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.