Pros, yeah. Men.
Angel Morales. Small and lean, straight black hair framing finely chiseled Latin features, sensual lips curving slightly in a little smile which widened to a grin in the heat of combat. And Floyd Worthy. Tall, grim, black as the ace of spades, his restless hands ever moving, at peace only when holding one of the weapons that he loved.
Hinshaw felt better already, stronger, more confident. They were a team all right, and together, Hinshaw knew, they could move mountains.
Worthy opened the dialogue with his deep, drawling voice. "What's the word, my man?"
"The word is that our boys were iced by one man. I take that to mean that Kaufman has no troops in the field — yet. If we move quick enough, we should be able to cut our losses and salvage the play."
"Target Baker?" The question came from Morales.
"Affirmative. We still need a hostage for our hole card. Floyd, I want you to take personal charge of this action, and be sure the boys understand that we need the pigeon alive. Cold meat won't get us the time of day."
Worthy gave him an unemotional "Roger," the big ebony hands opening and clenching in slow rhythm.
"Take a half-dozen men with you," Hinshaw continued. "The last team came up short." There was no trace of regret in his voice as he dismissed the deaths, merely a recognition of tactical error.
"I can handle it," Worthy assured him, risking a narrow smile for the first time.
"I have every confidence," Hinshaw told his friend, returning the grim smile. "Angel, you're on backup and communications. Commit minimal reinforcements as a last resort. Emphasize that."
"Gotcha," Morales replied. "Floyd don't need any help on a run like this, do ya Floyd?"
"Made in the shade," Worthy rumbled in response.
"Right. That's all." Hinshaw dropped his eyes to a folder of papers on the desk, and the other men recognized the dismissal for what it was, letting themselves out.
Jim Hinshaw was no longer upset. He felt good now, powerful, worthy of Nick Bonelli's confidence. It would be the old squeeze play, just like in "Nam, bring the enemy to his knees and keep him there. The old Special Forces motto came back to him: When you've got 'em by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow. Yeah, and their fortunes, too, any damn thing you demand. But first the squeeze, the all-important stranglehold. Yeah, that was the name of the game.
The GMC motor home which served as Bolan's warwagon was parked on a wooded lane in Echo Canyon Park. Bolan and Sharon Kaufman sat on opposite ends of the same fold-down bunk, he still in blacksuit and she looking almost childlike in the voluminous folds of his robe. Almost childlike, but not quite. Even in that outsize garment, she was a hell of a lot of woman, and no clothing could disguise the fact.
Bolan reluctantly pulled his eyes away from there and caught hers over the lip of an upraised coffee mug. He found lingering fear in that gaze, but she offered him a tentative smile as she lowered the mug and haltingly told him, "I-I don't know what to say except ... thanks ... I-I guess."
His eyes remained warm, but the voice was ice-tinged as he replied, "You could say a lot more than that." Her gaze fell to the coffee cup. She said nothing.
"Your father is Moe Kaufman."
"Of course."
"He's in trouble."
"Yes I ... I gathered as much. What did those men want?"
"They wanted his head. Someone still does. That's why they tried to snatch you. Your head was a means to his. It's the big game, Miss Kaufman. Why did you think they took you?"
"I-it didn't-I didn't have time to think about it. Everything happened so fast. Who are you?"
"I'm the guy who snatched you back. But you are in your own hands now. Walk away, if that's what you want. Return home. But I advise that you don't."
Fear was becoming a living presence between them. Her eyes receded, shrinking from his gaze as her mind obviously tumbled with a thousand questions and perhaps ten times as many logical answers. "What should I do then?" she asked.
He spread his hands as he suggested, "Talk to me."
She hesitated. "About what?"
"You could start with your father's business associates."
"What? I don't-"
"Nick Bonelli." It was neither a statement nor a question, it was simply there, hanging between them in the sudden silence.
"Well ... yes, Mr. Bonelli and my father are friends. I believe they're partners in some sort of business venture in Tucson."
"The partnership is dissolving," Bolan told her grimly.
"What?" More tension in the young voice now, edging out the confusion.
"The men who grabbed you were Bonelli's."
"What? How do you ... who are you?"
"The name's Bolan."
There was no immediate comprehension on that young face, merely deepening puzzlement. "Should I have heard your name somewhere?"
"Could be. Your father and his ex-partner are quite familiar with it."
"How do you know my father?"
"By reputation mostly. Until this morning I was his worst enemy."
"Bolan? Bolan!" She was still chewing that one over when she suddenly made the connection, and her pretty face lost another shade of color. "Oh my God! Are you that Bolan?"
"Last of the line," he told her without humor.
"But ... you're supposed to ... I mean you fight the Mafia." Bolan said nothing, letting the impact of her own realization sink in.
"Oh no, you can't think that my father Is involved with the Mafia?"
"Bonelli — your father's business partner — is the capo of Tucson," he told her.
She seemed stunned. "C-capo?"
"Capo mafioso. The local godfather. The mold on top of the cheese. Your father has been in bed with the guy for years."
"I've heard some of those stories," she responded, some of the flush returning to her cheeks in a wave of defensive reaction to Bolan's words. "I don't believe them. But suppose Mr. Bonelli is ... what you say. My father is a businessman. He needs ... contacts."
"You met some of those contacts this morning."
"But why would Mr. Bonelli want to harm my father?"
"That's the big question. I'm in Phoenix for the answer. One thing I do know. Those guys were pros, and they didn't come to town alone. Their back-up crews will be looking for your father now, if they haven't already found him."
"They won't have. If my father doesn't want to be found ... well, he just isn't, that's all." Her head and shoulders slumped ever so slightly as she spoke, and Bolan knew with certainty that Sharon Kaufman had indeed heard "some of those stories" about her father. And wondered, no doubt, about certain odd circumstances and behavior at various times, about the swarthy visitors and the gravel-voiced nocturnal phone calls.
Yeah, Sharon Kaufman knew or guessed — or, more likely, feared to know — the truth about her "businessman" father.
She broke the silence after a long and thoughtful pause. "Did you mean what you said? About my being free to leave?"
"Any time you choose. I don't draft civilians."
"But you would like my help, wouldn't you?"
"I don't have anything to trade, Sharon."
"My father's life?" she suggested hopefully.
"I won't make promises I can't keep," he told her coldly. Then he added, with more compassion, "For what it's worth, I didn't come to Phoenix to hit your father. I could probably achieve that simply by leaving town and giving his 'friends' a free hand. My goal, so far as possible, is to avert a street war and prevent any mob faction from seizing total control. I'll pursue those goals by any means necessary. Fair warning."