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"The men who grabbed you were Bonelli's."
"What? How do you ... who are you?"
"The name's Bolan."
There was no immediate comprehension on that young face, merely deepening puzzlement. "Should I have heard your name somewhere?"
"Could be. Your father and his ex-partner are quite familiar with it."
"How do you know my father?"
"By reputation mostly. Until this morning I was his worst enemy."
"Bolan? Bolan!" She was still chewing that one over when she suddenly made the connection, and her pretty face lost another shade of color. "Oh my God! Are you that Bolan?"
"Last of the line," he told her without humor.
"But ... you're supposed to ... I mean you fight the Mafia." Bolan said nothing, letting the impact of her own realization sink in.
"Oh no, you can't think that my father Is involved with the Mafia?"
"Bonelli — your father's business partner — is the capo of Tucson," he told her.
She seemed stunned. "C-capo?"
"Capo mafioso. The local godfather. The mold on top of the cheese. Your father has been in bed with the guy for years."
"I've heard some of those stories," she responded, some of the flush returning to her cheeks in a wave of defensive reaction to Bolan's words. "I don't believe them. But suppose Mr. Bonelli is ... what you say. My father is a businessman. He needs ... contacts."
"You met some of those contacts this morning."
"But why would Mr. Bonelli want to harm my father?"
"That's the big question. I'm in Phoenix for the answer. One thing I do know. Those guys were pros, and they didn't come to town alone. Their back-up crews will be looking for your father now, if they haven't already found him."
"They won't have. If my father doesn't want to be found ... well, he just isn't, that's all." Her head and shoulders slumped ever so slightly as she spoke, and Bolan knew with certainty that Sharon Kaufman had indeed heard "some of those stories" about her father. And wondered, no doubt, about certain odd circumstances and behavior at various times, about the swarthy visitors and the gravel-voiced nocturnal phone calls.
Yeah, Sharon Kaufman knew or guessed — or, more likely, feared to know — the truth about her "businessman" father.
She broke the silence after a long and thoughtful pause. "Did you mean what you said? About my being free to leave?"
"Any time you choose. I don't draft civilians."
"But you would like my help, wouldn't you?"
"I don't have anything to trade, Sharon."
"My father's life?" she suggested hopefully.
"I won't make promises I can't keep," he told her coldly. Then he added, with more compassion, "For what it's worth, I didn't come to Phoenix to hit your father. I could probably achieve that simply by leaving town and giving his 'friends' a free hand. My goal, so far as possible, is to avert a street war and prevent any mob faction from seizing total control. I'll pursue those goals by any means necessary. Fair warning."
Sharon Kaufman thought about that for several long moments before raising her eyes again to meet Bolan's gaze. "All right," she said simply. "I'll help you, to a point. But I won't endanger my father!"
"Fine. We understand each other," he told her, But he knew very well that they did not.
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
"What? How do you ... who are you?"
"The name's Bolan."
There was no immediate comprehension on that young face, merely deepening puzzlement. "Should I have heard your name somewhere?"
"Could be. Your father and his ex-partner are quite familiar with it."
"How do you know my father?"
"By reputation mostly. Until this morning I was his worst enemy."
"Bolan? Bolan!" She was still chewing that one over when she suddenly made the connection, and her pretty face lost another shade of color. "Oh my God! Are you that Bolan?"
"Last of the line," he told her without humor.
"But ... you're supposed to ... I mean you fight the Mafia." Bolan said nothing, letting the impact of her own realization sink in.
"Oh no, you can't think that my father Is involved with the Mafia?"
"Bonelli — your father's business partner — is the capo of Tucson," he told her.
She seemed stunned. "C-capo?"
"Capo mafioso. The local godfather. The mold on top of the cheese. Your father has been in bed with the guy for years."
"I've heard some of those stories," she responded, some of the flush returning to her cheeks in a wave of defensive reaction to Bolan's words. "I don't believe them. But suppose Mr. Bonelli is ... what you say. My father is a businessman. He needs ... contacts."
"You met some of those contacts this morning."
"But why would Mr. Bonelli want to harm my father?"
"That's the big question. I'm in Phoenix for the answer. One thing I do know. Those guys were pros, and they didn't come to town alone. Their back-up crews will be looking for your father now, if they haven't already found him."
"They won't have. If my father doesn't want to be found ... well, he just isn't, that's all." Her head and shoulders slumped ever so slightly as she spoke, and Bolan knew with certainty that Sharon Kaufman had indeed heard "some of those stories" about her father. And wondered, no doubt, about certain odd circumstances and behavior at various times, about the swarthy visitors and the gravel-voiced nocturnal phone calls.
Yeah, Sharon Kaufman knew or guessed — or, more likely, feared to know — the truth about her "businessman" father.
She broke the silence after a long and thoughtful pause. "Did you mean what you said? About my being free to leave?"
"Any time you choose. I don't draft civilians."
"But you would like my help, wouldn't you?"
"I don't have anything to trade, Sharon."
"My father's life?" she suggested hopefully.
"I won't make promises I can't keep," he told her coldly. Then he added, with more compassion, "For what it's worth, I didn't come to Phoenix to hit your father. I could probably achieve that simply by leaving town and giving his 'friends' a free hand. My goal, so far as possible, is to avert a street war and prevent any mob faction from seizing total control. I'll pursue those goals by any means necessary. Fair warning."
Sharon Kaufman thought about that for several long moments before raising her eyes again to meet Bolan's gaze. "All right," she said simply. "I'll help you, to a point. But I won't endanger my father!"
"Fine. We understand each other," he told her, But he knew very well that they did not.
Chapter 5
Understandings
Sharon Kaufman gathered her breath, mentally gauging what she could afford to tell the big man in black. She was more than a little frightened by his words and grim demeanor, and still shaken by the morning's grisly events, but she sensed traces of warmth in his voice, more than a touch of heart behind those graveyard eyes. At length she began to speak slowly, haltingly, weighing her words carefully to present them in the desired context.
"About an hour before those men arrived, my father got a phone call from Ike Ruby."
"I know Ruby," BOLAN told her. "Go on." Sharon was startled, suddenly off balance, no longer certain how much the big man already knew. She fought to collect her thoughts again before continuing.
"The call seemed important. My father acted ... well, not angry, exactly ... upset."
Bolan broke into her musing train of thought. "So he went over to see Ruby."
"I-I don't know. Honestly. He may have, but he only told me that he had to go out for awhile." She hesitated, then added, "My father and Ike are in business together. They might have met at Daddy's office ... if at all. I just don't know where he went."
The ice returned to the big man's voice as he responded to that. "Okay. Where can I drop you?"
It startled her. She was not prepared for such quick dismissal. "I-but-what ... ?"
"I believe you. We're square. Let's end it on that note."
"It isn't ended, though, is it?" she ventured meekly, adding, "For my father."
"I'm afraid not," he replied gently.
She read that loud and clear. Lifelong protests rose automatically through the tightening throat. "You have it all wrong. My father is a decent man. He has business enemies ... political enemies ... but this other is ... well, it's just not true!"
"Where do I drop you?" he asked again, ignoring the impassioned protest.
"Ike Ruby has been a second father to me! I've called him "Uncle Ike' as long as I can remember." She thought she saw a flicker of human light in those steely eyes and leapt quickly to summon it again. "Please. I sense a-a fairness in you. Why save me only to-to cast me back into the flames!"
He sighed wearily as he told her, "I'm casting you nowhere. All I want from Kaufman and Ruby is the truth. I can't very well get that if I can't find them, can I?"
She made a quick decision, quivering lungs fairly bursting with it. "Then I'll just go along and help you find it."
He showed her a genuine if tiny smile as he replied, "No way."
"Why not? I have a stake in this, too. I have a right."
The smile departed as he grimly responded to that. "The right to die?"
Those incredible eyes flashed with some inner misery. "We all have that right. But I don't have to help you exercise it."
There was a recognizable finality in that response. Her gaze dropped to her lap and she fidgeted. Then, in a barely audible whisper, she said, "I can't go back home."
"No," he quietly agreed.
"i-I'll need to make a telephone call."
He sighed and pointed out the instrument, instructed her on its use, and watched unemotionally as she made arrangements to "crash" with a college friend. From that point, conversation with the big, quiet man was confined entirely to small talk and directions to the drop point.
It was a brief ride, the destination being a "singles" apartment complex off North Central avenue, almost in the shadow of St. Joseph's Hospital. She used that time to visually probe the interior of the fantastic vehicle and to wonder pointedly about the grim secrets it carried. A vehicle of war, certainly, as grim and threatening as the silent man who piloted it so casually through the Phoenix streets. He pulled out beyond the complex to methodically circle the neighborhood, thoroughly "casing" and probing that quiet neighborhood before pulling to the curb on a deserted side street behind the complex.
She rose from the seat and prepared to leave him, turning in the doorway for one more attempt at reaching him. "Mr. Bolan ..." "No promises, Sharon," he reminded her in a gentle voice.
She began to say more, thought better of it, and left him, saying simply, "Thank you again." She hurried across the damp lawn toward the apartments, pausing briefly at the entranceway to watch the motor home as it rounded a corner and disappeared.
