"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.
"I'm sorry," she said calmly. "Believe me, I am sorry. But I have to do this."
Chapter 16
Hearts
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.