only for the night to cloak their "mop-up" movements.
Hinshaw and company were maintaining the diggings at their own base camp, bolstered now by a thirty-man "reserve force" of fully equipped combat troops awaiting nightfall.
Old man Nick Bonelli was flapping his wings and threatening to fly to Phoenix to take the entire operation under his personal command.
There was obvious bad blood developing between Hinshaw and the younger Bonelli — and it sounded as though the old man was actively promoting some sort of iron-handed show of strength by his kid. Interesting as hell though, was the obvious fact that neither Bonelli knew of Hinshaw's secret reserves.
Bolan chewed that for several minutes, trying to Pull Hinshaw's motives into focus and trying also to come up with a quick but viable play to exploit that possibility of rift in the opposing forces.
He finally opted for a frontal approach, spinning back to a telephone contact wherein the Phone number of Paul's encampment was recorded. Then he called that number from the warwagon's mobile equipment and told the answering voice, "It's urgent. Get Mr. Bonelli."
A moment later, he had the heir to Arizona on the horn. "The name is Lambretta. I'm connected ... east. You may remember a guy, Billy Gino."
"Yeah?"
"Billy's my cousin. I came down from Vegas a few days back."
"So."
"I owe, uh, I owe Don Bonelli an old favor. You may not remember ... the South Bronx rumble back in uh ..."
"I remember, sure. What'd you say your name was?"
"I'm using Lambretta right now, Mr. Bonelli. You understand. Listen, what I got is this. I just came from a joint on the east side, a very weird joint, Mr. Bonelli. Out in the damn sand, you know. Looks like it got blasted pretty bad, and not long ago. There's a guy there calls himself Morales — a greaser, acting like a head cock. Does any of this sound like anything you know?"
"Maybe and maybe not," Bonelli replied cautiously. "What are you getting to, Lambretta? Let's get there."
"This Morales tried to recruit me. He wouldn't say for what, but he dropped your name. He offered me five thou for a night's work."
"What the hell!" Bonelli growled angrily. "You call me urgent to confirm a lousy job offer?"
"No sir, that's not why I called. Like I said, I owe Don Bonelli. The greaser don't know I'm calling you."
The guy's reply to that was mixed with irritation and open curiosity. "How the hell did you get this number then?"
"Hey! Mr. Bonelli! I been connected a long time. You don't need to ask a soldier of the blood how he-"
"Okay, okay! What've you got?"
"Something very cutesy about that joint, sir. The guy has a damn combat force out there ... must be forty or fifty boys with heavy heat. Not a damn one is a made man ... no connections there anywhere. He says-"
"Wait a minute, wait! How many you say? Forty or fifty!? How long ago was this?"
"Not an hour ago. What I was gonna do was ... well ... nobody's connected, except me. He wants me out front. He says for identification. He says so Mr. Bonelli will know it's the right place. It stinks, don't it? It Just stinks to me."
"Maybe it does, yeah," Bonelli replied, the tone thoughtful. "How'd you say you come to get out there?"
"This Morales came looking for a connected man. He found me through a, uh, mutual friend."
"He's pretty damn stupid then, isn't he?" said the heir. "He doesn't understand the blood, does he? You say forty or fifty boys under arms out there? How'd you happen to get loose?"
"I told him, sure, I'd take the job. But I had some business in town first. I'm supposed to be back by sundown."
"Don't go back," Bonelli said softly.
"Don't worry."
"If this checks out, you look us up in Tucson someday. If it don't, well ..."
"I gave you what I got, Sir. Exactly."
"He says you're up front for identification, eh?"
"Yessir. The idiot. Any man with connections knows what that means. Right?"
"Right, right. Thanks, uh, Lambretta. You look us up in Tucson. We'll show you the town."
Bolan hung it up and made an imaginary mark in the air above his head, then immediately called the other force.
Hinshaw himself answered the ring, identifying with a curt, "Hinshaw. What?"
"This is Bolan."
A brief silence, then: "Well hello. How'd you find me?"
"You were easy," Bolan said pleasantly.
"When did you tumble it was me?"
"I caught a glimpse of Worthy and Morales. Put it together. What are you trying to do to me, soldier?"
The guy chuckled. "I might ask the same of you."
"You're screwing me up," Bolan said, the tone still entirely pleasant.
>
"I guess that's the idea. Beans are beans, you know. Makes no difference who cooks them or serves them."
"So how much is he paying you?"
