Don Pendleton - Killing Game

Barbara Price was a world-class beauty in her own right. And while both she and the Executioner were far too professional to allow their mutual attraction to interfere with the Farm’s operations, on the rare nights when he was able to stay over at Stony Man, Price had his undivided attention.

Finally Bolan said, “It’s still a joint op between us and Russia, but I’ll be the one who calls you.”

“Affirmative,” Price said. “Stony Man out, then.”

“Striker clear,” the Executioner said before tapping the “call kill” button. He looked across the bed to where Platinov sat cross-legged. She had already kicked off her shoes and dumped the contents of the canvas bags onto the bed in front of her. In her hands, she squinted at a scrap of paper that looked to have been folded and unfolded dozens of time.

Bolan joined her, and they came across the usual things found in men’s pockets—billfolds, keys, a few French Lagouille pocketknives. Hideout weapons such as fixed blade knives in ankle holsters, and one tiny .22 short North American Arms minirevolver. Some of the terrorists had carried several sets of IDs in different names—passports, driver’s licenses and other picture identification cards. When he had finished inspecting everything in his bag, Bolan frowned. There was a lot of stuff here. But as far as he could tell, none of it would lead them on down the trail toward Rouillan, his revived terrorist organization, or their upcoming big strike that was rumored to soon take place.

As he had searched the contents of the canvas bag, the Executioner had seen Platinov out of the corner of eye as she dug through her own pile of personal effects. But when he looked up now, he saw that the woman was again holding the same folded, then unfolded, scrap of paper he’d seen her looking at earlier.

“Got something?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Platinov said. “Maybe, maybe not.”

“Let’s see,” the Executioner said.

Platinov had moved up on the bed to rest her back against the wall and sat cross-legged, looking as if she might break out in some yoga mantra at any moment. But the posture had caused her skirt to ride up.

Forcing his eyes down to the scrap of paper, Bolan studied it. It looked to have come from a yellow legal pad and had been torn off rather than cut. It read: Chartres—Achille LeForce, 4:00 p.m. At the bottom of the scrap of paper was a date.

That very day.

Bolan looked up at Platinov. “Whatever it is, it takes place this afternoon,” he said.

“LeForce is a common French name,” Platinov said. “So is Achille, for that matter. And Chartres is a village in the province of Touraine. It’s southwest of here.”

Bolan stood up, walked swiftly to a leather briefcase on top of the other equipment bags they had dropped in the corner of the room and brought it back to the bed before opening it. Pulling out a manila file envelope, he shuffled through the papers contained inside.

“What are you looking for?” Platinov wanted to know.

Bolan held up one hand to silence her as he continued to sort through the intel reports. A moment later, a hard smile curled the corners of his lips.

“What is it?” Platinov demanded again.

“We had limited time to go over this file during the flight to Paris,” he said. “But one little detail—a detail that seemed insignificant at the time—evidently stuck in my head.”

“What’s that?” Platinov asked.

“Chartres is Rouillan’s home town. He was born and grew up there.”

“Then it is likely he might pick Chartres for whatever that scrap of paper indicates,” Platinov said. “He would be familiar with the area. And know all of the possible escape routes if something went wrong.”

Bolan nodded. He knew the area, too, from past missions. Several roads led in, and out, of the small French village that was famous for the Cathedral of Our Lady of Chartres. This structure ranked right alongside Notre Dame as an example of the greatest Gothic architecture in the world. The cathedral was particularly noted for its lavish stained-glass windows. “That’s the ‘up’ side of things,” he said almost under his breath.

But Platinov’s hearing was acute. “What is the ‘down’ side you are insinuating with that remark?” she asked.

“Everyone in Chartres will know him,” Bolan said, replacing the file in the briefcase and closing the latches. “And some will be his friends.”

When Bolan hadn’t spoken again for several seconds, Platinov finally said, “So…do we go there or not?” She uncrossed her legs but made no effort to pull down her skirt.

Slowly, Bolan nodded. “We go there,” he said. Staring straight ahead at the wall, he added, “We don’t have much to go on and the odds are stacked highly against us. Chartres isn’t very big. But it’s big enough that we’ll have to find some way of locating Rouillan once we’re there. And as soon as we start asking questions, word will be out all over town that we’re looking for him.” He stuffed the paper into the side pocket of his jacket. “But, the way I see it, it’s all we have at this point.”

Bolan turned to face Platinov now, and saw the same “come hither” smile on her face that he’d seen so many times before. The beautiful Russian woman’s skirt was still hiked up almost to her waist, and the muscles in her Olympic sprinter’s legs all but rippled through her transparent hosiery.

“Whatever this note means,” Platinov purred seductively. “It will not take place until four in the afternoon. We have nearly twelve hours, and Chartres is only a short drive from here.” She cleared her throat with a husky sound. “I wonder how we could pass the time between now and then?”

Bolan stared at her. He was only human, and he and Marynka Platinov had been attracted to each other like magnets since the first time they’d met. For a moment, he was tempted to take the Russian woman up on what was a blatant offer of pleasure.

But then the warrior in the Executioner’s soul took charge of him again.

Bolan stood up next to the bed. “I think the best way to spend that time is to get to Chartres and start snooping around. We need to find out what’s supposed to happen at four o’clock and where it’s supposed to go down.” He cleared his throat and glanced at his watch. “We may not have enough time already.”

Platinov’s smile turned to a slight frown and then a sigh escaped her lips. “You are hard on a woman’s ego, Cooper,” she said as she stood up, lowered her skirt, then smoothed it out again by running the palms of her hands up and down her thighs.

Bolan laughed softly. “Don’t take it as a rejection,” he said. “It’s just that finding Rouillan has got to come first.”

Platinov had taken off her jacket but left the shoulder rig carrying her twin Gold Cup pistols in place. Now, she lifted her Model 1911 from the nightstand where she’d set it earlier, and returned it—along with the inside-the-waistband holster—to the rear of her skirt.

Bolan watched her run her fingers around the waistband, making sure that the Spyderco Military Model folding knife was clipped in place. As she slid her arms into the suit jacket, she said, “Business before pleasure, I believe is the way that you Americans put it.”

The Executioner nodded.

“Then let’s go,” the Russian woman said. One at a time, she pulled out all three of her .45s, checked to make sure a round was in each of the chambers, then returned them to their hiding place. Bolan did the same with the Desert Eagle and Beretta.

The Executioner made one final check at the small of his back. The TOPS Special Assault Weapon, or SAW as it was more commonly called, was clipped in place in its sheath.