Don Pendleton: Continental Contract

At about twenty minutes past seven, he went to the cashier's desk for more coins. As he was moving away, a large black man stepped up to the counter and grinned at him. Bolan's brain clanged and seized on an instant recognition. His eyes kept the secret, he returned the smile, and he went back to the slot machine.

A moment later the big guy was standing beside him, feeding a coin into the next machine. The familiar basso voice advised him, "Just keep looking straight on ahead, Sarge, you're being scouted."

Without turning his head, Bolan said, "You're a sight for homesick eyes, Lieutenant. Who's scouting me?"

"Some guys." The black man fed in another coin and pulled the handle. "You're in a hell of a spot, aren't you?"

"Yeah. Did you bring me a crying towel?"

"No, I just brought myself. This is weird, Sarge. It's your voice, it's you, but it's the wrong face."

"How'd you spot me then, Lieutenant?"

"You kidding? Kids outside are already selling souvenir pictures of you."

Bolan grunted and watched the combination come up on his machine. "You're a long way from home... football season and all."

The Negro made a small payoff hit, chuckled gleefully, and scooped the coins into a huge paw. "My football days are gone forever, Sarge. Claymore mine, 'bout two months after we parted company at Song Lai. I been wearing a synthetic foot for about a year now."

Bolan said, "Damn! That's tough!"

"Don't give me no pity. I already gave myself all of that I can stomach."

"Guys do that."

"Yeah, I even forgot who I am, I guess. I just been another nigger for a long time now."

Bolan said, "You never were a trigger, Lieutenant,"

Brown played with the coins in his hand and swiveled about to peer toward the head of the room. He sighed. "I been watching your maneuvers, Sarge. I been remembering what it was I used to like about you."

"We always worked good together, Lieutenant."

"Yeah. I'm over here with a Mafia crew, let's get that out right now."

Bolan's hand jerked to the slot and he dropped in another coin. Through a suddenly constricted throat, he said, "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm supposed to be luring you outside for a quick and quiet snatch."

"I'd prefer a sudden, loud bullet, Lieutenant."

"Well, see, that ain't the game. The game is, get Bolan alive. This cat back in Virginia wants to pit-barbecue you, I think."

"What's your angle?" Bolan muttered.

"A hundred grand does a lot of persuading, Sarge."

"So why the tip-off?"

"Like I said, I been remembering what I liked about you. I got to realizing you're a soul-brother, man. I decided soul-power is better than green-power any day."

Bolan felt himself relaxing, his blood thawing. He fed the slot with a mechanical movement and asked, "So what now?"

"You might have noticed, they got a police problem in this town."

Bolan chuckled. "Yeah, I noticed."

"Our crew boss is a guy named Lavagni. Know him?"

"I've heard of him. What's he look like?"

"Little guy, thick built, mean eyes. He's standin' back there in the lobby right now, wondering what I'm doing all this time. Pretty soon he's gonna get nervous and come looking."

Bolan said, "You're the Lieutenant. How do you read the play?"

"Like I said, they got a police problem here. So much of a problem that Lavagni conned the local fuzz into giving his 'Interpol' crew a territory. He's got fifty men out there, Sarge."

Bolan whistled softly. "Sounds like quite a set."

"Yeah, and cute too. We got the central access to the boat harbor."

"You talking about the yacht basin?"

"That's right. And we got a yacht down there. That's how he's figuring to get you out past the cops."

Bolan was thinking about it. After a brief silence, he told Brown, "Then maybe that's my out. How are you supposed to be working this set?"

"I'm supposed to be telling you I got a boat down there. You're expected to flip with gratitude and run right down there with me."

A wary little signal ticked up in Bolan's brain. He said, "Isn't that exactly what you're telling me, Lieutenant? And haven't I already sprung for the bait?"

Brown laughed softly. "Sounds like it. Look you do what you like. I don't blame you for being suspicious. But I am leveling with you."

Bolan was torn across the decision. He looked at his watch, saw that it was nearing seven-thirty, and slid into the only decision available. "How many men on the boat, Lieutenant?"

"Five, at last count. Plus a guy and his wife, owners. They're in it, too, by the way. Some contact Lavagni made at the last minute, local types. The boat ain't the problem. The problem is those last fifty feet of pier before you get to the boat. It's a hard set, and they're supposed to take you without firing a shot, right there, then hustle you onto the boat. Then a fast run down to Nice, that's only about ten miles I guess. From there to the airport and then it's bye-bye birdie, straight to Dulles."

Bolan grunted and fed another coin into the slot machine, pulled the handle, and scored. He listened to the shower of coins and muttered, "Could that be a symbol of something?"

Brown laughed drily. "Don't count the winnings, man. If it turned out to be thirty pieces of silver I'd shit a klinker."

Bolan left the coins in the tray and asked, "What are my chances of blasting through that last fifty feet?"

The big man shrugged the running-back shoulders. "I'd say pretty squeaky. Orders are to take you alive, but you know what'd happen if you started unloading."

Bolan grimaced. "Yeah," he growled. "Well... okay, how's it supposed to go?"

Brown released a heavy sigh. "We're supposed to walk out of here like long-lost brothers and head for the harbor. Lavagni's troops will be running interference, keeping the real cops away. He's watching right now, by the way, so you gotta let me recognize you first."

Bolan spun about and looked directly at the big man for the first time during the conversation. A tight smile gripping his face, and in a voice of subdued excitement, he declared, "I'll be damn! It's Lieutenant Brown, isn't it? Hey, I almost didn't recognize you in those dude clothes!"

The black man stared at him closely, Bolan leaned toward him and whispered something, the black face altered rapidly from a thoughtful frown to a happy grin, and their hands came together in a tight clasp. When they walked away together some moments later, the silver coins from Bolan's score still lay in the slot-machine payoff tray.

Perhaps there were thirty pieces of silver there; perhaps not.

No one had bothered to count.

The two men passed through the crowds and out of the casino, walked casually and without challenge to Bolan's vehicle, and paused there while Bolan leaned inside, looped a nylon cord over his head and tucked something beneath his coat in a quick motion that would have been difficult to detect, in the darkness, from even a few feet away.

As they walked on toward the harbor, Wilson Brown asked his companion, "That a stutter-gun you got there?"

Bolan said, "Yes. Thirty-round clip and two spares. You better hit the water when I say hup and I mean without delay."

Brown commented, "A sweep up the middle, huh?"

"That's right. One-man style. Is that Lavagni skulking around back there to the rear?"

"That's him. Also Sammy Shiv and crew. That means... let's see — about five on the boat, ten or twelve behind us — you know what you're walking into, man?"

"I know what I'm walking out of," Bolan replied.

"You better know what you're walking into, too. Right about forty guns posted along the end of that pier. Some are on boats tied alongside, and I think they even got some sittin' out in the water, in little boats. You got an extra gun?"