It was enough. The message was loud and clear.

Bolan poised there for a long moment surveying that scorched landscape, the stench of gunpowder and blasted flesh irritating his nostrils, then he spun about and went out the way he'd come.

The old man may or may not have survived that holocaust. Either way, the message was sent and received. There would be no easy take-over in Arizona ... not this time.

But the real battle still lay to the north. Bolan was strongly aware of that fact. He'd monitored the telephone conversations, knew that fresh troops were being rushed to the combat zone, knew that plenty of hellfire and thunder lay in his future.

The presence of people such as Hinshaw and Morales in this environment of corruption constituted a clear and present danger unimaginable to the average citizen. A natural rapacity combined with military expertise and further combined with the greed and power lust rampant in the area could spell nothing but death and dishonor to the people of Arizona.

So no one had appointed Mack Bolan their lord protector. So what?

So the common man In the street looked on underworld hoods as some sort of glamorous, charismatic defiers of the system. So what?

Bolan was not there for applause, nor was he there to save Arizona from itself. He was there because his destiny was there, because he could not turn away from his fate. He was an instrument of an evolving universe.

He was Judgment. Not the judge, not the jury, not the sentence itself.

Mack Bolan was the Mafia's Judgment and he knew it and accepted it.

Let the people of Arizona accept what they would.

"It's hard to believe one man could do all this." Paul Bonelli was fit to be tied. His narrowed eyes scanned the compound, lingering over various points of particular carnage.

"Well, one did," Hinshaw replied, a defensive tone edging his weary voice.

The two men stood on the porch of Hinshaw's field headquarters. A handful of Hinshaw's men flanked their leader, remaining aloof from the forty or so Tucson hardmen milling around their crew wagons in the yard. Bonelli's gunmen were taking in the incredible scene as well, commenting on the site's condition In hushed tones.

There was much for comment. The walls of the main building were riddled with symmetrical holes, the window frames splintered and empty except for jagged shards of glass. The ruined hulk of a limousine slouched beside the house, its pock-marked body sagging to starboard on two shredded tires. Behind the ventilated structure, two mounds of blackened lumber memorialized the former existence of other buildings.

The younger Bonelli shook his head in bewilderment and turned toward the door. Hinshaw got there first, holding it wide for the Tucson underboss. Bonelli accepted the courtesy as his due and stepped inside, pausing briefly in the doorway to finger the jagged splinters left by heavy-caliber slugs which had punched through the panel. He took in the interior damage at a glance — bullet gouges, furniture overturned and shattered.

"How many did you lose this time?" he asked Hinshaw.

"Four dead, two wounded. It's a wonder we didn't lose more."

"Any rumbles from the cops?"

"None. Neighbors are scarce around here. And they mind their own business."

Bonelli nodded his satisfaction with the answer, allowing his eyes to sweep the room again. His gaze settled on a large weapon which sat atop a dusty tripod In one corner of the room. Two short tubes made of plastic or cardboard or something were propped against the big gun, completing the sinister little tableau. The mafioso gestured toward the pile of weaponry with one hand as he turned toward Hinshaw.

"That's it?"

"That's it. A .50-caliber machine gun and a couple of LAW rocket tubes."

Hinshaw's tone was brisk, matter-of-fact.

"What's that LAW?"

"Light anti-tank weapon," Hinshaw explained to the "civilian."

"Think of it as a throw-away bazooka. We found them on a rise overlooking the compound, about a hundred yards out. He did this with the .50." Hinshaw's hand swept the room, indicating the hundreds of bullet holes. "It has an automatic trigger lock, set for continuous fire. That left his hands free to handle the LAWS."

"The chopper shoots by itself?" Paul Bonelli was skeptical.

Hinshaw nodded. "It's a relatively simple mechanism. He probably-"

"Simple?" Bonelli interrupted, scarcely able to believe his ears. "It was simple for one man to kick hell out of your entire force? What were your boys doing, Jimmy?"

"Dying," Hinshaw answered flatly. "Or trying like hell not to."

Bonelli was boiling. "It looks bad, Jimmy. One guy dumping all over — how many men is it now?" The Tucson sub-capo knew very well how many men had been lost before Hinshaw answered "twenty-three" in a tired voice. Bonelli nodded solemnly as he repeated the number aloud. Then his tone softened and he took a different tack with the beleaguered field commander. "Okay, I can see what you've been up against here. I understand. But my papa, now ..." Paul left the sentence hanging, letting Hinshaw know that Don Niccolo Bonelli was not apt to share his son's understanding of the situation. He let Hinshaw think about that for a moment then added, "I hate to bring home news like this so soon after your other troubles." Another pause, then, "Maybe I don't have to tell him right now. I guess we can wait until after we have this thing in the bag." Bonelli smiled at the scowling soldier. "We are going to bag it, aren't we?"

The telephone rang, breaking the tension building there. Hinshaw seemed frozen for a long moment, then reluctantly scooped up the receiver.

"Hello? Yes, hang on." He held out the instrument to Bonelli. "For you."

Paul accepted the receiver and growled into the mouthpiece. "Yeah?"

The voice at the other end of that connection was taut, breathless. "Paul? Jake Lucania here."

"Yeah, Jake."

Lucania's words came In a breathless rush. "We been hit! You never saw such-it's-I-I mean-"

Bonelli shushed the excited flow. "Jake! Relax now and take it from the top one time."

Lucania was still breathing heavily, but more slowly now as he answered. "Okay, right. I'm sorry. We been hit. The house is mostly gone, and we lost more'n a dozen boys."

"How is he?" Bonelli asked, knowing it was unnecessary to speak his father's name.

"Oh, he's okay. Shook up some, mad as hell. He told me to call you right away."

"Who hit you?"

"It was Bolan for damn sure."

Bonelli's eyes floated toward Hinshaw. "For sure, eh?"

"As sure as can be. Half a dozen boys got a look at him. A big stud, all in black, guns and shit hangin' all over him. It was Bolan all right, or else he's got a twin."

"There's no twins," Bonelli said grimly.

"Yeah, well ..."

"When was this, again?" Bonelli asked worriedly, still looking at Hinshaw.

"It was exactly, uh, twenty-five minutes ago."

"That's very interesting."

"Listen. He wants you back here. Right now."

"Tell him I said he should button up tight. We got a situation here, too. I'll get back as soon as I can. But I gotta ... I'll call you back, Jake." Bonelli broke the connection and turned to face Hinshaw with a hard look.

"When did you say you got hit?" he asked quietly.

"Hell, I told you. It was just before you arrived."

"I been here about ten minutes."

"Yeah. Well ..." Hinshaw stretched to his toes and gripped the back of his neck. "So I'm Surprised you didn't run into the guy on your way in. The attack lasted, uh, say three to four minutes. It Was hit and run. Time we got unglued and started a reaction, the guy was gone. Go put a hand on that M2. It's probably still hot."