Bolan paused in the doorway to send a withering gaze along the backtrack. "I should live so long," he said quietly and put that stench behind him.

He'd given the guy honest counsel — but then, of course, puppets were not particularly renown for standing alone. That one back there would not even contemplate the thought, nor had Bolan thought for a moment that he would.

He had the guy wired for sound, though, and he knew also that Honest Abe would lose no time seeking reassurance from the puppeteer.

Back in the warwagon, Bolan immediately summoned the wires on Abe Weiss, activating the surveillance system for simultaneous recording and live-monitoring. He got there in time to pick up and record for future reference several different telephone numbers as the senator searched via Ma Bell for his friend and political benefactor.

Weiss struck pay dirt on the fourth try. "I've been looking all over for you. What's happening?"

It was Kaufman's voice in the return. "Don't use any names. Keep it cool."

"Right, sure. God's sake. What is It? Are you laying low?"

"Sort of, yes. Listen, you better do it, too. I've been thinking about calling you. It's heat from the south, I think. I don't know what the hell it's all about, but you better cool it until I find out. Don't-"

"Dammit that guy Bolan was just here!"

"What?!"

"Yeah! I'm afraid that-"

"Say nothing else! Hang up, hang up!"

"Wait! I think he's on our side! It's the wops he hates! We could use the guy!"

"Hang up, dammit. I'll send you some comfort. Don't call again!"

Kaufman's voice was replaced by a loud hum.

Weiss swore softly into the line and also hung up.

Bolan was about to turn off the live monitor when another distinct click signaled the presence of a third party on that line.

So. Bolan's wires were not the only ones in Phoenix. He thought he knew, now, where to find Moe Kaufman.

He sent the warwagon tracking toward Paradise, homing on the corrupt connection that bound the state of Arizona in political slavery. He would sever that connection by whatever means necessary. And — no, Sharon — no promises at all.

It was a rambling spread in the Old West Style, complete with barbed-wire fencing and livestock grazing on the north forty. It was not exactly a "home on the range," though. A sprawling ranch house blended rustic architecture with tennis courts and an olympic-size pool, shiny patios, and gleaming lawn furniture.

The "retreat," yeah — a place where a harried businessman could get away from the pressures of the city and play at ranching with minimum discomfort.

Bolan's intelligence also suggested the Paradise Ranch as a clandestine center for illicit enterprises in both the political and commercial spectrums. The joint had all the appearances of a hardsite, for sure. Innocent-looking sentries in working western garb restlessly roamed the perimeters in jeeps and on horseback. "Workers" were spotted at strategic points about the lush inner compound surrounding the house. In the inner circle, hard-looking guys occupied tense Positions at poolside — a human screen for the center of it all, the old master landlord of Arizona, Moe Kaufman. It was a conference of some kind, for sure. Kaufman, in swim shorts and terrycloth jacket, lolling on a sunning board with an upraised knee clasped in both hands; three younger guys, incongruously clad in business suits, occupying folding chairs in a semi-circle at his feet. It was a parley, all right. A portable telephone sat on a small table at Kaufman's left hand. He'd used it twice during the brief eyeball surveillance, on both occasions speaking animatedly and with obvious anger.

The warwagon was parked on the reverse slope of a shaded knoll overlooking the "ranch." The range was about 1,000 yards, elevation perhaps fifty feet, situation beautiful. Bolan sat on the forward slope in the shade of a gnarled tree, a wireless extension to the warwagon's mobile phone at his knee, the Weatherby .460 with sniper-scope across his lap, powerful binoculars resolving the vision field an almost eerie arm's length away. He put down the binoculars to give naked eyes another panoramic sweep. The ranch stretched away from his position almost like a miniature set, Mummy Mountain in the distant backdrop.

Satisfied, finally, that the time was right, Bolan sighed and picked up the telephone.

He got a breathless pickup on the first ring.

"Ranch."

"Put 'im on," Bolan growled.

"Who's calling?"

"Avon, dummy. Put me through."

A silence denoting some hesitance, then; "Okay. Hold it."

Bolan held it, raising the binoculars again to zero in on a movement at the patio door. A guy in shirtsleeves, calling over to the congregation at poolside.

Bolan panned across with the binoculars to pick up Kaufman in a moment of irritation. Heavy lips poured forth staccato response to the summons from the house even as a chubby hand moved toward the portable phone. Bolan smiled as he watched the emperor of Arizona delicately handle that instrument as though it were a bomb set to go at some undetermined moment, jowly face wobbling with thinly disguised tension. But it was the same houseman's voice that broke the silence across that connection. "Who's calling?" The guy again inquired.

Smiling grimly, Bolan spoke for the benefit of those ears at poolside. "I have news of Sharon. If he doesn't want to hear it, fuck 'im."

He indeed wanted to hear it. Breathlessly; "Okay, I'm on, let's hear it."

"The kid's okay," Bolan growled.

"How do I know that?"

"Because I say."

"Okay. I'll accept that for now. Get this, though, and be sure you understand it. If I find that girl with a hair out of place, I'll scorch this goddamned state from border to border, and I'll have balls and all of every sonovabitch involved in it. Understand that. I'll deal to get her back. But, man, she better get back smiling and happy."

"Relax, she's already back," Bolan growled.

"What?"

"You heard it."

"She's home safe? Who is this?"

"Nothing of yours is safe, Kaufman. For the moment, though, yeah, she's okay. I left her in her own hands and walking free. Do you know a kid lives over by the hospital?"

"St. Joseph's?" the worried father replied quickly, then cautioned: "Say no more. I got it. Hey — I owe you. If this is level. What can I do?"

"You can listen for about thirty seconds and believe what you hear."

He watched perplexed eyes as they shifted rapidly in the magnification of the powerful binoculars, then the guy replied: "I don't-uh, who the hell is this?"

"The name is Bolan."

A sharp intake of breath was the only immediate response for the ears. For the eyes, a mixture of fear and disbelief filling the field of vision. Then, cautiously: "Convince me."

"Bonelli let paper on you. I sniffed it out and got there as they were leaving. They had your kid. I burned them down and sprung the kid. She's very pretty. Must have got it from her mother. Tried to convince me that her father is a poor misunderstood humanitarian with unfortunate business connections. But we know better, don't we? So does Bonelli. He wants what you've got, Humanitarian. You spoke of scorched earth, but it's all moving toward you, Can you believe that?"

"Maybe." The guy's eyes were working furiously, belying the calm of that voice. "Saying it's all true ... what's your interest?"

Bolan gave him a chilled chuckle. "Come on, now. You know my interests."

"Are you looking for a connection?"

It was almost funny. Bolan told him, "I've found the connection. I'm going to sever it. Call this fair warning. Pull it in, Kaufman. I can't allow Bonelli to pull this off. If you don't make the cut, I'll have to."