Sharon Kaufman turned and hastened to her own destination, her young face set in lines of grim determination. She would make her own promises.
Bolan knew Ike Ruby, all right. The girl had called Ruby a businessman, but the Executioner knew him as the chief enforcer and general staff officer of Moe Kaufman's desert empire. A native of the Bronx, Ruby had been an early protege of Lepke Buchalter in the labor wars before migrating westward toward his ultimate destiny as Kaufman's strong right arm. His rap sheet included seven arrests for first-degree murder, with one indictment and no convictions. And that was only the tip of the iceberg, for despite the periodic disappearance of opposition partisans and persistent rumors of a graveyard in the desert, Ruby had been unhampered by investigation or arrest for the past quarter-century. A "businessman," yeah. Read that "cannibal." Mack Bolan knew Ike Ruby, all right, and somebody else knew him, too. The little mobster's estate was another of those "marks" on the captured map of Phoenix. Like his master, Ike Ruby was a target, and Bolan realized that he might already be too late for his "talk" with the guy. Not that he was bleeding over the fate of a decadent savage, far from it. Other circumstances might find Ike Ruby on the Executioner's own hit parade. But right now Bolan needed a score card for the Phoenix game, and Kaufman's right arm might be the one to supply it.
Bolan urged the Toronado power plant to greater speed as he homed on the Ruby estate, his near-photographic memory displaying the map of Phoenix streets for navigation. His target lay to the north and west of Camelback Park, within an easy rifle shot of the Interstate highway. He found it easily and circled the walled grounds in a brief recon, senses alert for any traces of hostile presence.
He found those traces immediately. The front gates to the place were open wide, and mental alarm bells jangled at the flagrant breach of security. He could see nothing else beyond the protective walls except scattered treetops and a tiled roof about seventy-five yards back.
He parked the warwagon and quickly outfitted himself for action. Big Thunder, the .44 Automag, went at his right hip to supplement the silent Beretta. A light machine pistol went around his neck, and clips for the weapons filled his belt. He briefly contemplated a rack of small grenades, then decided against them and put the battlewagon behind him.
Bolan ignored the beckoning front gate, opting for an entrance over the north wall. The grounds rolled away before him, dotted with trees at irregular intervals. His attention immediately centered on the house, a long low structure in the Spanish style, its red tile roof supported by thick adobe walls. A long crew wagon was idling at the front door, with a dark man-shape at the wheel, another lounging too casually against the passenger's side. A tall guy, well dressed, black, stiffening suddenly as staccato reports of gunfire erupted within the house.
Those shots galvanized Bolan, and he took advantage of the outside man's preoccupation to make his sprint for the house. He hit the side door with a flying kick and plunged inside, his light chatter gun at the ready. An empty room sneered at him. From beyond the doorway opposite, a second burst of fire exploded, the reports hollow and thunderous. He crossed to the door and slid it open a crack, scanning the hellgrounds beyond through that narrow aperture.
Two guys were barricaded inside the kitchen, directing revolver fire into the parlor from behind an overturned oaken table. Three guys were returning that fire from behind heavily padded furniture in the living room. A riddled corpse was sprawled in the no man's land between those guns, and neither side showed signs of budging. Bolan caught a fleeting glimpse of Ike Ruby's bald head as he popped up to peg a shot at the invaders.
Bolan announced his entry into the battle with a short burst from the chopper. The deadly stream hit one of the invaders broadside, ripping him open from armpit to hip and punching him sideways across an ornate coffee table. The firing spluttered to a halt as four pairs of eyes swung toward Bolan's position, each side evaluating the new arrival in terms of personal jeopardy and need. Ike Ruby recognized help and cackled in triumph, rising from a crouch with his pistol barking an assist for the new ally. The hardmen in the parlor recoiled and tracked about, weapons seeking a new target in their desperate race for life.
Bolan was faster, stitching the first guy across the chest with a zipper of steel-jacketed slugs and sweeping him aside. The last hardman broke cover, crouching, his shotgun swinging uncertainly between targets for a fatal half-second too long. A deadly crossfire of machine gun and revolver slugs spun him like a top, blood spurting from a dozen mortal wounds as he corkscrewed to the floor. A dying finger clenched reflexively and his shotgun boomed toward Ruby and the houseman.
Peripheral images crowded Bolan's vision. On the right, Ruby's houseman going over backward in a spray of crimson, clapping reddened hands to his exploding skull. To the left, a looming form blackening the doorway, sunlight gleaming dully on gunmetal.
It was the big black from outside, an M-16 clutched in businesslike fashion against his hip. Bolan and the black man poised in that confrontation for a moment frozen in eternity, faint recognition crackling between them like electric current. Then Bolan was back-pedaling and plunging to the floor as flame spluttered from that deadly muzzle and a stream of 5.56 tumblers chewed up the doorway. Bullets raked the walls, showering Bolan with adobe chips and splinters of wood. For a long second he was pinned there, unmoving, as the leaden wand of death stroked the air above him. Then it tracked on, seeking other targets in the room beyond, thumping through heavy wood to rip a scream from human lips in there.
It ended as suddenly as it began, and Bolan was in instant motion, the chopper nosing ahead of him as he reentered the silent hellgrounds. Outside, through the open doorway, the rasp of spinning tires on gravel telegraphed the end of the engagement. Taillights were winking through the front gate even as Bolan gained the porch.
He let it go, returning to the slaughterhouse within.
Bodies were draped around the furniture, but Bolan ignored them as he went in search of Ike Ruby. He found him stretched out behind the shattered remains of the oaken dining table. Slugs had stitched him across the chest, and each pained breath brought blood welling up from mangled lungs to soak his torn pajama top.
The guy was dying hard. His vision was going in and out of focus as he squinted up at Bolan, words of warning rasping in his throat. Ruby obviously thought Bolan had been sent by Kaufman to help out, and he was determined to get his message out before it was too late.
"Tell ... tell Moe ... couldn't reach Weiss ... couldn't tip him off ..."
The guy's head was lolling crazily about, breath wheezing in his throat and burbling through the holes in his chest at the same time. "Tell Moe."
"I'll tell him," Bolan assured the corpse, and then he quit the place, quickly retracing his path to the warwagon.
Ruby's dying plea echoed in the Executioner's mind as he fired the warwagon and left the neighborhood behind. Tell Moe that I couldn't reach Weiss. A fragmentary message, sure, the garbled last words of a delirious and dying man, but suddenly as clear as crystal to the Executioner.
Another piece of the Arizona jigsaw puzzle dropped jarringly into place. A picture was forming in Bolan's mind, a confused and admittedly incomplete picture, to be sure, but a chilling one all the same. The game was assuming unexpected proportions, and new players were coming out of the woodwork on every side — most recently a dark and deadly face which Bolan vaguely recognized but could not immediately identify.
Bolan drove on, his jaw set in grim determination, mind intent on the dying concern of Ike Ruby. The Executioner had a message to deliver. To a United States senator named Weiss.
"About an hour before those men arrived, my father got a phone call from Ike Ruby."
"I know Ruby," BOLAN told her. "Go on." Sharon was startled, suddenly off balance, no longer certain how much the big man already knew. She fought to collect her thoughts again before continuing.
"The call seemed important. My father acted ... well, not angry, exactly ... upset."
Bolan broke into her musing train of thought. "So he went over to see Ruby."
"I-I don't know. Honestly. He may have, but he only told me that he had to go out for awhile." She hesitated, then added, "My father and Ike are in business together. They might have met at Daddy's office ... if at all. I just don't know where he went."
The ice returned to the big man's voice as he responded to that. "Okay. Where can I drop you?"
It startled her. She was not prepared for such quick dismissal. "I-but-what ... ?"
"I believe you. We're square. Let's end it on that note."
"It isn't ended, though, is it?" she ventured meekly, adding, "For my father."
"I'm afraid not," he replied gently.
She read that loud and clear. Lifelong protests rose automatically through the tightening throat. "You have it all wrong. My father is a decent man. He has business enemies ... political enemies ... but this other is ... well, it's just not true!"
"Where do I drop you?" he asked again, ignoring the impassioned protest.
"Ike Ruby has been a second father to me! I've called him "Uncle Ike' as long as I can remember." She thought she saw a flicker of human light in those steely eyes and leapt quickly to summon it again. "Please. I sense a-a fairness in you. Why save me only to-to cast me back into the flames!"
He sighed wearily as he told her, "I'm casting you nowhere. All I want from Kaufman and Ruby is the truth. I can't very well get that if I can't find them, can I?"
She made a quick decision, quivering lungs fairly bursting with it. "Then I'll just go along and help you find it."
He showed her a genuine if tiny smile as he replied, "No way."
"Why not? I have a stake in this, too. I have a right."
The smile departed as he grimly responded to that. "The right to die?"
Those incredible eyes flashed with some inner misery. "We all have that right. But I don't have to help you exercise it."
There was a recognizable finality in that response. Her gaze dropped to her lap and she fidgeted. Then, in a barely audible whisper, she said, "I can't go back home."
"No," he quietly agreed.
"i-I'll need to make a telephone call."
