Chapter 14

Links

"I'm not asking you, I'm telling you!" Moe Kaufman's voice was angry, betraying signs of the inner strain which had dogged him throughout that day. "I need protection. Now!"

He sat in a richly panelled conference room upstairs in the Phoenix City Hall. Facing him across the broad table were two command-rank officers from the city police department and a captain from the county sheriff's office. The lawmen looked unhappy, their faces wearing almost identical expressions of grim displeasure and embarrassment. Their eyes alternated between the tabletop and Kaufman's face as the mobster continued his harangue.

"I put you guys where you are today, don't forget. And I expect some return for my investment. I made you and I can unmake you just as easy."

Frank Anderson of the Phoenix PD spread his big hands in a placating gesture. "C'mon, Mr. Kaufman. There's no reason for these threats. We're doing everything we can-"

"Bullshit!" Kaufman snapped, watching the officer redden. "You haven't done a goddamned thing except haul a few stiffs to the cooler and stake out the places the guy's already been!"

"It's standard procedure, sir," the sheriff's captain interjected.

Kaufman turned to him with a glare. "This is not a standard situation, Joe. You're not running some punk gamblers out of town to make the department look good at election time. This guy is after my ass! He could shake the whole damned thing apart!"

The officers were silent, waiting for the outburst to run its course. Kaufman slumped back in his padded chair and took several deep breaths, regaining his composure before speaking again. "I want some men with me day and night. Fix it."

"Policemen?" Frank Anderson sounded uncomfortable.

"Why not? I'm an upstanding citizen whose life has been threatened by a known maniac. What better cause do you need? Log it as a Bolan stakeout."

Anderson nodded slowly, clearly unhappy about the situation. Kaufman didn't give him time to brood about it. "I want men on Weiss, too," the mobster said.

Again the desultory nod.

"Okay." Kaufman was partially placated. "Now fill me in on what you've accomplished toward bagging this psycho Bolan."

"First off," the sheriff's captain said heavily, "we don't read the guy as being a psycho. H-"

"Save it for the eulogy," Kaufman snapped. "What are you doing to stop him?"

The police spokesman took over. "We have SWAT teams on standby alert around the clock. Roving patrols everywhere we feel he's likely to surface — that is, around your places." A glare from Kaufman killed the guy's grin as it began. "Okay, uh, the chopper is up and in full communication with the ground patrols. On the federal level, we have liaison with the local FBI, and a planeload of U.S. Marshals due in any time. Some kind of special Bolan strike force." Kaufman said, "Okay. Maybe it's finally getting off the ground." He paused, then continued, "I want all of you to remember above everything else that this guy is bad for business. My operations are at a standstill, and I'm sure I don't need to remind you that your monthly take depends upon mine. The longer Bolan runs loose in this town, the worse it is for all of us. And if he gets me, you can all kiss those nice fat envelopes goodbye."

Anderson sighed and said, "I can detail a pair of plain-clothes officers to you, and a couple for Weiss. Any more would bring the headhunters down on me from Internal Affairs."

"How soon can I have them?"

"They'll be waiting when you get downstairs."

"Good." Kaufman rose to leave, pausing as he turned from the table to reinforce his earlier message to the three men. "I want this Bolan, you understand? I want him dead! Pass the word that there's a bounty of five G's on the bum's head. Maybe that'll sharpen somebody's shooting eye."

The three officers rose to usher Kaufman out. Anderson offered his hand, but the mobster brushed past him, eating up the corridor with brisk, energetic strides.

Yeah, five grand should buy a little unaccustomed alertness from the boys in blue. Kaufman almost smiled as he felt the old familiar stirrings of power which had always exhilarated him. It made him feel good to have men indebted to him here, in the halls of government. Also, Bolan wouldn't shoot back at cops — that much was well known — and if they could manage to corner the guy, he would be a sitting duck, as good as dead. And if they couldn't trap him?

Well, the guy never stayed long in one place, and the extra heat would surely hasten his departure. He'd blow town before long, maybe heading south to mop up Bonelli and the Tucson crowd. So much the better. All Kaufman had to do was go underground, stay safely hidden behind his cops, and ride out the storm. Later, when all the clouds had blown away, he could surface again and resume business as usual. There might even be thoughts of a punitive excursion southward, if any foes remained alive there.

Kaufman was almost chuckling to himself as he reached the elevator — not that there was anything in particular to laugh about, but things sure looked a lot better than a few hours ago. Sharon was in good hands, now — safe and sound. A grin did tug the heavy features a bit as he thought again of that walloping at Echo Canyon. He had to give credit to that Young man — psycho or not, he carried a hell of a punch.