"You want to make a counter-offer?"
"Right."
"I'm getting 200 a day plus."
"Plus what?"
"All I can steal," Hinshaw replied laughing. "What are you prepared to offer?"
"Guess I can't top that," Bolan said. "Not the plus, anyway. Forget it. All I can offer is about twelve hours."
They were getting down to business, and Hinshaw's tone reflected an understanding of that fact. "Twelve hours of what?"
"Life," Bolan said quietly.
"Come on."
"Seriously. And I can't guarantee even that much. It all depends on Paul."
It was a forced laugh that came across that connection. "Good try, soldier. Whatever you're trying."
"Any victory for them is a loss for me," Bolan said soberly. "I'd throw in with the devil if they were storming hell."
The guy's interest was aroused, despite the natural caution. "I'll listen. Say what you're saying."
"I have the whole state wired. I even have you wired, soldier. And I challenge you to find the-"
Hinshaw broke in to unload a disturbance of his own mind. "Yeah, tell me about that, pole climber. How'd you engineer that hit?"
"You found the hardware."
"Sure. And what about Tucson?"
"I was there," Bolan admitted.
"What kind of explosives did you hit me with? Angel swears you were under surveillance the whole time. What'd you use?"
It was shop talk between a couple of professionals. Bolan replied, "Something I whipped up in my lab. Time delayed. How'd it go?"
"Just like Ex-Lax, smooth as silk. Did you design that box for the fifty?"
"Something else I cooked up in my lab, yeah. She didn't jam up, eh?"
"Not hardly. It's a beautiful effect. I'm taking It with me when I break camp here. It'll come in handy somewhere, some day. You wired me, too, huh? We searched, man. Where is it?"
"About two miles downline. Climb a pole where the barrel cactus stands. You'll find it. Keep it, it's a gift — to remember me by. If you're able to remember."
"You were saying? About wires on the state?"
"Yeah. I have very sophisticated stuff. You'd love it. Straight out of the space age. Hear-all, know-all — you know what I mean. They're setting you up, soldier. I could have guessed it, even without the ears. It's SOP with these people. Contract a dirty job, see. That's a security layer. Then contract the contractor. That's another layer. The point is, it was never intended that you get the chance to enjoy that 200 per day plus."
The returning voice was sober, wary. "You're giving me this just for old-time's sake, eh?"
"The past is the past," Bolan said. "You did your thing and I did mine. Anyway, it was long ago and far away. This is here and now. Far as I'm concerned, you are a fellow grunt getting another shaft. Take it or don't, makes no difference to me. But I hate to see those bastards get away with it."
"You'd hate that, eh?"
"I'd hate it, yeah. Watch your flanks, soldier."
Bolan put the phone down and made another imaginary mark in the air, then changed his mind and erased half of it.
The game was winding down, yeah. And Bolan was down for doubles.
Chapter 18
Pawns out
Abraham Weiss loved the sunlight. Others may take comfort in the moderate Arizona winters, but Weiss preferred the burning heat of summer because it also meant more hours of daylight in each twenty-four.
Not that he was afraid of the dark.
He would not admit that even to himself. He Just Preferred the sunlight. One reason he hated Washington was the damn short days — especially in winter. God, how he hated Washington in the winter!
But he definitely had mixed feelings about these desert sunsets. SO beautiful to behold, sure, but sort of like dying, also. Even knowing that the sun also rises, there was something very sad and tragic in a sunset.
Like a man's life, slowly waning, waning, waning then snuff! — gone — blackness — nothingness. He shivered and stepped away from the window. Another hour of daylight. So where the hell was Moe! And where the hell was all this police protection he'd been promised! Leave a man hanging out here like the final damn grape on the vine, just waiting for someone to come along and Snuff!
That kind of thinking would get him nowhere!
He crossed to the desk, opened the secret panel, reversed the tape on the recorder, and played back that ridiculous telephone conversation with his lifelong buddy, Moe Kaufman. Some buddy.
"Goddammit, Abe, sometimes I think you're getting senile! You can't pay any attention to a guy like that! He's just trying to get us scratching at each other's eyes."
"Did he talk to you or didn't he?"
"Yes, dammit, he talked to me. Walked right into the police station, and we sat in an empty office and talked for about five minutes."
"Go get fucked, you miserable ... I'm not that senile! Why are you holding out on me?"
"Listen, I'm coming out there. Personally. I'm bringing you some new comfort. Now just sit tight and wait till I get there."