He sighed and pointed out the instrument, instructed her on its use, and watched unemotionally as she made arrangements to "crash" with a college friend. From that point, conversation with the big, quiet man was confined entirely to small talk and directions to the drop point.
It was a brief ride, the destination being a "singles" apartment complex off North Central avenue, almost in the shadow of St. Joseph's Hospital. She used that time to visually probe the interior of the fantastic vehicle and to wonder pointedly about the grim secrets it carried. A vehicle of war, certainly, as grim and threatening as the silent man who piloted it so casually through the Phoenix streets. He pulled out beyond the complex to methodically circle the neighborhood, thoroughly "casing" and probing that quiet neighborhood before pulling to the curb on a deserted side street behind the complex.
She rose from the seat and prepared to leave him, turning in the doorway for one more attempt at reaching him. "Mr. Bolan ..." "No promises, Sharon," he reminded her in a gentle voice.
She began to say more, thought better of it, and left him, saying simply, "Thank you again." She hurried across the damp lawn toward the apartments, pausing briefly at the entranceway to watch the motor home as it rounded a corner and disappeared.
Sharon Kaufman turned and hastened to her own destination, her young face set in lines of grim determination. She would make her own promises.
Bolan knew Ike Ruby, all right. The girl had called Ruby a businessman, but the Executioner knew him as the chief enforcer and general staff officer of Moe Kaufman's desert empire. A native of the Bronx, Ruby had been an early protege of Lepke Buchalter in the labor wars before migrating westward toward his ultimate destiny as Kaufman's strong right arm. His rap sheet included seven arrests for first-degree murder, with one indictment and no convictions. And that was only the tip of the iceberg, for despite the periodic disappearance of opposition partisans and persistent rumors of a graveyard in the desert, Ruby had been unhampered by investigation or arrest for the past quarter-century. A "businessman," yeah. Read that "cannibal." Mack Bolan knew Ike Ruby, all right, and somebody else knew him, too. The little mobster's estate was another of those "marks" on the captured map of Phoenix. Like his master, Ike Ruby was a target, and Bolan realized that he might already be too late for his "talk" with the guy. Not that he was bleeding over the fate of a decadent savage, far from it. Other circumstances might find Ike Ruby on the Executioner's own hit parade. But right now Bolan needed a score card for the Phoenix game, and Kaufman's right arm might be the one to supply it.
Bolan urged the Toronado power plant to greater speed as he homed on the Ruby estate, his near-photographic memory displaying the map of Phoenix streets for navigation. His target lay to the north and west of Camelback Park, within an easy rifle shot of the Interstate highway. He found it easily and circled the walled grounds in a brief recon, senses alert for any traces of hostile presence.
He found those traces immediately. The front gates to the place were open wide, and mental alarm bells jangled at the flagrant breach of security. He could see nothing else beyond the protective walls except scattered treetops and a tiled roof about seventy-five yards back.
He parked the warwagon and quickly outfitted himself for action. Big Thunder, the .44 Automag, went at his right hip to supplement the silent Beretta. A light machine pistol went around his neck, and clips for the weapons filled his belt. He briefly contemplated a rack of small grenades, then decided against them and put the battlewagon behind him.
Bolan ignored the beckoning front gate, opting for an entrance over the north wall. The grounds rolled away before him, dotted with trees at irregular intervals. His attention immediately centered on the house, a long low structure in the Spanish style, its red tile roof supported by thick adobe walls. A long crew wagon was idling at the front door, with a dark man-shape at the wheel, another lounging too casually against the passenger's side. A tall guy, well dressed, black, stiffening suddenly as staccato reports of gunfire erupted within the house.
Those shots galvanized Bolan, and he took advantage of the outside man's preoccupation to make his sprint for the house. He hit the side door with a flying kick and plunged inside, his light chatter gun at the ready. An empty room sneered at him. From beyond the doorway opposite, a second burst of fire exploded, the reports hollow and thunderous. He crossed to the door and slid it open a crack, scanning the hellgrounds beyond through that narrow aperture.
Two guys were barricaded inside the kitchen, directing revolver fire into the parlor from behind an overturned oaken table. Three guys were returning that fire from behind heavily padded furniture in the living room. A riddled corpse was sprawled in the no man's land between those guns, and neither side showed signs of budging. Bolan caught a fleeting glimpse of Ike Ruby's bald head as he popped up to peg a shot at the invaders.
Bolan announced his entry into the battle with a short burst from the chopper. The deadly stream hit one of the invaders broadside, ripping him open from armpit to hip and punching him sideways across an ornate coffee table. The firing spluttered to a halt as four pairs of eyes swung toward Bolan's position, each side evaluating the new arrival in terms of personal jeopardy and need. Ike Ruby recognized help and cackled in triumph, rising from a crouch with his pistol barking an assist for the new ally. The hardmen in the parlor recoiled and tracked about, weapons seeking a new target in their desperate race for life.
Bolan was faster, stitching the first guy across the chest with a zipper of steel-jacketed slugs and sweeping him aside. The last hardman broke cover, crouching, his shotgun swinging uncertainly between targets for a fatal half-second too long. A deadly crossfire of machine gun and revolver slugs spun him like a top, blood spurting from a dozen mortal wounds as he corkscrewed to the floor. A dying finger clenched reflexively and his shotgun boomed toward Ruby and the houseman.
Peripheral images crowded Bolan's vision. On the right, Ruby's houseman going over backward in a spray of crimson, clapping reddened hands to his exploding skull. To the left, a looming form blackening the doorway, sunlight gleaming dully on gunmetal.
It was the big black from outside, an M-16 clutched in businesslike fashion against his hip. Bolan and the black man poised in that confrontation for a moment frozen in eternity, faint recognition crackling between them like electric current. Then Bolan was back-pedaling and plunging to the floor as flame spluttered from that deadly muzzle and a stream of 5.56 tumblers chewed up the doorway. Bullets raked the walls, showering Bolan with adobe chips and splinters of wood. For a long second he was pinned there, unmoving, as the leaden wand of death stroked the air above him. Then it tracked on, seeking other targets in the room beyond, thumping through heavy wood to rip a scream from human lips in there.
It ended as suddenly as it began, and Bolan was in instant motion, the chopper nosing ahead of him as he reentered the silent hellgrounds. Outside, through the open doorway, the rasp of spinning tires on gravel telegraphed the end of the engagement. Taillights were winking through the front gate even as Bolan gained the porch.
He let it go, returning to the slaughterhouse within.
Bodies were draped around the furniture, but Bolan ignored them as he went in search of Ike Ruby. He found him stretched out behind the shattered remains of the oaken dining table. Slugs had stitched him across the chest, and each pained breath brought blood welling up from mangled lungs to soak his torn pajama top.
The guy was dying hard. His vision was going in and out of focus as he squinted up at Bolan, words of warning rasping in his throat. Ruby obviously thought Bolan had been sent by Kaufman to help out, and he was determined to get his message out before it was too late.
"Tell ... tell Moe ... couldn't reach Weiss ... couldn't tip him off ..."
The guy's head was lolling crazily about, breath wheezing in his throat and burbling through the holes in his chest at the same time. "Tell Moe."
"I'll tell him," Bolan assured the corpse, and then he quit the place, quickly retracing his path to the warwagon.
Ruby's dying plea echoed in the Executioner's mind as he fired the warwagon and left the neighborhood behind. Tell Moe that I couldn't reach Weiss. A fragmentary message, sure, the garbled last words of a delirious and dying man, but suddenly as clear as crystal to the Executioner.
Another piece of the Arizona jigsaw puzzle dropped jarringly into place. A picture was forming in Bolan's mind, a confused and admittedly incomplete picture, to be sure, but a chilling one all the same. The game was assuming unexpected proportions, and new players were coming out of the woodwork on every side — most recently a dark and deadly face which Bolan vaguely recognized but could not immediately identify.
Bolan drove on, his jaw set in grim determination, mind intent on the dying concern of Ike Ruby. The Executioner had a message to deliver. To a United States senator named Weiss.
Chapter 6
Connections
Senator Abraham Weiss liked to describe himself in campaign speeches as a self-made man. It sounded good to the voters. Of course, there were always a few spiteful and politically motivated critics to dispute the claim. Weiss liked to describe those critics to the voting public as scavengers, with their stories of how he had inherited the family business from his late father, without investing either his own money or original creative ideas. That was nonsense. Hadn't it been Abe who, mere days after his father's funeral, had expanded into marketing and shipment, too, forging close ties with the local Teamster leadership? And wasn't it Abe who had used his business and political connections to place brother David on the Board of directors of Greater Southwestern Savings and Loan, thereby broadening the Weiss empire into real estate investment?
The same bleeding hearts and sob-sisters who blasted Abe Weiss for his business investments were constantly harping about his political connections. They were always pointing to his friendship with Moe Kaufman as if there was something wrong with one lifelong pal contributing to the other's campaign fund. They blamed Weiss for following Moe's suggestion that he run for County Supervisor back in '49 and blasted him for delivering a eulogy at old Gus Greenbaum's funeral in '58. But what the hell, hadn't Gus been a fellow servant of the people and former mayor of Weiss' own home town? The sniveling vultures especially loved to pick at Abe for accepting Kaufman's financial support In three successful Senate campaigns, making wild charges about corruption and conflict of interest.
