""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!"