"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."

"Get off it!" he growled with false anger. "It's time you learned what I am all about. You think my work is so casual that my decisions come from my loins? Think again, kid. And cover yourself up. I'm not all that damn immune to invited rape."

"You'd rape my heart, though, without a thought. Yes, I know what you're all about, Mack Bolan. You have a grim reaper complex."

"Call it any way that comforts you," he replied coldly. He put the vehicle in motion. "And get dressed. I'm dropping you at the first opportunity." But, yeah, his heart hurt for her.

It always hurt for such as these, the innocent victims of jungle justice. But Mack Bolan's combat decisions came not from the heart, either. They came from the injured seat of a kicked cosmos. The Executioner was simply kicking back.

Yeah, the Arizona game was winding down quickly, for sure. Bolan's intelligence computer was fairly running over with collections from the automated monitoring station and the big problem of the past twenty minutes had been to simply sort and assimilate the fast pace of events.

Weiss and Kaufman provided a say-nothing shouting match via telephone, followed by a promised eyeball meet at Weiss's home "damn quick!"

Paul Bonelli, "heir" to Arizona, and his forty fighting guns from Tucson had gone to ground near an old airstrip in the desert, waiting only for the night to cloak their "mop-up" movements.

Hinshaw and company were maintaining the diggings at their own base camp, bolstered now by a thirty-man "reserve force" of fully equipped combat troops awaiting nightfall.

Old man Nick Bonelli was flapping his wings and threatening to fly to Phoenix to take the entire operation under his personal command.

There was obvious bad blood developing between Hinshaw and the younger Bonelli — and it sounded as though the old man was actively promoting some sort of iron-handed show of strength by his kid. Interesting as hell though, was the obvious fact that neither Bonelli knew of Hinshaw's secret reserves.

Bolan chewed that for several minutes, trying to Pull Hinshaw's motives into focus and trying also to come up with a quick but viable play to exploit that possibility of rift in the opposing forces.

He finally opted for a frontal approach, spinning back to a telephone contact wherein the Phone number of Paul's encampment was recorded. Then he called that number from the warwagon's mobile equipment and told the answering voice, "It's urgent. Get Mr. Bonelli."

A moment later, he had the heir to Arizona on the horn. "The name is Lambretta. I'm connected ... east. You may remember a guy, Billy Gino."

"Yeah?"

"Billy's my cousin. I came down from Vegas a few days back."

"So."

"I owe, uh, I owe Don Bonelli an old favor. You may not remember ... the South Bronx rumble back in uh ..."