Weiss publicly dismissed those charges with the contempt they deserved, always ready to explain his swelling bank account as the result of life insurance dividends, and the resultant patronage to Kaufman's handpicked men as mere coincidence. What could be more natural than for lifelong friends to see each other socially from time to time, whether at home in Phoenix or during an expense-paid visit to one of Moe's hotels in Vegas? What really upset his opponents, Weiss told reporters, was his longtime stand against creeping socialism and his staunch defense of innocent businessmen facing criminal harassment by agents of the Justice Department's task force on organized crime.
Mack Bolan was familiar with the accusations against Weiss, and with the senator's protestations of innocence. More importantly, Bolan was familiar with the facts behind the charges and countercharges. Abraham Weiss was a "made man" from the word go, most lately the prime mover behind a Senate inquisition aimed at Hal Brognola and his fellow federal warriors against the Mafia. Bolan could discern the fine hand of puppet-master Moe Kaufman in those Star Chamber proceedings and in other Capitol Hill maneuvers which "coincidentally" served the interests of the Phoenix mob.
Ike Ruby's dying words had been merely the confirmation of a certainty, yet they added sinister new dimensions to the Arizona game. For if Moe Kaufman felt it necessary to "tip Weiss off" about impending events, there might be much more at stake in Phoenix than an old-style street war between ethnic antagonists.
Bolan was well aware that Weiss had been mentioned by the press of late as a long-shot "dark horse" contender in the next presidential race. A tenuous lead, sure, no more than a pipe dream perhaps, but still food for thought. A "made man" in the White House? Sure. Why not?
Between them, Kaufman and Weiss surely had the savvy and political connections to insure "favorite son" backing for the candidate. And beyond that? If Kaufman remained in good standing with the national organization, the full weight and influence of the Mafia and its minions might be thrown behind the white knight from Arizona.
But how did Kaufman stand with his former amici in the Mafia? Was the latest thrust by Nick Bonelli and company merely a local power play or much more?
Sinister implications, Yeah, even without the full story.
Part of the answer lay with the captured battle map of Phoenix and the marks around the state capitol, where Weiss maintained an office. And it took the Executioner less than five minutes with a Phoenix phone directory to confirm the residence of Abraham Weiss as target number four on Bonelli's campaign chart.
Abe Weiss was part of the Phoenix game plan whether or not he'd become aware of it. So was another whose dark face nagged at Bolan's photographic memory, a ghost from the past — a wraith skillfully sidestepping efforts to catalog.
Even the game itself remained to be identified — and for that he would seek the help Of Honest Abe Weiss, the unconscious player. And perhaps, in the process, a serpent would be uncovered.
He punched the bell and waited while melodic chimes sounded patriotic notes deep within the rambling structure. Footsteps approached instantly and the door was opened a crack by a Chicano houseman. Bolan pushed the door fully open and stepped inside to the guy's spluttering protests.
There was a cool entry foyer sporting potted cacti, a low-ceilinged hallway dividing the structure with heavy Spanish doors to the left and right, an atmosphere of solidity and wealth.
"Message from Kaufman," Bolan snapped at the houseman. "Tell 'im."
The guy was torn with indecision. "The senator doesn't like to-"
"Tell 'im!" Bolan snarled, adding to the discomfort.
The houseman's unhappy eyes gave it away, flashing uncertainty toward a closed door on the right.
Bolan shouldered the guy aside and let himself in. It was a large, plush den, decorated with antique guns and stuffed hunting trophies. An oval doorway at the far end led to a secluded dining area-breakfast room, maybe with double-doors opening onto a shaded patio.
The senator was having a late breakfast on the patio, newspapers from several major cities stacked neatly on the table at his left hand. His was a face known around the world — hard blue eyes glaring fiercely through steel-rimmed glasses, that stern jaw and prominent chin, the shock of iron-gray hair neatly adorning the handsome head. The guy did not look like a Jew.
He looked like a Nazi stormtrooper.
That famous chin thrust itself toward the intruder and those dissecting eyes crackled as the familiar voice demanded, "What the hell is this?"
The breathless houseman inserted himself between them. "He crashed in, sir. Do you know him?"
"He will," Bolan said coldly. The gaze rested fully on the senator. "The message is urgent, Weiss. Tell the guy to get lost."
A shifting of senatorial eyes was all it took. The Chicano disappeared. Bolan dropped into a chair and crossed his legs, casually settling in.
"It better be good," Weiss growled.
Bolan lit a cigarette as he replied, "It's not. Ike Ruby is dead. It's a war. They hit Moe's place, too. Luckily, he wasn't there. But they took his kid."
The unreadable face turned in famous profile as the eye contact was broken. There was no other readable reaction. After a moment, the eyes still averted, that voice known around the world inquired softly, "Why are you bringing this to me? I'm not a policeman."
"Come off it," Bolan replied quietly.
"Who the hell are you?" Weiss asked, still not looking at him.
Bolan introduced himself with a marksman's medal, dropping it with a flat metallic ping on an egg-smeared plate.
Then the guy looked at him. Searchingly, coldly — more curiosity than anything else showing in that harsh gaze.
"So," he said simply.
Bolan said, "I think you may be next on the hit list."
"Let's talk about it," Weiss said, the voice coldly cautious but giving nothing. "Maybe we can come up with, uh, an accommodation."
Bolan's grin was pure ice. "Wrong reading," he said. "It's not my hit list. I think it's Bonelli's. And I think you need a friend." The guy was quick. "Meaning you?" he asked, coming right back with it.
"Wouldn't that be ironic?" the Executioner said quietly.
"I guess it would," replied the senator who had been demanding Mack Bolan's scalp for these many months in the hallowed halls of congress.
"Don't let it worry you," Bolan said. "I wouldn't kiss you, Senator, with Augie Marinello's dead lips."
"So what are you doing here?" the guy asked tightly, cold hatred in his gaze.
"Looking for handles," Bolan replied truthfully.
"You won't find any on me."
"Puppets don't have handles," Bolan said. "Strings are the usual controls, aren't they?"
"You son of a bitch, you-get out of here! Who the hell do you think ..."
The anger spluttered off into rigid self-control. Those sky-blue eyes receded behind slitted lids — and, for a moment, Bolan thought he caught a glimpse of the Arizona viper in its native lair. The guy took a deep breath and asked his visitor, "Okay, what's your game? What do you want here?"
"I want you out of the game," Bolan replied coldly.
"Fine. Be assured, I want the same. Now get out of here. I'll give you a ten-minute head start before I call the police. But that's my final offer."
Bolan chuckled with ice on the teeth. "Here's a matching offer. I'll take Bonelli out if you'll take Kaufman."
"You're insane."
"No more than you. Maybe I don't fully understand the game yet, but I think I'm beginning to. And I believe that you are the prize."
"I'm the what?" Weiss snapped.
"The name of the game is Puppeteer. And you, Mister Righteous, are the prize puppet. Bonelli will own you or he'll take you out and put in one of his own. How does that sit?"
It was not sitting too well. "You say they tried to hit Moe?"
Bolan nodded. "Pure luck saved him. He was out at a time when he is usually always in. Like you, Weiss, he's a man of vulnerable habit. They'll get him. Bank on that."
The guy had already banked it. "If what you say is true-"
Bolan made a disparaging sound and replied, "I didn't risk walking in here to trade nothing but insults."
"But my God! This Is ridiculous! It's crazy!"
"Who ever called them sane?" Bolan said quietly, referring to the Bonellis of the world — a meaning not lost on his listener. "If they want you, they'll have you. You signed it all away, yourself, Weiss, when you gave it to Kaufman. You've been fair game from that moment. You're a piece of property, a chunk of meat to be owned and traded and sold on the open market. And Bonelli has decided to take you."
"We'll see about that," the senator replied stubbornly.
"You see about it," Bolan said, rising to leave. "But your only out is to go public. Ruin yourself politically. That would sever all the strings. Then you could call your soul your own. And I doubt that you'd draw more than a year in one of the federal country clubs. I hear life can be pretty nice there. You could write a book, make a fortune."
He was moving off.
Weiss called after him, "Wait a minute-wait! Let's scratch backs. I can be a good friend to have. I can make things a lot easier for you. Get that fucking wop off my back and you can write your own ticket with me."
Bolan paused in the doorway to send a withering gaze along the backtrack. "I should live so long," he said quietly and put that stench behind him.
He'd given the guy honest counsel — but then, of course, puppets were not particularly renown for standing alone. That one back there would not even contemplate the thought, nor had Bolan thought for a moment that he would.
He had the guy wired for sound, though, and he knew also that Honest Abe would lose no time seeking reassurance from the puppeteer.
Back in the warwagon, Bolan immediately summoned the wires on Abe Weiss, activating the surveillance system for simultaneous recording and live-monitoring. He got there in time to pick up and record for future reference several different telephone numbers as the senator searched via Ma Bell for his friend and political benefactor.
Weiss struck pay dirt on the fourth try. "I've been looking all over for you. What's happening?"
It was Kaufman's voice in the return. "Don't use any names. Keep it cool."