The Phoenix boss reached the elevator station and extended a hand toward the call button. Another appeared from nowhere to cover the button — a big, muscular hand with powerful fingers and a heavy wrist.

The man who had materialized behind him said quietly, "Not yet, Kaufman. You owe me a parley."

God, it couldn't be! Not right here in the damn police station of all places!

But it was, obviously, Mack Bolan. Psycho, no — indeed not. Those eyes were hard and full of ice, but they were the eyes of a man who knew himself.

"What a hell of a nerve," Kaufman muttered. "One snap of the fingers and you're up to your neck in blue-suits, mister."

"I'm ready to die if you are," the guy said in that curious warm-cold voice. "Snap away. But I'd rather parley."

And parley they did. Right there in the damned police station.

Bolan was playing it straight, clad in a lightweight denim suit and soft shoes, unarmed, entirely vulnerable, gambling more on the happy fates than on any good faith on the part of Morris Kaufman. He steered the guy to an empty office, closed the door, and told him, "It's out of hand now. Paul Bonelli and forty Tucson torpedoes hit town awhile ago. They came for blood and they'll damn sure get it. So our deal is off. I wanted you to know. Figure I owe you that much, though I'm damned if I can say why."

The guy's eyes flared a bit at the news, but he was no sob-sister. "The deal was never on, was it?"

"I guess it wasn't," Bolan agreed soberly. "How's the girl?"

"She touched your heart, eh?"

Bolan allowed a brief smile. "I still have one, yeah."

"She's okay, thank God. She told me how you balled her out this morning. I'm indebted. But only so far. You've decided to turn tail and run, huh?

Doesn't sound like the things I've heard about you. I guess legends are like that."

"I guess so," Bolan replied. "But you misunderstood me. I'm hanging around. To pick up the pieces."

Kaufman's eyes again flared. "What does that mean?"

"It means I play the only option left. Bonelli will take you, that's certain. But he'll suffer a bit in the taking. Maybe enough that I can take him then."

"That's your option, eh?"

"That's it."

"You didn't risk coming in here just to tell me that."

Bolan smiled again. "No."

"You tried to set me up at Echo Canyon, didn't you? Then Sharon blundered in and your heart just wouldn't allow it. You had to pull it out. I'll have to say, it was a hell of a pull." The guy shivered slightly. "I get goosebumps just remembering it. But okay — bygones are bygones. I have another option for you. Are you listening?"

"I'm listening," Bolan assured him.

"You take Bonelli out. Then you write your own check and I'll sign it."

Bolan grinned and told him, "You're offering coals to Newcastle, Kaufman. I shake the mob's money tree any time I please. I don't want your money."

"What then? You name it."

"I already named it," Bolan replied casually.

The racketeer's face darkened. "That's unreasonable. Abe Weiss and me go back a long ways. Why're you so upset about poor Abe? Hell, all those guys owe their souls to somebody. How the hell do you think they ever get the office? Don't be naive. Politics Is just another form of business. It's no better and no worse than any other business."

"Stop," Bolan said quietly, "I have a delicate stomach."

"Do-gooders," Kaufman sneered. "The world is weary of guys like you. Why don't you open a church?"

"Why don't you?" Bolan countered. "Take Sharon as your convert. Tell her all about the new nobility and baptize her in whoredom, heroin, and innocent blood. Then ask her to kneel down and worship you as much as she worships you right now."

Surprisingly, to Bolan, it got to the guy. His eyes fell and he clawed for a cigar to cover the emotion.

"That was a low punch," he muttered.

"Truth is like that," Bolan replied quietly.

"Get outta here," Kaufman said, just as quietly.

"A final word, first. Your only out is via Weiss. Cut your losses, guy. Cut that bastard loose and send him to Siberia or somewhere equally cool. Let him live out his days with memories of what he might have been — except for you."

"I can't do that," Kaufman said in a barely audible voice. "Now get out of here before I suddenly lose my mind and start yelling for a cop."

"He's your Achilles heel," Bolan said. "It's better to lose the foot than the head."

He walked out and left the guy standing there in contemplation of his feet. So much for the "Kosher Nostra."

Bolan had already written the guy off. He was so much dead meat, no matter what course of action Bolan may follow now. But a stubborn sense of rightness had sent the Executioner into a pursuit of that "parley" — a certain "combat honor" which was as important to maintain as the mission itself. And Mack Bolan had become known throughout the underworld for the sanctity of his word In dispensing those rare battlefield agreements or "white flags" to his enemies.

