Don Pendleton - Sunscream

The water-skier’s curving white wake mirrored a vapor trail in the azure sky above the Riviera. The bronzed man on a single ski swept into a final slalom before the speedboat towing him slowed down between the line of buoys leading to the jetty. The skier leaned back against the pull of the rope and the roar of the engine faded to a hum three markers out from the jetty. Two... one...

Suddenly an explosion lifted the surface of the sea.

When the tower of white water collapsed into the ocean, the speedboat, the two young men crewing it and the skier had all vanished.

There was pandemonium among sunbathers lying on the hot sand. A crowd had gathered along the railing of the palm-fringed promenade, excited voices rising above the chaos on the beach.

Farther along the promenade a man in a white sharkskin suit sat alone in a parked Mercedes. He slid a small detonating device into the glove compartment, then started the car. As he pulled out into traffic and headed for Cannes, he was smiling.

One hour later, a red and silver executive Jet began its descent toward the auxiliary runway on the seaward side of Nice International Airport. Circling over the blue crescent of the Baie des Anges, the pilot saw what seemed to be some kind of disturbance on one of the beaches. He could make out the red cross on an ambulance roof, and flashing amber roof lights of patrol cars. Traffic on the promenade was jammed as far as the Airport entrance.

The pilot dismissed it and concentrated on his descent. He turned to the expensively dressed man behind him. “Fasten your seatbelt, Mr. Ralfini. We’re ready to touch down.”

The owner of the jet nodded and snapped the belt’s safety clasp together. “Make it a smooth one, Joe,” he said.

The controller’s voice in the pilot’s earphones crackled last minute approach instructions. The pilot checked out the battery of lights on the instrument panel. Satisfied, he banked the aircraft and pointed the nose down. The long streak of runway rushed toward them.

The duty officer behind the green glass windows of the control tower watched the small jet come in. The sun was low and on the macadam surface of the runway, the aircraft’s shadow lagged behind the speeding jet.

“Oh, no!” the officer shouted. “He’s flying her into the ground... the landing gear isn’t even down!” He grabbed the microphone from its cradle on the counter in front of him.

Too late. The racing shadow and the plane above drew closer. There was a puff of smoke as the two leaped together, then a livid flash momentarily dimmed the waning sunlight.

The shattering thump of the impact reached to the control tower, and the officer and his Number Two were on their feet, yelling into intercom mikes for fire trucks and the ambulance. By the time the salvage crews got to the field, the smoldering bodies of the pilot and his passenger were scarcely distinguishable from the charred wreckage around them.

Five thousand miles away on a hotel balcony overlooking Montego Bay in Jamaica, Alvaro Scotto buttered the two halves of a breakfast roll and spread them thickly with mango jam.

“Better than Marseilles, huh?” he said, addressing the attractive redhead on the far side of the table.

She looked out over the shimmering sweep of blue water. Half a dozen brightly colored fishing boats, back from the early trawl, were rounding the densely wooded point. “At least it smells better,” she replied.

Scotto grinned. He stuffed the remainder of the roll into his mouth and then drained his coffee. He belched loudly and licked his fingers. “That’s what I like about you, babe — you’re so romantic,” he said sarcastically.

The redhead tried to conceal her dislike of the man as she returned her gaze back to him. He was a squat, balding man, with black hair curling on his arms and along the backs of his fingers. The silk robe that he wore had parted over the pale paunch bulging above his thighs. “Who could be anything else, Al, with you around?” she said.

The boats were nearing the shore. Beyond a trio of early windsurfers, light flashed suddenly as the sun reflected off some polished surface.

Scotto picked up a glass of orange juice.

Splinters of crystal erupted from his fingers and fountained across the white clothed table. The girl started to her feet as the juice soaked the front of her green kimono. “You clumsy ape!” she yelled, pulling at the damp material.

Scotto was staring at the blood leaking from a hole in the palm of his hand.

The second slug took away the top of his head and catapulted him against the French windows leading to the room. The girl opened her mouth to scream.

The third bullet smashed through her front teeth and punched a fist-sized exit in the back of her skull. She fell forward across the table, her gory hair drenched in lukewarm coffee.

Three hours later, on a long stretch of railway track in the center of France, a high-speed train was hitting something over 170 mph when three men stopped at the door of Compartment 9.

The tallest of the trio tapped on the maplewood panel. A voice from inside said something indistinguishable.

“Tickets, please,” the tall guy called.

The door opened a crack. The three men shouldered it wide and crowded into the compartment. The bed was made up, the blinds pulled down. The occupant of the sleeper was a spare, gray-haired man of about sixty.

“What the hell?.. Smiler! Wh-what do you guys want with me?” he blustered.

“I think you know, Frankie,” Smiler said. “The capo don’t go too strong on guys who welsh on a deal.”

One of the men was carrying a briefcase. He opened it and took out a length of solid steel about eighteen inches long.

Frankie’s face had blanched. Sweat dewed his forehead. “Look, you guys... please...” Swivelling on his heel, he made a desperate leap for the alarm cord above the window.

Smiler hit him expertly in the belly. He folded forward, retching. The man with the steel bar raised it high and smashed it savagely across Frankie’s scalp.

Frankie went down. Blood gushed from his mouth, nose and ears, but Smiler was ready with a towel he had snatched from the rail beside the bunk.

“Dump him,” Smiler ordered his two companions.

The two killers snapped open the blind and rolled down the wide window. Lights streaked past as the high-speed express rocketed over a crossing and roared through a deserted station. Once it was dark again they pushed Frankie’s body through the gap and let it drop.

The man with the length of steel wiped it on the bloodstained towel and stowed both in his briefcase. Smiler closed the window and pulled down the blind.

Frankie’s body, still traveling at more than 100 mph, hit the cinders, bounced high into the air and finally came to rest, hanging like some obscene fruit from a sapling halfway down the embankment.

His dead eyes stared sightlessly at the red lantern on the last car as the train vanished into the night.

“Coincidence?” Mack Bolan said. “Uh-uh. There is a link between those killings.”

“Naturally, there is a link, monsieur;” the Swiss Interpol chief agreed. “All four of them...”

“Were Mafiosi? Sure. But there is something more. I can’t see any connection between the four guys or the territories they worked, but those hits were put out by the same source. Why were they killed within a few hours of one another!”

“We were hoping, Monsieur Bolan, that maybe you could enlighten us,” the superintendent from the French Counterintelligence Service put in. “You have a reputation as the most successful anti-Mafia fighter ever. That is why we asked you to come to this meeting.”