Nick Carter: Rhodesia

"I'll get you a new one or send you the price via Johnson," Nick exclaimed.

"Give it to him," Ross said. He handed Nick the shotgun. "Send us the price of one of these."

"It's a promise."

Nick whipped the truck past wrecked vehicles and around bodies, got on the side hill road toward the villa and climbed as fast as the engine would roar. Across the valley clusters of lights glowed but they were minute beside the fires that were breaking out everywhere. Away off, at the main gate, tracer bullets snapped and twinkled and the sound of firing was heavy. It looked as if Mike Bor and company had lost their political connections — or couldn't reach them fast enough. His guards must have tried to stop the army column, and that did it.

He rolled onto the plateau, circled the house. He saw the three men on the patio. They weren't laughing now. He drove straight at them.

The heavy International was rolling at a good clip when it hit the wide-weave chain-link fence. The barrier was carried along with the charging truck in a ripping, tearing mélange of grinding wire, falling posts, and shrieking metal. Chaise longues and deck chairs flew like toys before the impact of the fence and the vehicle. Just before Nick crashed into the bullet-proof glass box that sheltered Bor, Muller, and Kalgan, the V of fencing — pushed ahead like a metal soundwave by the truck's nose — parted with a giant twang.

Bor bolted toward the house and Nick watched Muller poise, holding a gun. The old man had guts or he was petrified. Kalgan's Oriental features were a mask of angry hate as he pulled at Muller and then the truck rammed the glass and everything vanished in a jolting shock of metal-to-glass. Nick braced against the wheel and firewall. Muller and Kalgan vanished, obscured by a sudden screen of fractured, splintered glass. The stuff bent, gave, and became opaque with a network of breaks.

A cloud of steam burst from the truck's fractured radiator. Nick struggled with his jammed door, knowing that Muller and Kalgan had gone through the exit door of the glass shelter and were following Bor into the main house. Finally he dropped the shotgun out the window and crawled out after it.

The door to the house was swinging as he ran around the shelter and came to it — the truck and the trailing fence was a barrier to his right. He put one blast from the shotgun through its center and it ponged open. No one was waiting for him.

Over the hiss of the truck's steaming radiator sounded a girl's terrified scream. He whirled, surprised that the lights stayed on — he had knocked down several outdoor fixtures — and hoping they'd go out. He was a good target if Muller and the others went to upper windows.

Dashing to the fence that separated the patio from the 200 enclosure he found a gate and got through it. The baboon cringed in a corner, the crocodile's corpse quivered. He cut Booty's bonds with Hugo. "What's wrong here?" he snapped.

"I don't know," she sobbed. "Janet screamed."

He got her free, said, "Undo Ruth," and went to Janet. "You all right?"

"Yes," she quavered, "a horrible big bug crawled up my leg."

Nick unfastened her hands. "You've got guts."

"Damn exciting tour."

He picked up the shotgun. "Untie your own feet." He ran for the patio and the door to the house. He was searching the last of many rooms when George Barnes found him. The Rhodesian policeman said, "Hello. Bit of excitement? Got your word by Tillbourne. Clever."

"Thanks. Bor and his crew have disappeared."

"We'll get them. I do want to hear your story."

"I haven't made it all up yet. Let's get out of here. This place may blow up any time." He carried blankets out to the girls.

Nick was wrong. The villa glowed brightly as they drove down the hill. Barnes said, "All right, Grant. What happened?"

"Mike Bor or THB must have thought I was business competition or something. I've had a lot of surprises. People attacked me, tried to abduct me. Annoyed my tour clients. Chased us all over the country. He was really violent near the last, so I made a pass at him with a truck."

Barnes laughed heartily. "Talk about the understatement of the decade. As I see it, you triggered a native revolt. Broke up a fight between our army and some guerrillas. And you've exposed enough smuggling and double-crossing by THB to turn part of our government on its ear. The radio has been wailing from HQ so much I got away from it."

"Gee," Nick said innocently, "did I? Just an accidental chain of events. But lucky for you, eh? THB was abusing workers, cheating your customs, and helping your enemies — they sold to everyone, you know. You ought to get a fine commendation out of this."

"If we ever straighten it out."

Of course they straightened it out. Nick noticed how simple it is when you're dealing with a lot of gold that has tremendous power and no patriotism. The free world felt better with the yellow metal flowing into hands that appreciated it. Judas was traced to Lourenço Marques and his trail vanished. Nick could guess where — up Mozambique Channel to the Indian Ocean in one of the big oceangoing ketches he favored. He said nothing, for technically his own objective had been reached and he was still Andrew Grant, visiting escort with tour group.

Indeed, an assistant chief of the Rhodesian police gave him a commendation scroll at a small dinner. The publicity helped him decide not to take Hawk's suggestion, via coded cable, that he leave the tour on some excuse and return to Washington. He decided to complete the trip for the sake of — appearances.

After all, Gus was good company, and so were Booty and Ruth and Janet and Teddy and...

See The Judss Spy.