"I can pick up this phone and place one call, one call. I could call Cronkite. Hell, I could call the White House if I wanted to. If you're playing cute games with me!"
"For God's sake, Abe. Get ahold. Can't you see what you're doing?"
"It will be getting dark soon, Moe. I don't want to be here alone when it gets dark."
"Buck up. I'm on my way."
"Come alone!"
"Are you crazy? Why should I come alone? I'm bringing comfort, dammit!"
"I won't be here, Moe. I swear. I'm leaving."
"Don't you dare leave that house! It's the only protection you've got for now. Do you want me to send a police car screaming to the rescue? Is that what you want?"
"I don't know. Maybe so. Yeah. I want them In uniform. I want a whole goddamn platoon of uniformed cops."
"You know better. We're trying to quiet this, not put it on the evening news. We can't afford that kind of-"
"We can't afford it?! That's rich, that's really rich."
"Put a gun in your hand, dammit, and sit tight. I'll be there."
Sure. He'd be here. When? In time for the second coming? The Senator stared at the desk clock. Was It stopped? Could a clock move that slowly and still be working properly?
Ridiculous! Such a ridiculous and demeaning conversation! That tape should be destroyed. Who'd want something like that in the memoirs?
Ridiculous, absolutely. Moe was right. Bolan was just trying to confuse things, sow dissension.
That clock could not be working. How long had it been? Why wasn't he here?
He toyed with the Browning, checked the clip, tested the action, removed the clip and ejected the round from the magazine, put it back in the clip, returned the clip ... oh, God dammit!
A man should not be alone at a time like this. A man should have friends, family, someone who cared.
Moe Kaufman was the only true friend he'd ever had. True? True to what?
True to Abraham Weiss? Hell no, not so. Moe Kaufman did not befriend. Moe Kaufman merely used.
A puppet, huh? That son of a bitch! Where'd he get off calling Abraham Weiss a puppet? Pawn, maybe. Yeah. Pawn.
What was that? Had he heard something? Carlos? Of course not. They'd sent Carlos away hours ago. But someone was in the home!
Expendable, huh! Abraham Weiss was expendable! He snatched up the Browning and whirled to the door, screaming, "Bullshit! Bullshit!"
A dark form materialized in the gloom of that doorway, something glinting from an outstretched hand. And then the two persons who lived inside the body of Abraham Weiss parted, separated into two, fragmenting that consciousness. The one quickly raised the Browning, sighted cooly and squeezed; the other stood back in horror, stunned by the thunderous report of the
bucking pistol. Something grunted and pitched forward into the room, while something else moved in quickly to take its place, making startled sounds and calling out in alarm. Part One squeezed the trigger again and then again, as Part Two awoke with dismay as Old Friend Moe screamed at him from the doorway — but too late came the awakening. Part One was still squeezing, squeezing, squeezing — and the Browning roared on until there was nothing but dull clicks to be heard from the automatic movements of that trigger finger.
Something clicked, also, inside Abe Weiss's head.
The Browning fell to the floor and he sank into his chair, hands clasped across the belly, bent forward, eyes straining into the gloom.
"Moe? Is that you? Moe?"
He turned on the desk lamp and looked again.
Two men lay crumpled on the floor just inside the room. He hesitantly got to his feet and went over for a cautious closer look. God, he'd drilled them perfect. God, they were dead as hell. Take that, dammit. Issue paper on Abe Weiss, will you. Fuck you.
He stepped over the corpses and ventured into the hall, finding the light switch, illuminating a scene straight from hell.
Old Friend Moe lay on his back in a pool of blood, dead eyes staring up at Old Friend Abe and mirroring shock — surprise — what? Take that, Old Friend Moe. Take that, you fucking pawn. Expendable, huh?
Self-defense. Clearly it was self-defense. They'd come to get him, to expend him, to replace him with virgin flesh untainted by the competitions of a corrupt world. Fuck them all. It was self-defense, pure and simple.
He returned to the den where all his trophies of the hunt now shared honors with the trophies of survival.
They'd come in with guns drawn — he knew that for sure — he'd seen the glint of gunmetal lifting into the pull.
Abraham Weiss? Are you Senator Abraham Weiss?
Sure. Identify yourself so they know they got the right cookie. There's no profit in gunning the wrong cookie.
He turned one of them with a foot and knelt for a closer inspection of that gun-metal Shit. Oh shit.
Self-defense. It was self-defense!
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