"Right, sure. God's sake. What is It? Are you laying low?"
"Sort of, yes. Listen, you better do it, too. I've been thinking about calling you. It's heat from the south, I think. I don't know what the hell it's all about, but you better cool it until I find out. Don't-"
"Dammit that guy Bolan was just here!"
"What?!"
"Yeah! I'm afraid that-"
"Say nothing else! Hang up, hang up!"
"Wait! I think he's on our side! It's the wops he hates! We could use the guy!"
"Hang up, dammit. I'll send you some comfort. Don't call again!"
Kaufman's voice was replaced by a loud hum.
Weiss swore softly into the line and also hung up.
Bolan was about to turn off the live monitor when another distinct click signaled the presence of a third party on that line.
So. Bolan's wires were not the only ones in Phoenix. He thought he knew, now, where to find Moe Kaufman.
He sent the warwagon tracking toward Paradise, homing on the corrupt connection that bound the state of Arizona in political slavery. He would sever that connection by whatever means necessary. And — no, Sharon — no promises at all.
The same bleeding hearts and sob-sisters who blasted Abe Weiss for his business investments were constantly harping about his political connections. They were always pointing to his friendship with Moe Kaufman as if there was something wrong with one lifelong pal contributing to the other's campaign fund. They blamed Weiss for following Moe's suggestion that he run for County Supervisor back in '49 and blasted him for delivering a eulogy at old Gus Greenbaum's funeral in '58. But what the hell, hadn't Gus been a fellow servant of the people and former mayor of Weiss' own home town? The sniveling vultures especially loved to pick at Abe for accepting Kaufman's financial support In three successful Senate campaigns, making wild charges about corruption and conflict of interest.
Weiss publicly dismissed those charges with the contempt they deserved, always ready to explain his swelling bank account as the result of life insurance dividends, and the resultant patronage to Kaufman's handpicked men as mere coincidence. What could be more natural than for lifelong friends to see each other socially from time to time, whether at home in Phoenix or during an expense-paid visit to one of Moe's hotels in Vegas? What really upset his opponents, Weiss told reporters, was his longtime stand against creeping socialism and his staunch defense of innocent businessmen facing criminal harassment by agents of the Justice Department's task force on organized crime.
Mack Bolan was familiar with the accusations against Weiss, and with the senator's protestations of innocence. More importantly, Bolan was familiar with the facts behind the charges and countercharges. Abraham Weiss was a "made man" from the word go, most lately the prime mover behind a Senate inquisition aimed at Hal Brognola and his fellow federal warriors against the Mafia. Bolan could discern the fine hand of puppet-master Moe Kaufman in those Star Chamber proceedings and in other Capitol Hill maneuvers which "coincidentally" served the interests of the Phoenix mob.
Ike Ruby's dying words had been merely the confirmation of a certainty, yet they added sinister new dimensions to the Arizona game. For if Moe Kaufman felt it necessary to "tip Weiss off" about impending events, there might be much more at stake in Phoenix than an old-style street war between ethnic antagonists.
Bolan was well aware that Weiss had been mentioned by the press of late as a long-shot "dark horse" contender in the next presidential race. A tenuous lead, sure, no more than a pipe dream perhaps, but still food for thought. A "made man" in the White House? Sure. Why not?
Between them, Kaufman and Weiss surely had the savvy and political connections to insure "favorite son" backing for the candidate. And beyond that? If Kaufman remained in good standing with the national organization, the full weight and influence of the Mafia and its minions might be thrown behind the white knight from Arizona.
But how did Kaufman stand with his former amici in the Mafia? Was the latest thrust by Nick Bonelli and company merely a local power play or much more?
Sinister implications, Yeah, even without the full story.
Part of the answer lay with the captured battle map of Phoenix and the marks around the state capitol, where Weiss maintained an office. And it took the Executioner less than five minutes with a Phoenix phone directory to confirm the residence of Abraham Weiss as target number four on Bonelli's campaign chart.
Abe Weiss was part of the Phoenix game plan whether or not he'd become aware of it. So was another whose dark face nagged at Bolan's photographic memory, a ghost from the past — a wraith skillfully sidestepping efforts to catalog.
Even the game itself remained to be identified — and for that he would seek the help Of Honest Abe Weiss, the unconscious player. And perhaps, in the process, a serpent would be uncovered.
He punched the bell and waited while melodic chimes sounded patriotic notes deep within the rambling structure. Footsteps approached instantly and the door was opened a crack by a Chicano houseman. Bolan pushed the door fully open and stepped inside to the guy's spluttering protests.
There was a cool entry foyer sporting potted cacti, a low-ceilinged hallway dividing the structure with heavy Spanish doors to the left and right, an atmosphere of solidity and wealth.
"Message from Kaufman," Bolan snapped at the houseman. "Tell 'im."
The guy was torn with indecision. "The senator doesn't like to-"
"Tell 'im!" Bolan snarled, adding to the discomfort.
The houseman's unhappy eyes gave it away, flashing uncertainty toward a closed door on the right.
Bolan shouldered the guy aside and let himself in. It was a large, plush den, decorated with antique guns and stuffed hunting trophies. An oval doorway at the far end led to a secluded dining area-breakfast room, maybe with double-doors opening onto a shaded patio.
The senator was having a late breakfast on the patio, newspapers from several major cities stacked neatly on the table at his left hand. His was a face known around the world — hard blue eyes glaring fiercely through steel-rimmed glasses, that stern jaw and prominent chin, the shock of iron-gray hair neatly adorning the handsome head. The guy did not look like a Jew.
He looked like a Nazi stormtrooper.
That famous chin thrust itself toward the intruder and those dissecting eyes crackled as the familiar voice demanded, "What the hell is this?"
The breathless houseman inserted himself between them. "He crashed in, sir. Do you know him?"
"He will," Bolan said coldly. The gaze rested fully on the senator. "The message is urgent, Weiss. Tell the guy to get lost."
A shifting of senatorial eyes was all it took. The Chicano disappeared. Bolan dropped into a chair and crossed his legs, casually settling in.
"It better be good," Weiss growled.
Bolan lit a cigarette as he replied, "It's not. Ike Ruby is dead. It's a war. They hit Moe's place, too. Luckily, he wasn't there. But they took his kid."
The unreadable face turned in famous profile as the eye contact was broken. There was no other readable reaction. After a moment, the eyes still averted, that voice known around the world inquired softly, "Why are you bringing this to me? I'm not a policeman."
"Come off it," Bolan replied quietly.
"Who the hell are you?" Weiss asked, still not looking at him.
Bolan introduced himself with a marksman's medal, dropping it with a flat metallic ping on an egg-smeared plate.
Then the guy looked at him. Searchingly, coldly — more curiosity than anything else showing in that harsh gaze.
"So," he said simply.
Bolan said, "I think you may be next on the hit list."
"Let's talk about it," Weiss said, the voice coldly cautious but giving nothing. "Maybe we can come up with, uh, an accommodation."
Bolan's grin was pure ice. "Wrong reading," he said. "It's not my hit list. I think it's Bonelli's. And I think you need a friend." The guy was quick. "Meaning you?" he asked, coming right back with it.
"Wouldn't that be ironic?" the Executioner said quietly.
"I guess it would," replied the senator who had been demanding Mack Bolan's scalp for these many months in the hallowed halls of congress.
"Don't let it worry you," Bolan said. "I wouldn't kiss you, Senator, with Augie Marinello's dead lips."
"So what are you doing here?" the guy asked tightly, cold hatred in his gaze.
"Looking for handles," Bolan replied truthfully.
"You won't find any on me."
"Puppets don't have handles," Bolan said. "Strings are the usual controls, aren't they?"
"You son of a bitch, you-get out of here! Who the hell do you think ..."
The anger spluttered off into rigid self-control. Those sky-blue eyes receded behind slitted lids — and, for a moment, Bolan thought he caught a glimpse of the Arizona viper in its native lair. The guy took a deep breath and asked his visitor, "Okay, what's your game? What do you want here?"
"I want you out of the game," Bolan replied coldly.
"Fine. Be assured, I want the same. Now get out of here. I'll give you a ten-minute head start before I call the police. But that's my final offer."
Bolan chuckled with ice on the teeth. "Here's a matching offer. I'll take Bonelli out if you'll take Kaufman."
"You're insane."
"No more than you. Maybe I don't fully understand the game yet, but I think I'm beginning to. And I believe that you are the prize."
"I'm the what?" Weiss snapped.
"The name of the game is Puppeteer. And you, Mister Righteous, are the prize puppet. Bonelli will own you or he'll take you out and put in one of his own. How does that sit?"
It was not sitting too well. "You say they tried to hit Moe?"
Bolan nodded. "Pure luck saved him. He was out at a time when he is usually always in. Like you, Weiss, he's a man of vulnerable habit. They'll get him. Bank on that."
The guy had already banked it. "If what you say is true-"
Bolan made a disparaging sound and replied, "I didn't risk walking in here to trade nothing but insults."
"But my God! This Is ridiculous! It's crazy!"
