The Executioner: Arizona Ambush (10 page)

She directed him to a small car parked off the road just uprange from the house and said, "Get behind the wheel. You're driving."

He casually studied the neighborhood for a moment, then followed the direction. If any other hand in Phoenix had been holding that little gun, it would already have been chopped off and its owner left bleeding in the gutter. It could happen Yet, but Bolan was giving the girl her moment, letting the thing drift toward a possibly happier conclusion.

She did not even ask for his gun. He did not, of course, offer it.

He recognized the car. It had slid into the traffic behind him as he was pulling away from the city hall parley with the girl's father. He had to give her a gold star for the tail job — or perhaps she had simply stumbled onto him at Weiss's place. He wanted to know.

"Congratulations," he said coldly. "You'd make a good detective. I hope you kill as clean as you tail."

"Start the car and drive where I tell you," she said without emotion, ignoring his probe.

He started the car but told her, "No way do I drive where you tell me. I'm returning to my vehicle — and I thank you for the lift. But put the gun away. I don't want to hurt you."

"I'm not kidding," she said calmly. "I'll shoot you if I have to."

"Go for the eyes then," he growled.

She did not quite comprehend his meaning.

He put the car in motion as he explained. "Unless you hit a vital spot with the first shot from that peashooter, I'll likely kill you in reflex. So go for the eyes. Put one right through the pupil, angling slightly upward. That should scramble some brain tissue and minimize the reflex action. Of course, there will be a lot of blood and guck ... but I guess you can handle that."

Those young eyes wavered but the voice was steady. "I was on the shooting team at school. And I spent three months on a kibbutz in Israel. So don't challenge me. I'm no pushover."

Bolan sighed and sent the car on toward the service area where his battle cruiser awaited. Things were winding down in Arizona ... and quickly. He really could not afford to spend precious minutes in this fashion. At the same time, the kid had to be dealt with. Obviously there was no talking her down. He pulled in alongside the warwagon and told her, "Fire away."

"I'm making a citizen's arrest. I order you to come peacefully with me to the police station or I-I'll shoot."

The girl was twisted about in the seat, facing him, one leg down onto the seat to form a boundary between them, the little pistol resting on the knee in a convincing two-hand hold.

Both of Bolan's big hands came off the steering wheel faster than the girl's eyes could recoil and send the message below — the right smashing backhanded against the side of that pretty face, the left closing over both tiny clutching hands to completely cover them and wrench the little gun from her grasp.

It was no cap pistol. The mighty midget fired in the transfer, booming out with a report much larger than it deserved, punching an expanding slug into the car's dash.

The backhand smash had a shade too much on it, snapping the girl's head back against the doorpost. She was out. The guy with greasy hands from the service station came running over to investigate the disturbance. He instantly recognized Bolan from their earlier encounter, came to a sliding halt, eyes falling to the girl as he exclaimed, "Oh shit! Is she dead?!"

Bolan showed the guy the little nickle-plate as he replied, "She tried to be. Know her?"

The station attendant looked closer, then shook his head. "Never saw her before. What is it? Drugs? Prostitution?"

"Neither," Bolan told him. He got out of the car and went around to the other door, opened it, pulled the girl out. "This is a quiet detail. Understand? So keep it that way. I may need you later for a statement. Meanwhile, cool it."

"Sure, I'll cool it," the guy assured him.

Bolan carried the unconscious girl to the cruiser and got the hell away from there before the guy could start wondering.

Some minutes and several miles later, the shaken young lady came forward and sagged into the big leather chair at Bolan's side. The cheekbone was slightly swollen and discolored, the eyes a bit glazed, but she seemed generally okay. "Damn you," she said quietly.

"You almost did," he told her. "Now tell me why.

"I'm an ingrate, huh?" she replied tiredly. "Just because you want to trade my father's life for mine, I should give thanks and wash MY hands in his blood. Sorry. It doesn't work that way in this family."

"I hope that's true," he said softly.

He was watching her with about 25 percent of his visual perception. The rest was busy with navigation considerations and vehicular security. The corner of his right eye was surveying a miserable and confused young lady as he told her, "I could have taken your father as easily as I took you on any of three different occasions so far today. But Morris Kaufman lives. So what's all the fuss about?"

"I've seen you operate," she said dispiritedly. "I was at Echo Canyon this morning."

"Yes, I noted your arrival," he told her.

"My father was saved by the grace of God. I simply could not allow you another attempt."

"He was saved by the grace of Bolan," the big man quietly corrected her. "All the attempts on his life have come from downstate. I told you I'd try, Sharon. Dammit, I've been trying."

She was a bit less sure of her position as she replied to that. "I'd like to believe it. I really would."

"He lives," Bolan simply stated.

The girl drew a shuddering breath and began weeping.

Gruffly, he said, "I'm going to do you a final favor. Truth is sometimes uncomfortable, but you can't build a life of false illusions." He activated the onboard computer and remoted it to the con, then deftly punched in a program code as the warwagon cruised on. Then he angled the viewscreen toward the girl and told her, "This is your life, Morris Kaufman. And the show is sponsored by the United States Department of Justice. I penetrated their computers and taped the entire program."

She peered through wet eyes at the small screen as it lit up with a still photo of her father, blinked rapidly as two others followed in quick succession — right profile, left profile — the sobs choking back as she then settled into an almost trance-like study. The official record of a living cannibal began appearing in electronic display, the speeding lines of dry facts and incredible figures moving almost too fast for the average mind to comprehend. Bolan made an adjustment, slowing the pace for the girl's benefit. Still, it was a dizzying progression of corporate rosters, shady stock transactions, real estate swindles and land grabs, frustrated and hamstrung federal investigations, political clout and governmental corruption, tainted judges and tampered juries — through it all the unmistakable thread of knavery, thievery, mayhem, and murder.

"You're making me sick," she murmured, long before the data bank was exhausted.

Bolan killed the display as he told her, "That's just the tip of the iceberg. Only God and Moe Kaufman know what lies below."

She shuddered, pulled her arms tightly about herself, and turned toward the side window.

Bolan muttered, "Sorry, kid. But you needed it. You'll be facing harder truths ... and damn soon unless I miss my guess."

"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.

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.