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.
'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.'