"Who ever called them sane?" Bolan said quietly, referring to the Bonellis of the world — a meaning not lost on his listener. "If they want you, they'll have you. You signed it all away, yourself, Weiss, when you gave it to Kaufman. You've been fair game from that moment. You're a piece of property, a chunk of meat to be owned and traded and sold on the open market. And Bonelli has decided to take you."
"We'll see about that," the senator replied stubbornly.
"You see about it," Bolan said, rising to leave. "But your only out is to go public. Ruin yourself politically. That would sever all the strings. Then you could call your soul your own. And I doubt that you'd draw more than a year in one of the federal country clubs. I hear life can be pretty nice there. You could write a book, make a fortune."
He was moving off.
Weiss called after him, "Wait a minute-wait! Let's scratch backs. I can be a good friend to have. I can make things a lot easier for you. Get that fucking wop off my back and you can write your own ticket with me."
Bolan paused in the doorway to send a withering gaze along the backtrack. "I should live so long," he said quietly and put that stench behind him.
He'd given the guy honest counsel — but then, of course, puppets were not particularly renown for standing alone. That one back there would not even contemplate the thought, nor had Bolan thought for a moment that he would.
He had the guy wired for sound, though, and he knew also that Honest Abe would lose no time seeking reassurance from the puppeteer.
Back in the warwagon, Bolan immediately summoned the wires on Abe Weiss, activating the surveillance system for simultaneous recording and live-monitoring. He got there in time to pick up and record for future reference several different telephone numbers as the senator searched via Ma Bell for his friend and political benefactor.
Weiss struck pay dirt on the fourth try. "I've been looking all over for you. What's happening?"
It was Kaufman's voice in the return. "Don't use any names. Keep it cool."
"Right, sure. God's sake. What is It? Are you laying low?"
"Sort of, yes. Listen, you better do it, too. I've been thinking about calling you. It's heat from the south, I think. I don't know what the hell it's all about, but you better cool it until I find out. Don't-"
"Dammit that guy Bolan was just here!"
"What?!"
"Yeah! I'm afraid that-"
"Say nothing else! Hang up, hang up!"
"Wait! I think he's on our side! It's the wops he hates! We could use the guy!"
"Hang up, dammit. I'll send you some comfort. Don't call again!"
Kaufman's voice was replaced by a loud hum.
Weiss swore softly into the line and also hung up.
Bolan was about to turn off the live monitor when another distinct click signaled the presence of a third party on that line.
So. Bolan's wires were not the only ones in Phoenix. He thought he knew, now, where to find Moe Kaufman.
He sent the warwagon tracking toward Paradise, homing on the corrupt connection that bound the state of Arizona in political slavery. He would sever that connection by whatever means necessary. And — no, Sharon — no promises at all.
Chapter 7
Convincers
It was a rambling spread in the Old West Style, complete with barbed-wire fencing and livestock grazing on the north forty. It was not exactly a "home on the range," though. A sprawling ranch house blended rustic architecture with tennis courts and an olympic-size pool, shiny patios, and gleaming lawn furniture.
The "retreat," yeah — a place where a harried businessman could get away from the pressures of the city and play at ranching with minimum discomfort.
Bolan's intelligence also suggested the Paradise Ranch as a clandestine center for illicit enterprises in both the political and commercial spectrums. The joint had all the appearances of a hardsite, for sure. Innocent-looking sentries in working western garb restlessly roamed the perimeters in jeeps and on horseback. "Workers" were spotted at strategic points about the lush inner compound surrounding the house. In the inner circle, hard-looking guys occupied tense Positions at poolside — a human screen for the center of it all, the old master landlord of Arizona, Moe Kaufman. It was a conference of some kind, for sure. Kaufman, in swim shorts and terrycloth jacket, lolling on a sunning board with an upraised knee clasped in both hands; three younger guys, incongruously clad in business suits, occupying folding chairs in a semi-circle at his feet. It was a parley, all right. A portable telephone sat on a small table at Kaufman's left hand. He'd used it twice during the brief eyeball surveillance, on both occasions speaking animatedly and with obvious anger.
The warwagon was parked on the reverse slope of a shaded knoll overlooking the "ranch." The range was about 1,000 yards, elevation perhaps fifty feet, situation beautiful. Bolan sat on the forward slope in the shade of a gnarled tree, a wireless extension to the warwagon's mobile phone at his knee, the Weatherby .460 with sniper-scope across his lap, powerful binoculars resolving the vision field an almost eerie arm's length away. He put down the binoculars to give naked eyes another panoramic sweep. The ranch stretched away from his position almost like a miniature set, Mummy Mountain in the distant backdrop.
Satisfied, finally, that the time was right, Bolan sighed and picked up the telephone.
He got a breathless pickup on the first ring.
"Ranch."
"Put 'im on," Bolan growled.
"Who's calling?"
"Avon, dummy. Put me through."
A silence denoting some hesitance, then; "Okay. Hold it."
Bolan held it, raising the binoculars again to zero in on a movement at the patio door. A guy in shirtsleeves, calling over to the congregation at poolside.
Bolan panned across with the binoculars to pick up Kaufman in a moment of irritation. Heavy lips poured forth staccato response to the summons from the house even as a chubby hand moved toward the portable phone. Bolan smiled as he watched the emperor of Arizona delicately handle that instrument as though it were a bomb set to go at some undetermined moment, jowly face wobbling with thinly disguised tension. But it was the same houseman's voice that broke the silence across that connection. "Who's calling?" The guy again inquired.
Smiling grimly, Bolan spoke for the benefit of those ears at poolside. "I have news of Sharon. If he doesn't want to hear it, fuck 'im."
He indeed wanted to hear it. Breathlessly; "Okay, I'm on, let's hear it."
"The kid's okay," Bolan growled.
"How do I know that?"
"Because I say."
"Okay. I'll accept that for now. Get this, though, and be sure you understand it. If I find that girl with a hair out of place, I'll scorch this goddamned state from border to border, and I'll have balls and all of every sonovabitch involved in it. Understand that. I'll deal to get her back. But, man, she better get back smiling and happy."
"Relax, she's already back," Bolan growled.
"What?"
"You heard it."
"She's home safe? Who is this?"
"Nothing of yours is safe, Kaufman. For the moment, though, yeah, she's okay. I left her in her own hands and walking free. Do you know a kid lives over by the hospital?"
"St. Joseph's?" the worried father replied quickly, then cautioned: "Say no more. I got it. Hey — I owe you. If this is level. What can I do?"
"You can listen for about thirty seconds and believe what you hear."
He watched perplexed eyes as they shifted rapidly in the magnification of the powerful binoculars, then the guy replied: "I don't-uh, who the hell is this?"
"The name is Bolan."
A sharp intake of breath was the only immediate response for the ears. For the eyes, a mixture of fear and disbelief filling the field of vision. Then, cautiously: "Convince me."
"Bonelli let paper on you. I sniffed it out and got there as they were leaving. They had your kid. I burned them down and sprung the kid. She's very pretty. Must have got it from her mother. Tried to convince me that her father is a poor misunderstood humanitarian with unfortunate business connections. But we know better, don't we? So does Bonelli. He wants what you've got, Humanitarian. You spoke of scorched earth, but it's all moving toward you, Can you believe that?"
"Maybe." The guy's eyes were working furiously, belying the calm of that voice. "Saying it's all true ... what's your interest?"
Bolan gave him a chilled chuckle. "Come on, now. You know my interests."
"Are you looking for a connection?"
It was almost funny. Bolan told him, "I've found the connection. I'm going to sever it. Call this fair warning. Pull it in, Kaufman. I can't allow Bonelli to pull this off. If you don't make the cut, I'll have to."
Angrily: "I don't know what the hell you're talking about!"
Coldly: "Sure you do. You can have your little games on the home turf. If the people of Arizona don't care, why should I? But your Washington connections are a bit much — even for a provincial like you. For a cannibal like Bonelli, it's unthinkable. I can't allow it."
The guy was all but frothing at the mouth. "You can't allow it!? Who the hell-you wise shit!-where the hell do you get off-how the hell do I even know who's talking!?"
"Sever the connection, Kaufman. That's the only way you can save it, anyway. I'll take care of Bonelli. You take care of that Washington connection. I'll call it a successful mission and take my games elsewhere."
There was silence on the line for a long moment as the focal field of the glasses registered a full parade of conflicting emotions. Presently the guy sighed and calmly replied, "I still don't know you're who you say. And if you are, it makes no sense to me. Exactly what are you saying?"
"I'm saying I'll enforce the status quo ... almost. Bonelli keeps Tucson. Kaufman keeps Phoenix but severs the national link."
Suspiciously: "And what does Bolan keep?"
Lightly: "Bolan keeps the peace ... elsewhere. But you'll have to cut your national link."
"That's the game, eh?"
"That's about it. And it has to be quick. Before the sun sets again."
"What's the alternative?"
"You already said it. Scorched earth."
"How do I know this isn't-why should I believe a damn thing you say?"
"You need a convincer, eh?"
"Damn right. Another thing, why should ..."
Bolan set the phone aside and hoisted the big sniper to his shoulder. Eight thousand foot-pounds of bone-shattering energy would propel a heavy 500-grain messenger across that thousand-yard course in about one second flat. But the object, this time, was not to shatter flesh and bone. The object was to convince.
