Don Pendleton - Continental Contract

"You are looking very angry," Cici whispered.

"I'm not angry, Cici."

But he was. He was thinking of another fraud, a refined Englishwoman masquerading as a whore — one who had sought the taste of life in purgatory and who was at this very moment probably descending into the hell of all hells. He was thinking also of a redheaded kid with plump breasts and painted nipples and of an entire line-up of faceless ones who had brushed past him with whispers of "merci." And an older one with bitterness in her face and spit at her lips for the pains of life. Yes, Bolan was angry. Very shortly now, that anger would be spilling out in the most coldly violent expression of his violent life and the most fearsome experience since the days of the Third Reich would descend upon this international playground — The Executioner in rampage.

The villa checked out clean and was in every respect ideal for Bolan's plans. The two-story archetype of Mediterranean architecture stood atop a low bluff overlooking a small private cove and beach. A lock-gate and extensive grounds to either side assured privacy. At the rear, winding stone steps descended from a marble patio to the beach and boat dock, where a sleek cruiser glistened in the Mediterranean sun.

At Bolan's suggestion, Cici sent away an old man and his daughter, caretaker and maid — and Bolan immediately went to work. He carried the package from the Safari Shop into the house and broke the big rifle down piece by piece, closely inspecting all critical components — then he oiled and reassembled it. It was a clip-fed Belgian model, accepting .444 high-velocity and sharp-impact steel-jacketed ammo, with a 20-power intense-field scope and range finder.

Bolan then took the rifle and a belt of ammo to the cove and sighted it in. Cici sat crosslegged just behind the firing line and watched with fingers in ears as he methodically test-fired the big piece at varying ranges, notating the required adjustments as he went.

This task required about twenty minutes. When it was done she asked him; "Is it a good gon?"

He smiled and replied, "Yes, Cici, it's a damn good gon." He showed her how to sight through the scope and explained the compensations required for drift and drop. She wanted to try a shot herself. He sternly lectured her regarding recoil-absorption, padded her shoulder with his jacket, strapped her into the rig, and allowed her to have at it from a stated position, per her own demand.

She squeezed off a single shot, missed target and bluff and everything else in view, and toppled onto her back from the recoil. Bolan chuckled and helped her to her feet. She was rubbing her shoulder and giving the rifle a dirty look. "I do not see why anywan would call thees damn theeng a good gon," she grumbled.

Bolan helped her out of the strap and bent to playfully kiss her offended shoulder. She caught his face with both hands and steered him to a nicer target and their mouths merged for the first time in a sweet-warm mingling of purest passions. She stepped quickly back, said, "There," and ran up the steps ahead of him.

Bolan muttered "Damn!" and followed her to the house. He disassembled the rifle and cleaned and oiled it while Cici made coffee and sandwiches. Her task was concluded ahead of his, and she sat in an almost embarassed silence and watched him put the pieces together again.

As they lunched, she told him, "Oh-kay, what is the plot? You 'ave murdair on the mind — 'oo will be murdaired?"

"I'm going to get those girls back, Cici."

"But 'ow? With that formidable gon?"

He said, "Yes, that's how." He took the spiral notebook from his pocket and placed it on the table. "I have the structure here of the crime combine of Southern France. I've put out the word that one of these wheels is going to die every hour until those girls are returned."

She showed him a shocked look. "But this is the bluff, no?"

"Not hardly." He consulted the notebook, then dug in the envelope for a mug shot. He found the one he sought and threw it onto the table. "There's my first draft choice, Claude de Champs. Know him?"

She slowly nodded her bead. "Vaguely. He is in the casino crowd. Yachting and that."

"That's just at the surface. He also handles about twenty million francs worth of illegal drugs every year, deals in contraband munitions, and is thought to rake about ten thousand francs a week off the top of various vice operations in Marseilles. What's the life of a society hood like this worth, Cici? Would you say it's worth one of those missing girls?"

"I will 'elp you," she quietly declared.

"I was hoping you would," he admitted. "But in a very limited way. Do you have maps of the Riviera? Good ones?"

"Yes. I 'ave survey maps, maritime maps, road maps. What do you wish?"

"I want you to help me locate these people. On the maps, though, just on the maps. I have their addresses."

She said, "The Riviera crowd is like one small community. I know most of these men." She was sifting through the photos. "I am ver' surprise at some, that they are in this collection. You are sure of your information?"

He said, "I'm sure."

"I 'ave the personal interest to 'elp you, Mack Bolan. I can 'elp in bettair ways than this. Cici knows Riviera like back of 'and. I will, at the ver' least, be your chauffeur."

"Nothing doing," he growled.

"Then I will 'ave to blow the wheestle."

He said, "I believe you're serious."

"Jus' try me for serious."

He gathered the photos and carried them to the floor. "Get the maps."

Cici jumped up and went out the door. Moments later she returned with a stack of maps. Bolan went through them carefully, selecting some and rejecting others, until he had the best representations of the coastal areas. Cici brought pencil and tape; Bolan cut and spliced until he had precisely what he wanted. Then he took a soft pencil and began a methodical cross-sectioning of the coastline from Monaco to Marseilles. In each section he taped a photo, three of them into St. Tropez, and ran triangulations from Cici's villa to surrounding areas. When he was finished he stood up and told her, "Okay, there's my battle order."

"I see nothing but confusion," she admitted.

"I can't afford to telegraph ahead to my next move," he explained. "What I mean is, I can't establish a track. I have to keep mixing it up, reversing ground, zigzagging." He looked at his watch, studying it. Presently he said, "We start with de Champs. If we can find him, I want to hit him at two o'clock sharp. The alternate target is Vicareau, right down the way here off the Moyenne Corniche. If I can hit either of them, I want to pop up next down here in Zone 4, below Nice. I'll hit Korvini there, or his alternate Bernard. Then double back to Monte Carlo and our syndicated gambling shill Hebert. Are you getting the picture?"

Her eyes were a bit sick. She said, "Yes, I get the peecture."

He went on relentlessly. "These are going to be daylight hits. That means you can see the blood as it explodes out of them. And it's not chocolate syrup or a trick bag of dye, it's the real stuff. They don't get up and have a coke with you when the shooting is over. Bits and pieces of them are missing and sometimes they flop about and yell and cry as they're going. I make it as clean as possible but sometimes..."

"I told you oh-kay, I 'ave the peecture."

"I let you handle that gun down there mainly so you could see the difference between make-believe and reality. Guns do more than look cool and make a commanding noise. They are very powerful weapons of death, and if you think the kick is hard from the butt end then you better hope you never get in the way of what's thundering out through the muzzle. The salesman wasn't kidding when he told you this piece would drop a charging rhino. The muzzle energy is close to two tons — nearly four thousand pounds of concentrated impact, Cici, and when those big .444's come tearing in, bone and muscle and everything else stands aside and lets it through. It doesn't make for pretty viewing."