"Sitting pretty," Bonelli said jovially. "There'll be bonuses all around. Take it on back down to the home digs and wait till you hear from me."

"I don't, uh, think I understand, sir. What about Bolan?"

"What about 'im?"

"Well, uh ... the guy is still blasting around. Does he know it's all bagged?"

Bonelli laughed nastily. "Let's tell 'im. Hey, Bolan. You there? Been laid lately? No? Here's my advice to you, then. Go get fucked."

"Mr.-sir, I don't think-I mean, shit, pardon me but nothing is bagged. This whole damn town is crackling with that guy."

The capo was not to be deflated. "Let 'im crackle. We got what we wanted. Get it down, now, Jimmy, and dare the guy to come in. The feds are pouring Into the state from every direction. They're even sending Border Patrol after the guy. Just get it down and wait 'im out. He'll be moving on at dark. I'll bet my life on that."

"Can I speak plain, sir?"

"You might as well."

"What about Scorecard?"

"What the hell you think I been telling you? It's bagged."

"You mean ... ?"

"That's what I mean. That's the garbage. How plain can I say it?"

Bonelli cackled over the spluttering Hinshaw's discomfort. "Golden opportunity did it for us," he howled.

"Well I'll be damned," Hinshaw marveled.

"Yeah. Rich, huh? He came over on his own. So ... you were doing more up there than you thought you were."

"He fragged 'im!" Hinshaw roared.

"Yeah, goddammit, ain't that rich?"

"I'll pass it to Paul, sir. I can hardly wait."

"The cleanup is important. Be sure and pass that We don't want golden opportunity facing no rap like that."

"Oh, hey, right. I see what you mean."

"The plane's ready, Jimmy. Listen. Here's what I want you to do. Bring your boys out to the field. Just in case."

"We'll cover it, sir, Don't worry. You'll have a clean field."

"Yeah. See to that."

End of recording. Bolan punched the timer code and frowned at the response. The CONVERSATION had been recorded about ten minutes earlier. And he understood the significance of that guarded conversation. Obviously Weiss and Kaufman had dissolved their partnership. Now Kaufman lay dead in the senator's home and Weiss had gone to Bonelli for help.

Scorecard, eh?

If Bolan were to code-name his own operation, now, he would have to call it Backfire. He'd leaned on the Kosher Nostra for specific effect, sure — but not for this one.

Backfire, yeah. But maybe it was not too late to pull it out. The Hinshaw compound now lay just over the ridge. The sun had not yet set. Bonelli's "plane" could hardly be more than barely off the ground at Tucson.

So. It was not bagged yet. Are you listening, Nick? Have you been laid lately? Yes? Take this advice from me, then. Too much wore can make the brain go soft. Stay hard, Nick. Stay as hard as you can because it's not bagged yet.

The cute was ended. Only the hellfire remained.

Hinshaw stepped from the doorway of the command hut and raised a finger to summon his executive officer. Morales drifted over, a cigarette dangling from parched lips.

"Make sure the grunts are set and ready," Hinshaw told him. "Something's out of whack here. Way out."

"Maybe our old buddy was leveling with us."

Hinshaw worriedly shook his head. "Nothing figures. That's what makes it so damn scary. I'll say one thing for Bolan. He knows these guys like a fisherman knows worms. I don't trust them as far as I can fart."

"It's the devil or the deep blue," Morales agreed. "I'll say this. If I gotta face Bolan or them, I'd settle for them."

"We may be facing both," Hinshaw groused. "I just had a crazy talk with the old man. He says it's over. He says we achieved all the objectives. Can you buy that?"

Morales spat. "Shit," he said.

"He says Weiss fragged Kaufman and came over. How does that sound?"

Morales rethought it. "Maybe. That's what I'd do. If I had Mack fucking Bolan and the whole bloody Mafia on my ass. Yeah. Frag the Jew."

"So maybe it does figure," Hinshaw mused. "But you're still worried."

"I'm worried, Angel, yeah."

"Okay. I'll make a round and set the men. Can I make a suggestion?"

"If it's not too long."

"Don't tip our hand to Paul Bonelli. Keep him outside. Let's keep the card in the hole."

"I was thinking the same thing. But it may be easier said than done. I had it all figured till the old man slipped me a klinker. I don't know how to figure it now. But you're right. We keep Junior outside. If the old man is setting us up— But why would he do that now? Either he's leveling — which sounds sort of crazy — or he's setting us up before the job is even done — and that's even crazier. Set the men. I'm going down to the gate. I got a message for Junior. We'll play it their way and see what happens. But carefully, Angel — very carefully."

Morales winked and walked away. Hinshaw lit a cigarette and gazed at the horizon. He hoped that blood-red sky was not portentous. James Ray Hinshaw fervently desired to spend every cent of that 200 plus per day ... especially the plus. The plus, especially.

Paul Bonelli halted his motorcade at the rendezvous point and leaned out the window to greet his forward scout. "What'd you find?" he asked the guy.

"They've set up a couple of big tents and moved most of their goods inside them. Looks like they cleaned up and made a bonfire out of those damaged buildings. There's only a couple of shacks still standing."

"How many people?"

"Not many I could see. Here and there, a guy standing or sitting. The Morales kid keeps walking around very restless."

Bonelli grunted as he tried to digest that. "How many cars?" he asked.

"Just what they had before. But a lot of brush has been piled in the canyon out back. They could have a Hertz fleet back in there somewhere."

"Give me your bone feel, Ernie."

The scout shrugged. "It looks okay. But I got creepy just lookin' at it."

"Did you scout the hills?"

"Best I could with the time I had. A camper rolled through a few minutes ago, heading north. That's all."

"What kind of camper?"

"One of those big RVS. GMC, I think. Looked clean."

Bonelli sighed. "Hell. I don't know any more than I did before. Why would the guy call me with a story like that?"

"You know how some wise guys are, boss. Anything for a quick mark or a free meal. He hopes you'll remember it as a kind thought that was just a little wrong."

"It stinks," Bonelli snapped. "How good could you see into that joint?

If he was trying to hide something in there, could you have tumbled to it?"

"That's hard to say, boss. But you can always hide what you don't want seen."

"And it creeped you."

"Right. It creeped me."

"That's good enough for me. Send the crew bosses up here. We'll parley. Then we'll move in."

"Are we moving hard?"

"Bet your ass we're moving hard," Bonelli assured the scout.

Damn right. The soldier boy was not going to frag this C.O. The brotherhood of the blood, by Jesus, had invented that little game. Paul Bonelli had been born to it. Sure as hell he was not going to die by it.

Bolan took the ridge in a grimly silent struggle, a garrote buried deeply in sentry flesh. Then he dragged the guy to the back side and returned to the battle cruiser for the strike weapons — selecting the Weatherby sniper, an M-79, and two belts of 40mm rounds in mixed configuration.

Back at the ridge again — the same one from which the earlier cutesy strike had been launched — he spurned the drop chosen by the dead sentry and moved on down to an outcropping of rock situated just above the camp.

It was optimum range for the M-79 hell-raiser and the overlook gave him a full 90-degree sweep into the flatlands.