Surprisingly, to Bolan, it got to the guy. His eyes fell and he clawed for a cigar to cover the emotion.

"That was a low punch," he muttered.

"Truth is like that," Bolan replied quietly.

"Get outta here," Kaufman said, just as quietly.

"A final word, first. Your only out is via Weiss. Cut your losses, guy. Cut that bastard loose and send him to Siberia or somewhere equally cool. Let him live out his days with memories of what he might have been — except for you."

"I can't do that," Kaufman said in a barely audible voice. "Now get out of here before I suddenly lose my mind and start yelling for a cop."

"He's your Achilles heel," Bolan said. "It's better to lose the foot than the head."

He walked out and left the guy standing there in contemplation of his feet. So much for the "Kosher Nostra."

Bolan had already written the guy off. He was so much dead meat, no matter what course of action Bolan may follow now. But a stubborn sense of rightness had sent the Executioner into a pursuit of that "parley" — a certain "combat honor" which was as important to maintain as the mission itself. And Mack Bolan had become known throughout the underworld for the sanctity of his word In dispensing those rare battlefield agreements or "white flags" to his enemies.

And, yeah, maybe also the Bolan heart had been touched just a bit by a loyal young lady who would hear no evil concerning her father. Well, he'd tried. Now the whole thing was in cosmic hands.

He returned to his battle-cruiser and pointed her toward the next link in the chain. As he pulled away, another vehicle entered the late-afternoon traffic and fell in behind him. He caught the maneuver immediately in the rearview but lost interest when the possible tail-car fell back and turned away. There was too much to occupy the combat mind now, to cloud it with vague worries.

But, sometimes, a little cloud changes the perspective. Bolan should have worried more.

Abe Weiss had gone hard.

A vehicle with an alert wheelman was parked across the road from his driveway, and a guy with "gun" stamped all over him was loitering beside the hedges inside the yard. Another, no doubt, would be inside somewhere.

Bolan went on past and pulled into a service area a half-mile down the road — service station, small restaurant, fast-food grocery. He pulled on the shoulder rig, tested the action, and dropped a spare clip into the coat pocket as he pulled it on.

A few cars were parked at the restaurant, several more in front of the grocery. He activated the security system and locked the cruiser, then walked into the service station office. Two cars were at the pump, one headed east, the other west. A guy with greasy hands moved in from the garage area to give Bolan a questioning look.

He flashed a police ID wallet at the guy as he told him, "I broke down. They're sending a wrecker, but I have to get into town fast. Get me a ride, huh?" The guy frowned, said, "Sure," and went out, wiping his hands with a gas-soaked rag. He went directly to the westbound car and leaned in from the passenger side to make his pitch. Instantly he straightened and made a hand signal. Bolan strolled out, gave the guy a sour, "Thanks," and slid in beside the accommodating driver — a nervous man of about fifty wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a business suit.

""Preciate it," Bolan told the motorist with a flick of tired eyes.

"My pleasure, officer," the guy said quickly.

They sat in strained silence while the servicing was completed. As they pulled onto the road, the guy timidly inquired, "Should I put the hammer down?"

Bolan showed him a genuine grin as he replied, "No hurry. Actually I'm only going a half-mile or so. I'll tell you where."

It was a very sedate half-mile journey, almost like a driving test — and just as strained. He stopped the guy directly opposite the stake-car, thanked him, and sent him on his way.

The wheelman in the hardcar was giving plenty of interest. Bolan called over, "Relax, it's cool," and walked up the drive.

The yard man was on him immediately. Bolan had the ID wallet ready. He flashed it and said, "You're relieved. Beat it. Take your boys with you."

"I don't understand," the guy said, but obviously he did.

"He's getting an official detail. You won't want to be here when they arrive. Go on. I'll baby-sit him until they get here."

The guy started to say something negative, then checked it and substituted: "I got a man inside, that's all. Maybe I should phone first."

"And maybe you'd like to be here when the Secret Service boys arrive," Bolan said quietly.

"Oh! I see, yeah, I get what you mean."

The hardman spun about and went quickly to the house, Bolan right behind. The door opened to their approach and another torpedo stepped outside.

"Feds are on the way," the crew boss explained. "We're leaving. This guy's a cop. It's his worry now."

The inside man shot Bolan a glowering look as he moved past. The two went quickly along the drive without a backward look. Bolan waited until the vehicle pulled away, then he stepped inside the house and shot the bolt on the door.

Honest Abe was in the hallway, about six paces in, a Browning pistol at the unwavering eye level.

Very coldly, Bolan suggested, "Use it or lose it. Right now."

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."