And, yeah, maybe also the Bolan heart had been touched just a bit by a loyal young lady who would hear no evil concerning her father. Well, he'd tried. Now the whole thing was in cosmic hands.

He returned to his battle-cruiser and pointed her toward the next link in the chain. As he pulled away, another vehicle entered the late-afternoon traffic and fell in behind him. He caught the maneuver immediately in the rearview but lost interest when the possible tail-car fell back and turned away. There was too much to occupy the combat mind now, to cloud it with vague worries.

But, sometimes, a little cloud changes the perspective. Bolan should have worried more.

Chapter 15

One more time

Abe Weiss had gone hard.

A vehicle with an alert wheelman was parked across the road from his driveway, and a guy with "gun" stamped all over him was loitering beside the hedges inside the yard. Another, no doubt, would be inside somewhere.

Bolan went on past and pulled into a service area a half-mile down the road — service station, small restaurant, fast-food grocery. He pulled on the shoulder rig, tested the action, and dropped a spare clip into the coat pocket as he pulled it on.

A few cars were parked at the restaurant, several more in front of the grocery. He activated the security system and locked the cruiser, then walked into the service station office. Two cars were at the pump, one headed east, the other west. A guy with greasy hands moved in from the garage area to give Bolan a questioning look.

He flashed a police ID wallet at the guy as he told him, "I broke down. They're sending a wrecker, but I have to get into town fast. Get me a ride, huh?" The guy frowned, said, "Sure," and went out, wiping his hands with a gas-soaked rag. He went directly to the westbound car and leaned in from the passenger side to make his pitch. Instantly he straightened and made a hand signal. Bolan strolled out, gave the guy a sour, "Thanks," and slid in beside the accommodating driver — a nervous man of about fifty wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a business suit.

""Preciate it," Bolan told the motorist with a flick of tired eyes.

"My pleasure, officer," the guy said quickly.

They sat in strained silence while the servicing was completed. As they pulled onto the road, the guy timidly inquired, "Should I put the hammer down?"

Bolan showed him a genuine grin as he replied, "No hurry. Actually I'm only going a half-mile or so. I'll tell you where."

It was a very sedate half-mile journey, almost like a driving test — and just as strained. He stopped the guy directly opposite the stake-car, thanked him, and sent him on his way.

The wheelman in the hardcar was giving plenty of interest. Bolan called over, "Relax, it's cool," and walked up the drive.

The yard man was on him immediately. Bolan had the ID wallet ready. He flashed it and said, "You're relieved. Beat it. Take your boys with you."

"I don't understand," the guy said, but obviously he did.

"He's getting an official detail. You won't want to be here when they arrive. Go on. I'll baby-sit him until they get here."

The guy started to say something negative, then checked it and substituted: "I got a man inside, that's all. Maybe I should phone first."

"And maybe you'd like to be here when the Secret Service boys arrive," Bolan said quietly.

"Oh! I see, yeah, I get what you mean."

The hardman spun about and went quickly to the house, Bolan right behind. The door opened to their approach and another torpedo stepped outside.

"Feds are on the way," the crew boss explained. "We're leaving. This guy's a cop. It's his worry now."

The inside man shot Bolan a glowering look as he moved past. The two went quickly along the drive without a backward look. Bolan waited until the vehicle pulled away, then he stepped inside the house and shot the bolt on the door.

Honest Abe was in the hallway, about six paces in, a Browning pistol at the unwavering eye level.

Very coldly, Bolan suggested, "Use it or lose it. Right now."

The senator hesitated for several heartbeats, then slowly lowered the weapon, turned away from the confrontation, and stepped into the den. He was at the desk when Bolan entered, the Browning at his fingertips, hard eyes giving nothing to the unwanted visitor.

"Sort of sad, isn't it," Bolan said softly. "A United States senator, a prisoner in his own home, skulking around with a boomer in his hand."

"I know how to use it," Weiss snapped, putting the intruder on notice. "I could have given you a third eye just now."

"I've heard about your kills," Bolan acknowledged, his gaze flicking across the stuffed trophies which decorated the walls. "Somehow it's different, isn't it, when the prey is looking back at you ... or if there's a possibility he could start shooting back."

"It wasn't lack of nerve, Bolan. What do you want?"

"Same thing," Bolan replied. "I want you out."

