"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."

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."

"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.