"Did you take care of it?" Weiss inquired nervously.

"Before I left home, yeah. Forget it. It never happened. When my boys get done with it, you'll have a hard time believing what happened yourself."

"I don't want to know the details."

"Who's giving any? The less said the better."

They went into a little office beside the hangar. Bonelli guided him to a dusty chair, offered him a cigar, went to the window and craned his neck to scrutinize the approaches, mumbled something to himself, went to a scarred desk and perched atop it.

"What are we waiting for?" Weiss asked irritably.

"My boy Paul is coming with us. You ever been to Costa Rica?"

Weiss shook his head, smiling sourly. "We get few junkets in that direction. I called my Washington office right after I talked to you. Told them I'd be out of the country for a few days."

"That's fine," Bonelli replied. "Be a bit longer than that, though. A few little details left to be cleaned up around here. It don't need us. We'll get some sun. Play some golf. You play golf ?"

"Every chance I get," Weiss said, warming a bit to this strange mixture of thug and charmer.

"I seal more deals on the golf course than-" Bonelli's eyes flashed to the window. A car was approaching.

The Capo Arizona slid off the desk and said, "Here's Paul. Let's go."

It was three cars — moving fast and burning rubber as they braked to swing off the blacktop road.

Hell, they looked— They were! All shot up! Shattered window glass!

The two torpedoes at the plane spun away and raced to place themselves between the don and the approaching vehicles.

"It's okay!" Bonelli yelled to them. "They're ours!"

Weiss started off nervously toward the plane, halting about halfway to peer back at the unfolding drama.

The cars were lurching to a halt near the office.

Bonelli, swaying anxiously beside the leading car, speaking animatedly to someone inside. Bonelli, jerking the front door open and nearly ripping off the hinges. Bonelli, head thrown back in a soundless scream, pounding on the roof of that broken car with a jackhammer fist. Bonelli, leaning inside to drag out a human form — a terribly limp and obviously broken human form. Bonelli, tearfully clutching a horribly mutilated and soggy-looking once-human head to his breast. Bonelli, bearing up a dead son and staggering with his burden toward the plane.

All it really meant to Abraham Weiss was that something had gone terribly sour.

"Did they take care of it?" he gasped as the Capo Arizona staggered past with his gruesome burden.

"Let's go!" Bonelli croaked in passing. "Get inna plane!"

Other vehicles were approaching.

Energetic men were spilling from the parked cars and scurrying frantically toward defensible positions.

Weiss came unglued and ran on to the Cessna to shrinkingly assist with the boarding of Paul Bonelli's pitiful remains. Bonelli growled, "Holy ..." shoved the senator inside and hastily secured the door.

And it had. Yes, obviously. It had all gone terribly sour. And now the sun was also down — perhaps never to rise again for Abraham Weiss.

The Hinshaw raiders were keeping the Tucson survivors well occupied in the hangar area, the rippling explosions of an erupting freigh signaling an end to the chase.

Bolan had no further interest whatever in that chase — nor in the participants. Both had served his purpose.

He left the cruiser parked beside the blacktop road and set off cross-country on foot, hurrying toward the south end of the runway with the M-79 — sampling the wind and reading the aerodynamic considerations, thinking like the pilot of an aircraft. He knew the guy would make his takeoff roll to the south, into the wind.

Someone else apparently had the same idea.

A battered car was jouncing along the uneven surface of the desert floor, making a wide circle to avoid the conflict of arms at the hangar — on a course to directly intercept Bolan's.

And they'd spotted him. At about sixty yards out, the vehicle veered to home directly on the running figure, pistol fire blazing at him from the window on the passenger side.

He flung himself to the prone without breaking stride, rolling and twisting upon impact to squeeze off a do-or-die round from the '79.

The HE round dug sand at the front bumper of the charging car, the hurried and off-balance shot scoring a near-miss, which nevertheless gutted the engine compartment from below, and diverting the charge.

The car quivered, heeled, and took a roll toward the runway.

The M-79 had taken a load of sand in the breech. Unable to immediately free the action, Bolan tossed the weapon aside and pursued the stricken vehicle with a big silver pistol, the .44 Automag, up and ready.

Two men were in that vehicle — Morales and Hinshaw — Angel at the wheel, James Ray "riding shotgun."

They'd rode her through two full rolls to a shuddering upright position. Morales was unconscious, the head dangling off to the shoulder at a crazy angle. Hinshaw's right arm hung loosely, also at an odd angle, from the window. It had been caught outside in the roll and was now bleeding profusely, obviously broken.

The guy gave him a sick smile as he groaned, "Guess it's just you'n me now, stud."

"Wrong," Bolan said coldly. "It's just you and you."

He walked on past, gained the runway, and turned north. The freigh was sputtering to a close. Of more importance, a twin-engine Cessna was winding up screaming jets and launching itself into high roll, departing that combat zone with all possible haste.

Bolan moved to the center of the runway and jogged on. 100 yards ... 90 ... 80 — no man's land was shrinking fast as the screaming jet bore down on him. At fifty yards he dropped to one knee, coolly sighted the big pistol, and went into rapid unload.

All eight rounds went home, but none, apparently, found a vital spot. He ejected and clicked in a fresh load with the plane practically on top of him, the wheels now lifting into the take-off.

There was one of those stop-action moments — a mere microsecond of eternal time which somehow expands to fill all of eternity — in which he was eyeball to eyeball with Honest Abe Weiss. As viewed through the eye, the Senator was just beyond the windshield of that hurtling craft, that timeworn face contorted In a grimace of horror; as viewed through the trapdoor of expanded time and space, he was standing outside his home in Paradise, a Browning skull-buster dangling ineffectively in trembling grasp, declaring for the wide world to hear: "I run it. It's mine, I run it!"

"Run it all the way to hell then," Bolan had told him. He told him now, in para-time, "You ran it too hard, Abe."

And then the lifting plane was flashing up and over him, he was toppling onto his back and taking cool measurements, again stroking the fire of that spectacular .44.

They went home that time — all of them, each of them.

The sleek jet staggered. Flames whoofed along the wing. She tried to go straight up then seemed to halt dead in the air momentarily at a couple hundred feet up — but that was an optical illusion produced by over-the-horizon reds from the setting sun clashing with over-the-wing flames from a setting plane.

She blew straight up — and the flare from that explosion was probably seen in Paradise.

But the scattered and settling fragments would perhaps never be seen again — except maybe a glimpse now and then in some corner of expanded time and space.

The Executioner sheathed his weapon and muttered, "Bag that, Nick." Then he quickly put that place behind him. And it was okay.

This time, father cosmos had picked up all the marbles.