"You should live so long. Save my time and yours. Get out of here and mind your own business."

Bolan let out a long stage sigh and went to the window, turning his back to the man with the Browning, offering him a target, almost hoping he'd try it. He did not. Bolan turned back toward the desk and said, "I'm afraid you are my business, Senator. We can save the whole country a lot of pain. Put it down. Get out ... while you can. I just came from a parley with Kaufman. The feeling-"

"Don't try to snow me," Weiss snarled. "I heard all about your desert rendezvous with Morris. Your fireworks dazzle me not at all. And I am not particularly impressed by perfidy."

"Look who's speaking of perfidy," Bolan replied calmly. "The most traitorous son of a bitch ever to sit in the United States Senate. You're a national disaster, Weiss."

Taut muscles jumped in that granite jaw, but the guy did not rise to the bait. He smiled nastily instead and said, "This morning I was a puppet. Now I'm a traitor. You're not a very good fisherman, Mr. Bolan."

"Who's fishing?" Bolan asked casually. "I know what you are and you know what you are. The question is, what will you be tomorrow?"

"I'll still be here," the senator said with a glassy smile.

"Wrong," Bolan quietly told him.

Weiss snorted.

"You'll be in an unmarked grave at Paradise Ranch."

That brought a reaction, just beneath the surface of those steely eyes. "Bullshit," the senator said.

"It's his only out. He's setting it up right now. It's called cut and run, Senator. You understand the terminology. It's the opposite of stonewalling."

"Get out of here, Bolan. My patience is gone." The hand was hovering above the Browning. "And I patently dislike cat and mouse games. Especially those at the kindergarten sandbox level."

"See," Bolan responded softly. "You do understand. You'll be buried in a sandbox, Weiss." He walked casually to the door, again offering the guy a broad target, then turned back to say: "Remember me to the fallen angel. And don't forget that I told you first. Keep that Browning cocked and close. Why do you think the bodyguards left?"

That one struck close. Weiss stood up, the head cocked slightly, eyes working furiously. "I forgot to ask," he said.

"I brought them a message they couldn't refuse."

"Meaning what, exactly?"

"Meaning that's the way it's done in these circles. Next, you should get a personal visit from the man himself. He'll give you a kiss. I don't know what your set calls that. The Italians call it the kiss of death."

"That's ridiculous," the senator replied, though not too convincingly.

"My sentiments exactly," Bolan said coldly. "But that's still the way it works. And it will be your last happy moment. So savor it. Once the kiss, then swiftly comes the kill." He went on through the doorway and headed for the exit.

Weiss called his name and ran after him. "Let's say you're right!" he cried. "Just for laughs! So tell me how do you know so much?"

Bolan opened the front door and leaned against the jamb for a final look at the bedeviled man. "Because that's the way I called it," he explained. "I told you I just came from a parley. I laid it out for him. Bonelli wants himself a senator, and he's willing to walk over your buddy's dead body to get one. The solution for Kaufman is simple. He either gives you away or he wastes you. Who's going to fight over a dead senator? Figure it, man. It's as simple as one take away one. Who do you think gets the privilege of handpicking your successor in the Senate? Hell. You're expendable."

Bolan went on out and closed the door.

Again the senator pursued, throwing the door open to yell out, "Why do you come telling me this shit? What are you, some kind of a sadist? You come to taunt and walk away?"

Bolan came around with the Beretta in combat crouch. The guy's face went deathly pale and his own weapon sagged toward the ground.

Bolan held the stance as he coldly told the guy with precise enunciation: "You are garbage. I have given thirty minutes of valuable time this day to the salvation of garbage only because many people in this country have no nose for garbage and would therefore mourn your untimely passage. I give no more. What I brought, you take or leave. It makes no difference to me."

That mouth worked briefly before the words came. "But you have it all wrong. I'm no puppet. I run it. Understand me! It's mine, I run it!"

Bolan growled, "Run it all the way to hell then."

"Don't shoot! I'm going back inside!"

"Do that," Bolan icily suggested.

The senator who did it all himself did that.

Bolan holstered the Beretta and walked on down the drive. He did not know, yet, how to score the thing — but, for damn sure, something had busted loose in Paradise. Only time and the fates would identify and register the results. But Bolan had not been speaking idly during his closing remarks. He had given all he intended to give. From this point, the devil himself could pick up the marbles.

And maybe the devil wore skirts.

Sharon Kaufman was waiting for him at the curb, a tiny nickle-plated autoloader held knowingly in an unwavering little fist.