Don Pendleton - Deadly Contact

Kimble reached behind himself and produced Bolan’s Beretta. He leaned over and rapped the muzzle against Bolan’s cheekbone. “C’mon sleeping beauty. Talk time.”

Bolan opened his eyes and stared up at Kimble. He held his gaze and despite his bravado—and the gun—it was Kimble who broke contact.

Bolan pushed himself into a sitting position. “Is the woman all right?” he asked directly.

“Hey, it speaks,” Kimble crowed.

“Well?” Bolan said.

“Don’t get pushy. We ask, you answer,” Kimble said.

“Right now your priority is thinking ’bout yourself,” the other man said. “Like how long you might stay alive.”

“Is she okay?” Bolan asked again.

“Jesus, this freak has a one-track mind.”

“Yeah, well, his ID has him down as some kind of Justice agent,” Kimble said. “You know what that means. They’re just fancy cops, and cops have simple minds.”

“The woman,” Bolan persisted.

“Christ,” Kimble said. “Look, pal, she ain’t here. Right now she’s fine, but how long depends on the way she answers some questions.”

The other man reached into the pocket of his dark pants and produced a switchblade. He pressed the button and the slim, shining blade snapped into position. His face took on a sudden change, his mouth tightening into a thin line as he flexed his muscles.

Kimble reached in a pocket and produced a bundle of plastic ties. “Let’s get this done.”

No time for working on a strategy. Bolan saw the lines of engagement change. Talk was over. He came up off the couch, fighting back the wave of nausea that rose within him.

Bolan’s right foot swept up, and the toe of his shoe drove into the knife wielder’s groin. The blow was without mercy, delivered with every ounce of strength the Executioner could muster. The man made a high-pitched squeal of pain. The kick stalled him long enough for Bolan to continue his move, his body swiveling so that he came face-to-face with the startled Kimble. Bolan’s hands reached out and caught the Beretta by the barrel. He twisted and pulled, hearing Kimble’s trigger finger snap.

Kimble howled as Bolan shouldered him aside, turning about to face the nameless man. The big man, one hand clutching at his groin, was already on the move, lurching in Bolan’s direction. The glittering switchblade was slashing the air as he closed in. Bolan raised the 93-R and pulled the trigger. The Beretta chugged a 3-round burst, the 9 mm slugs punching into the man’s chest. He twisted away from Bolan, dropping to his knees, then went facedown on the carpet. He jerked a few times before subsiding with a long, harsh sigh.

Turning away, Bolan made Kimble the focus of his attention, making sure the man could see the unwavering muzzle of the Beretta.

Kimble panicked. This was not how it was supposed to go down.

Moving behind him, Bolan closed an arm around Kimble’s neck, tight enough to make the man struggle for air. He put the muzzle of the Beretta against the side of the man’s head and pressed hard, letting the warm metal gouge a raw circle in his flesh.

“Think about this, Kimble. Your buddy is dead. You saw how quick it happened. Consider that when you start to answer my questions,” Bolan said.

He let the man think about it for a while. Bolan slackened his grip on Kimble’s neck and the man sucked air in greedily, like a swimmer escaping drowning. He maintained pressure on the Beretta’s muzzle, making sure Kimble stayed aware of his precarious position.

“Simple question. Where do they have the woman?” the Executioner asked.

Kimble knew his life depended on his reply. He was under no illusions. He had seen how easily this man had killed his partner and knew that same fate awaited him if he failed to give the right information.

“If I tell you, can we make a deal?” he asked.

Bolan didn’t answer. Instead he dug the muzzle of the Beretta deeper into Kimble’s flesh, turning it enough to break the skin. Kimble felt the warm trickle of blood from the tear.

“Where do they have the woman?”

“No deal, huh? Look, what if I send you to a certain address and she isn’t there?” Kimble asked.

“Then I’ll come back and we’ll start over. You aren’t going anywhere, Kimble. So make certain I hit the correct location,” the Executioner warned.

“If my people find out I sent you, I’m dead anyway. They’ll come after me.”

“No, they won’t. I can promise you that.”

The tone was neutral but the implication was clear. Kimble knew if this man went after the woman, it wouldn’t matter who stood in his way.

Bolan stepped away from Kimble and stood facing him, the Beretta still trained on the man.

“Your choice, Kimble. Give me what I want, and I’ll cut you a break. Screw me, and you’ll wish I’d killed you right here and now.”

Kimble stared into the cold blue eyes and he saw his own fate mirrored there.

“You genuine on that? Leaving me alive I mean?”

“I never lie, Kimble.”

There was something in the guy’s voice that made Kimble believe him.

“Then we have a deal.”

Bolan gestured with the pistol and walked Kimble across the room. He made him sit on the floor next to the heavy radiator piped into the wall, then picked up the plastic ties Kimble had let drop to the floor. He handed one to Kimble.

“Around your ankles. Make sure it’s tight.”

“Jesus, my finger’s broke. How can I—”

“Your choice, Kimble. I still have bullets in this gun.”

Bolan waited until Kimble did as he was instructed, then fashioned a loop with a second plastic strip. He bound Kimble’s wrists together, then took more strips and secured the bound man to the thick steel pipe running from the radiator to the solid floor.

“Now tell me where she is and how many are with her.”

When Bolan had the information locked down he rose to his feet, holstering the Beretta, then turned to leave.

“Hey,” Kimble called, “how do I get out of this?”

“If the information is genuine, I won’t be back. I’ll leave a message with my people to come and get you.”

Kimble’s anger burst like an unchecked flood.

“You fuckin’ told me you don’t lie. I give you what you want, and you toss me to the cops? What kind of a deal is that?”

“It’s what we agreed, Kimble. You give me the right words, I don’t kill you. That stands. I didn’t say anything about letting you walk away from this.” Bolan paused to stare the man down. “You want to renegotiate the terms? You still have nine fingers left.”

Kimble fell silent, figuring he’d worked the best deal he was likely to get. He watched the tall man leave, and reasoned he was better off where he was. He didn’t envy the snatch crew. He tried not to imagine what was going to happen when the unexpected visitor showed up at the abandoned farmhouse.

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