'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.
'You're making me sick,' she murmured, long before the data bank was exhausted.
Bolan killed the display as he told her, 'That's just the tip of the iceberg. Only God and Moe Kaufman know what lies below.'
She shuddered, pulled her arms tightly about herself, and turned toward the side window.
Bolan muttered, 'Sorry, kid. But you needed it. You'll be facing harder truths ... and damn soon unless I miss my guess.'
'Now I know why mama died,' she whispered. 'Who could live with that?' Bolan said nothing, giving the moment to the girl.
Presently she sighed raggedly and said, rather defiantly, 'He's still my father. Look at me, dammit.'
He looked.
She was unbuttoning her blouse, the fingers trembling and having a bit of trouble with the chore. But the huge breastworks were exposed and jiggling proudly in the release. Bolan growled, 'Cut it out, Sharon.'
'Do you find me attractive?'
'I find you entirely appealing. But your timing is lousy.'
'Let's make a deal.'
He tossed her an unbelieving glance, then slowed the chariot and pulled off the road, crossed his arms over his chest, closed his eyes, and let the chin droop toward the chest.
'Say that again,' he muttered.
'Virgin pure ... almost. Say the word and it's yours.'
Without looking up, he growled, 'Like father, like daughter. I don't believe this.'
'Why not? I'm entirely serious. I'd do anything to ... stop YOU.'
He dug for the little pistol and tossed it to her. 'Do what's honest, then,' he suggested. 'Go ahead and stop me.'
Her gaze wavered and fell. She did not pick up the pistol. The tears began flowing again — tears of frustration probably.
More gently, he said, 'I've washed my hands of Morris Kaufman. He's the author of his own fate — and probably nothing I could do would rewrite that script now. Loyalty is a great thing, Sharon, when loyalty has been earned. But it's a lousy kick in the cosmic seat when blind loyalty supersedes everything noble and good in the human experience. It's time you face that.'
But she was not yet ready to face it. The blouse was completely off now. She cupped the breasts in both hands and urged those delicacies toward him. 'I'll go with you wherever you say. For however long you say. Just save him. Please. Save him for me.'