The pudgy racketeer sprang into sharp relief in the highly localized vision field of the big scope, fat lips still working in time with the crackling sounds emanating from the telephone receiver.
Bolan centered the cross-hairs momentarily on that agitated mouth before tracking on. One caress of the finger at that moment would have stilled that forked tongue forever. But the pained face of a pretty girl streaked across the memory field, influencing an already reluctant trigger finger, pushing the scan onward. To take Kaufman at this point would be to play directly into Bonelli's designs on Arizona. Kaufman would keep.
The hairs were already calibrated to the range. A quick mental adjustment for windage moved them two clicks left of the portable telephone at Kaufman's side. No flesh stood in the path.
He squeezed into the pull and rode the recoil for instant target evaluation, smiling with grim satisfaction as that phone took sail in a flurry of flying fragments. The bullet got there faster than sound, and Bolan was already squeezing into the next pull before that startled flesh down there understood what was happening. The hollow thunderclaps rolled away from his knoll across the flats to reverberate from the sounding board of the ranch house as puffs of cement dust and exploding glass marked the progress of the rapid-fire barrage, each round targeting harmlessly from the human point of view but wreaking considerable destruction upon inanimate objects.
No human flesh was in view down there, now. A couple of heads bobbed cautiously just above the surface of the pool. The sunning board was overturned; folding chairs scattered in hasty patterns of retreat. A jeep was tearing along a dusty road from the north forty, but there was no other obvious movement anywhere down there. Bolan gathered his gear and withdrew. Paradise Ranch had recognized a truth.
The "retreat," yeah — a place where a harried businessman could get away from the pressures of the city and play at ranching with minimum discomfort.
Bolan's intelligence also suggested the Paradise Ranch as a clandestine center for illicit enterprises in both the political and commercial spectrums. The joint had all the appearances of a hardsite, for sure. Innocent-looking sentries in working western garb restlessly roamed the perimeters in jeeps and on horseback. "Workers" were spotted at strategic points about the lush inner compound surrounding the house. In the inner circle, hard-looking guys occupied tense Positions at poolside — a human screen for the center of it all, the old master landlord of Arizona, Moe Kaufman. It was a conference of some kind, for sure. Kaufman, in swim shorts and terrycloth jacket, lolling on a sunning board with an upraised knee clasped in both hands; three younger guys, incongruously clad in business suits, occupying folding chairs in a semi-circle at his feet. It was a parley, all right. A portable telephone sat on a small table at Kaufman's left hand. He'd used it twice during the brief eyeball surveillance, on both occasions speaking animatedly and with obvious anger.
The warwagon was parked on the reverse slope of a shaded knoll overlooking the "ranch." The range was about 1,000 yards, elevation perhaps fifty feet, situation beautiful. Bolan sat on the forward slope in the shade of a gnarled tree, a wireless extension to the warwagon's mobile phone at his knee, the Weatherby .460 with sniper-scope across his lap, powerful binoculars resolving the vision field an almost eerie arm's length away. He put down the binoculars to give naked eyes another panoramic sweep. The ranch stretched away from his position almost like a miniature set, Mummy Mountain in the distant backdrop.
Satisfied, finally, that the time was right, Bolan sighed and picked up the telephone.
He got a breathless pickup on the first ring.
"Ranch."
"Put 'im on," Bolan growled.
"Who's calling?"
"Avon, dummy. Put me through."
A silence denoting some hesitance, then; "Okay. Hold it."
Bolan held it, raising the binoculars again to zero in on a movement at the patio door. A guy in shirtsleeves, calling over to the congregation at poolside.
Bolan panned across with the binoculars to pick up Kaufman in a moment of irritation. Heavy lips poured forth staccato response to the summons from the house even as a chubby hand moved toward the portable phone. Bolan smiled as he watched the emperor of Arizona delicately handle that instrument as though it were a bomb set to go at some undetermined moment, jowly face wobbling with thinly disguised tension. But it was the same houseman's voice that broke the silence across that connection. "Who's calling?" The guy again inquired.
Smiling grimly, Bolan spoke for the benefit of those ears at poolside. "I have news of Sharon. If he doesn't want to hear it, fuck 'im."
He indeed wanted to hear it. Breathlessly; "Okay, I'm on, let's hear it."
"The kid's okay," Bolan growled.
"How do I know that?"
"Because I say."
"Okay. I'll accept that for now. Get this, though, and be sure you understand it. If I find that girl with a hair out of place, I'll scorch this goddamned state from border to border, and I'll have balls and all of every sonovabitch involved in it. Understand that. I'll deal to get her back. But, man, she better get back smiling and happy."
"Relax, she's already back," Bolan growled.
"What?"
"You heard it."
"She's home safe? Who is this?"
"Nothing of yours is safe, Kaufman. For the moment, though, yeah, she's okay. I left her in her own hands and walking free. Do you know a kid lives over by the hospital?"
"St. Joseph's?" the worried father replied quickly, then cautioned: "Say no more. I got it. Hey — I owe you. If this is level. What can I do?"
"You can listen for about thirty seconds and believe what you hear."
He watched perplexed eyes as they shifted rapidly in the magnification of the powerful binoculars, then the guy replied: "I don't-uh, who the hell is this?"
"The name is Bolan."
A sharp intake of breath was the only immediate response for the ears. For the eyes, a mixture of fear and disbelief filling the field of vision. Then, cautiously: "Convince me."
"Bonelli let paper on you. I sniffed it out and got there as they were leaving. They had your kid. I burned them down and sprung the kid. She's very pretty. Must have got it from her mother. Tried to convince me that her father is a poor misunderstood humanitarian with unfortunate business connections. But we know better, don't we? So does Bonelli. He wants what you've got, Humanitarian. You spoke of scorched earth, but it's all moving toward you, Can you believe that?"
"Maybe." The guy's eyes were working furiously, belying the calm of that voice. "Saying it's all true ... what's your interest?"
Bolan gave him a chilled chuckle. "Come on, now. You know my interests."
"Are you looking for a connection?"
It was almost funny. Bolan told him, "I've found the connection. I'm going to sever it. Call this fair warning. Pull it in, Kaufman. I can't allow Bonelli to pull this off. If you don't make the cut, I'll have to."
Angrily: "I don't know what the hell you're talking about!"
Coldly: "Sure you do. You can have your little games on the home turf. If the people of Arizona don't care, why should I? But your Washington connections are a bit much — even for a provincial like you. For a cannibal like Bonelli, it's unthinkable. I can't allow it."
The guy was all but frothing at the mouth. "You can't allow it!? Who the hell-you wise shit!-where the hell do you get off-how the hell do I even know who's talking!?"
"Sever the connection, Kaufman. That's the only way you can save it, anyway. I'll take care of Bonelli. You take care of that Washington connection. I'll call it a successful mission and take my games elsewhere."
There was silence on the line for a long moment as the focal field of the glasses registered a full parade of conflicting emotions. Presently the guy sighed and calmly replied, "I still don't know you're who you say. And if you are, it makes no sense to me. Exactly what are you saying?"
"I'm saying I'll enforce the status quo ... almost. Bonelli keeps Tucson. Kaufman keeps Phoenix but severs the national link."
Suspiciously: "And what does Bolan keep?"
Lightly: "Bolan keeps the peace ... elsewhere. But you'll have to cut your national link."
"That's the game, eh?"
"That's about it. And it has to be quick. Before the sun sets again."
"What's the alternative?"
"You already said it. Scorched earth."
"How do I know this isn't-why should I believe a damn thing you say?"
"You need a convincer, eh?"
"Damn right. Another thing, why should ..."
Bolan set the phone aside and hoisted the big sniper to his shoulder. Eight thousand foot-pounds of bone-shattering energy would propel a heavy 500-grain messenger across that thousand-yard course in about one second flat. But the object, this time, was not to shatter flesh and bone. The object was to convince.
The pudgy racketeer sprang into sharp relief in the highly localized vision field of the big scope, fat lips still working in time with the crackling sounds emanating from the telephone receiver.
Bolan centered the cross-hairs momentarily on that agitated mouth before tracking on. One caress of the finger at that moment would have stilled that forked tongue forever. But the pained face of a pretty girl streaked across the memory field, influencing an already reluctant trigger finger, pushing the scan onward. To take Kaufman at this point would be to play directly into Bonelli's designs on Arizona. Kaufman would keep.
The hairs were already calibrated to the range. A quick mental adjustment for windage moved them two clicks left of the portable telephone at Kaufman's side. No flesh stood in the path.
He squeezed into the pull and rode the recoil for instant target evaluation, smiling with grim satisfaction as that phone took sail in a flurry of flying fragments. The bullet got there faster than sound, and Bolan was already squeezing into the next pull before that startled flesh down there understood what was happening. The hollow thunderclaps rolled away from his knoll across the flats to reverberate from the sounding board of the ranch house as puffs of cement dust and exploding glass marked the progress of the rapid-fire barrage, each round targeting harmlessly from the human point of view but wreaking considerable destruction upon inanimate objects.
No human flesh was in view down there, now. A couple of heads bobbed cautiously just above the surface of the pool. The sunning board was overturned; folding chairs scattered in hasty patterns of retreat. A jeep was tearing along a dusty road from the north forty, but there was no other obvious movement anywhere down there. Bolan gathered his gear and withdrew. Paradise Ranch had recognized a truth.
Chapter 8
The wedge
The true scope of the Phoenix game was beginning to gel, imposing itself on Bolan's consciousness as a sinister silhouette, still devoid of detail, but already looming above anything he had been prepared to find in the Grand Canyon State. The Executioner had come to Arizona seeking heroin and dealers in the poison, but he had found instead that "something else," fragmentary, veiled, still incomplete, but something, something big, overshadowing the routine importation of Mexican drugs just as the Mafia itself overshadowed ordinary street crime. As that silhouette grew, expanding into a looming shadow of doom, Bolan realized the full urgency of his situation, his need to identify the game plan and the highly lethal players.
For once, the problem was compounded not by the usual shortage of leads, but by too many. Too many game trails to follow and too many players to identify without a comprehensive score card. There were simply too damn many fingers in the Arizona pie.
It had begun with Nick Bonelli, the Tucson Mafia, and heroin. Then came the startling realization of a secret paramilitary force drilling in the Tucson desert and striking northward toward the Phoenix preserves of Moe Kaufman and company. Complications aplenty, yeah. More than enough even before the addition of a kinky senator who was maybe being groomed as White House material.
Too many leads, sure. Bolan always sought the overall view, the big picture, but the picture in Arizona was just too big. The stage was so crowded with actors that the plot was all but lost in their entrances and exits. And the most recent addition to the cast was a face from the Executioner's own memory, an identity which eluded him with frustrating adeptness. Bolan had wracked his brain seeking a name to match that face, an identity to pair with that vague remembrance and the evil tremors it inspired. He had managed to eliminate known mafiosi and their hangers-on by scanning his mental mug file, which left him where? Vietnam? Before?
He brushed the phantom aside to concentrate once more upon the game itself, a mystery whose significance overshadowed the importance of any one man. Arizona offered so many opportunities for an industrious tribe of cannibals that Bolan scarcely knew where to begin looking. Heroin, sure, and all the associated border rackets which could rake in millions every year for the mob coffers. But Nick Bonelli had all that already, and he needed to prove nothing by declaring unnecessary war upon Kaufman and the Phoenix mob. The same argument negated consideration of the other routine rackets, which had been shared more or less peacefully by the competing mobs for over three decades. None of those rackets nor even all of them together could justify the expense and risk incurred by Bonelli in outfitting, training, and unleashing his private army.
And that left, yeah, something else.
Always the trail led back to Abraham Weiss, and politics, and ... what?
Real estate was booming in Arizona, and Bolan knew very well how deeply Kaufman and Weiss had mined the illicit goldfields of fraud and foreclosure. A land grab? Bolan put it down as a "possible" and continued his mental search.
Mining was important In Arizona, with the state supplying 54 percent of all American copper and one-eighth of the world supply. Silver and gold were big, too, and with them came the whole range of associated industries and manufacturing — electronics, aircraft, steel, aluminum, transportation equipment — the list went on forever. And much of that industrial wealth was centered around Phoenix. Of late, there had been rumbles UP to the federal level about finding a suitable climate and industrial atmosphere for serious development of solar energy plants as an alternate fuel source for the entire nation. The Arizona desert had been suggested by Senator Abraham Weiss among others.
And yeah, it might play. The Executioner's mind began to pick significant details from among the mass of useless ones, slowly shaping order out of chaos. Phoenix was already big in the Arizona economy, and by all indications it was slated to be bigger still, and very soon. And Phoenix belonged to Moe Kaufman in all the ways that mattered.
But for how long?
Bolan added up the possible ramifications of the deal, lopped off half for possible exaggeration, and still found himself looking straight at an impending coup d'etat. The thought chilled him.
His hands clenched the warwagon's steering wheel, his jaw set in grim determination. A shattering offense was clearly indicated, but first he had to find the opposing team.
And where the hell were they?
"Is there any room for mistake?" Jim Hinshaw's voice was not hopeful, indicating that he knew what the answer must be.
"No chance, Jim," Angel Morales told him earnestly, to the accompaniment of Floyd Worthy's head-shake. "I'm sure it was Bolan."
The black man softly added, "What did I tell ya?"
"Okay, okay." Hinshaw waved away the I-told-you-so's with an irritated gesture. "No sweat. This is nothing we can't handle."
Worthy frowned. "We'd better get started then. We ain't done all that well handlin' it so far."
Hinshaw parried that verbal thrust with a question. "Why didn't you nail him when you had the chance?"
"You never saw a cat move that fast, man. Least I never did. He damn near outran those slugs from my M-16."
"Don't build him up to be more than he is," Hinshaw cautioned.
"I'm not buyin' any ghost stories," the black man assured him. But that mother is some kind of man!"
"Bastard, you mean," Hinshaw countered. "I'm not the only one here with a score to settle with Sergeant Mack Bolan." He stressed the rank designation, turning it almost into an obscenity.
For once, the problem was compounded not by the usual shortage of leads, but by too many. Too many game trails to follow and too many players to identify without a comprehensive score card. There were simply too damn many fingers in the Arizona pie.
It had begun with Nick Bonelli, the Tucson Mafia, and heroin. Then came the startling realization of a secret paramilitary force drilling in the Tucson desert and striking northward toward the Phoenix preserves of Moe Kaufman and company. Complications aplenty, yeah. More than enough even before the addition of a kinky senator who was maybe being groomed as White House material.
Too many leads, sure. Bolan always sought the overall view, the big picture, but the picture in Arizona was just too big. The stage was so crowded with actors that the plot was all but lost in their entrances and exits. And the most recent addition to the cast was a face from the Executioner's own memory, an identity which eluded him with frustrating adeptness. Bolan had wracked his brain seeking a name to match that face, an identity to pair with that vague remembrance and the evil tremors it inspired. He had managed to eliminate known mafiosi and their hangers-on by scanning his mental mug file, which left him where? Vietnam? Before?
He brushed the phantom aside to concentrate once more upon the game itself, a mystery whose significance overshadowed the importance of any one man. Arizona offered so many opportunities for an industrious tribe of cannibals that Bolan scarcely knew where to begin looking. Heroin, sure, and all the associated border rackets which could rake in millions every year for the mob coffers. But Nick Bonelli had all that already, and he needed to prove nothing by declaring unnecessary war upon Kaufman and the Phoenix mob. The same argument negated consideration of the other routine rackets, which had been shared more or less peacefully by the competing mobs for over three decades. None of those rackets nor even all of them together could justify the expense and risk incurred by Bonelli in outfitting, training, and unleashing his private army.
And that left, yeah, something else.
Always the trail led back to Abraham Weiss, and politics, and ... what?
Real estate was booming in Arizona, and Bolan knew very well how deeply Kaufman and Weiss had mined the illicit goldfields of fraud and foreclosure. A land grab? Bolan put it down as a "possible" and continued his mental search.
Mining was important In Arizona, with the state supplying 54 percent of all American copper and one-eighth of the world supply. Silver and gold were big, too, and with them came the whole range of associated industries and manufacturing — electronics, aircraft, steel, aluminum, transportation equipment — the list went on forever. And much of that industrial wealth was centered around Phoenix. Of late, there had been rumbles UP to the federal level about finding a suitable climate and industrial atmosphere for serious development of solar energy plants as an alternate fuel source for the entire nation. The Arizona desert had been suggested by Senator Abraham Weiss among others.
And yeah, it might play. The Executioner's mind began to pick significant details from among the mass of useless ones, slowly shaping order out of chaos. Phoenix was already big in the Arizona economy, and by all indications it was slated to be bigger still, and very soon. And Phoenix belonged to Moe Kaufman in all the ways that mattered.
But for how long?
Bolan added up the possible ramifications of the deal, lopped off half for possible exaggeration, and still found himself looking straight at an impending coup d'etat. The thought chilled him.
His hands clenched the warwagon's steering wheel, his jaw set in grim determination. A shattering offense was clearly indicated, but first he had to find the opposing team.
And where the hell were they?
"Is there any room for mistake?" Jim Hinshaw's voice was not hopeful, indicating that he knew what the answer must be.
"No chance, Jim," Angel Morales told him earnestly, to the accompaniment of Floyd Worthy's head-shake. "I'm sure it was Bolan."
The black man softly added, "What did I tell ya?"
"Okay, okay." Hinshaw waved away the I-told-you-so's with an irritated gesture. "No sweat. This is nothing we can't handle."
Worthy frowned. "We'd better get started then. We ain't done all that well handlin' it so far."
Hinshaw parried that verbal thrust with a question. "Why didn't you nail him when you had the chance?"
"You never saw a cat move that fast, man. Least I never did. He damn near outran those slugs from my M-16."
"Don't build him up to be more than he is," Hinshaw cautioned.
"I'm not buyin' any ghost stories," the black man assured him. But that mother is some kind of man!"
"Bastard, you mean," Hinshaw countered. "I'm not the only one here with a score to settle with Sergeant Mack Bolan." He stressed the rank designation, turning it almost into an obscenity.