Continental Contract

by Don Pendleton

  Secondly, why were cops so damn talkative? Didn’t they realize that every hired gun the mob could command would be pouring into the tiny principality, an eight square mile area already jammed with tourists and fun-seekers?

  Lastly, and perhaps most troubling, how could he deliver on his rash promise for the eight o’clock blitz? He was hoping that he would not have to deliver, that the wide publicity being given his grandstand play would filter into the underground trail, wherever and whatever it was, and that the girls would be turned over. But what if they were not? Could Bolan even survive until eight o’clock?

  Well … he would give it one hell of a whirl. Where would be the most unlikely place in all of Monaco for Mack Bolan to turn up? Aside, of course, from the royal palace. Where else, but the fabled casino at Monte Carlo, where an execution had taken place less than an hour earlier?

  Bolan checked his tie in the mirror, smoothed his hair, and made ready for the most scalp-tingling gamble of his career. He would lay it all on the line at Monte Carlo.

  Six o’clock at Monte Carlo was like midnight at Vegas. The evening crowds were in the streets—ladies who could have come directly from Cardin or Dior, and men in formal wear, plus hordes of tourists in casual dress who seemed to be there mainly to gawk and exclaim—sidewalk cafes without standing room available—here and there a yachting hat and a dude in denims and deckshoes—and everywhere, on this particular evening, sharp-eyed detectives and uniformed policemen suspecting every male in sight of being Mack Bolan in disguise, until irrefutable identification proved otherwise.

  Thanks to tightrope timing, Bolan himself was not challenged once during the hundred yards or so of his walk from die parked car to the casino entrance. Just outside the door stood a congregation of uniformed cops. Bolan passed right through them and received his first challenge inside, by two gracious men in formal wear. It was a routine thing, the showing of passports to gain admittance.

  Bolan was prepared for this, also. He opened his coat wide to get to the wallet, allowing his sideleather and hardware to come into plain view, then flashed the folder rapidly past their eyes, which were already distracted by the sidearm display, and said, “Police.”

  He was passed right through and not even required to pay the five franc entrance fee.

  Inside the big gaming room was business as usual. Bolan found the spot where his latest target had gone down. The window across the way had already been replaced and the mess at the telephone desk cleaned up. A small throw-rug now covered the carpeting on the spot where Hebert had stood—to conceal the bloodstains, Bolan surmised. He casually made an inside inspection of the angle for that hit and realized that it had been a mighty tight one. Six inches one way or the other and it would have been impossible. Something seemed to be on his side.

  He kept moving, pausing here and there to drop a few francs at a roulette table or card game, trusting his instincts to spot the plainclothes cops and to keep his distance from them. At a little after seven o’clock he went back through the lobby and into the admission-free room of slot machines. Here the traffic was thicker and the clientele more casually dressed. He pushed through snatches of conversations in a myriad of languages, found an open machine, and began unhurriedly feeding it.

  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 nigger, 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 lie’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.

  16: And Then There Were None

  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?”

  Bolan said, “You want it?”

  “Yeah, Lavagni won’t let me pack.” He chuckled. “Thinks I’m a greenhorn, I guess.”

  Bolan laughed lightly and slipped the .32 out of the sideleather and into Brown’s big hand. “There’s a live one right under the hammer,” he warned. “Six rounds are all you’ve got, Lieutenant.”

  “I can remember a time when we had less than that between us.”

  Bolan’s voice came back softly solemn. “You’ve joined a loser, you know. These guys are never going to forget this. Or forgive it.”

  “I was born losing, man. Don’t worry ’bout me. These guys ain’t never going to know what side I was on here.”

  “You know how I feel, Lieutenant.”

  “Sure. Don’t mention it.” He chuckled. “What’s a hundred grand mean to the soul? Can’t take it with you, man. Can’t even buy you no new feet.”

  “You’re walking great,” Bolan told him.

  “Sure, I can even run. But not with a football, I mean not straight at the monster men. All the money in the world can’t buy that back.” He sighed. “Guess that’s all I ever really wanted. Can’t buy it now, man.”

  “You been making a good living?” Bolan inquired. The pier was in sight now, and he was beginning to tense-up inside.

  “Naw, I been stealing one. Rehab center found out I was a natural for figures, made me a bookkeeper. Desk job, you know. I juggle books for Lavagni, the numbers game.”

  Bolan said, “No kidding.” They were on the pier and moving swiftly along. The main group to the rear was holding at the entrance, two or three drifting on in casual pursuit.

  “Yeah, no kidding. Most of what I picked up at Cal was football, you know. I mean, face it, I majored in football, man. Then I majored in war. Then I majored in disability, and then crime. Yeah. Wils Brown was born at zero and has been steadily descending ever since.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Yeah I’m saying that. You know I guess what I dig about you, man, is your guts. You know you’ve got a weird combination there, Sarge—tough guts and warm heart. Most cats don’t know how to carry both.”

  “It seems that you do,” Bolan murmured.

  The Negro laughed. The .32 was all but hidden in the big hand. He said, “Well maybe you made me look at myself again, Sarge. You did it once before, in ’Nam—remember? Hey you better get set. There’s a drop to your left, the sailboat. Watch that cat standing down in the cabin. The big boat ahead, with all the lights, that’s where we’re headed. The Viviane.” He chuckled tightly. “That’s French for last chance to live. You better make it work.”

  They had slowed their pace. Bolan asked, “Where do they make their move?”

  “About twenty steps ahead. There’s suddenly gonna be about ten guys standing there, then there’s gonna be ’bout ten right behind you, and you’re suddenly gonna be in a crowd.”

  “This is another Dak Tung,” Bolan snapped.

  “That’s what it is.”

  Bolan muttered, “Thanks, Lieutenant,” and threw a sudden lunging block into the big guy, sending him crashing through the railing and into the water. The same motion carried Bolan onto the stern of a glistening pleasure cruiser. Thirty feet or so ahead, at the bow of the same boat, a group of men who had been in the process of moving onto the pier were now frozen and staring toward Bolan in obvious confusion over the surprise move.

  Bolan’s pistolet wiped away the confusion in a chattering message that sent men sprawling about the pier and the deck of the boat as he charged the group, firing on the run. Answering fire came from behind him as he leapt back onto the pier, projectiles thwacking into the side of the boat and chewing up wood about his feet. A searchlight came on back there and lasted through one squeeze of the Executioner’s trigger finger.

  An excited voice was commanding, “Wing ’im, dammit just wing ’im, aim for the legs!”

  Fire was coming in from all sides now. Bolan took a grazing hit on the left arm and another furrowed his thigh. He went down and pulled himself behind a mooring spool, jammed a fresh clip into the machine-pistol, and sent a searching pattern of fire toward the rear and the voice of command which was still demanding that Bolan be taken alive.

  His search scored and the voice ended in mid-screech, and another one reported, “Goddammit, he got Tony!”

  The same voice then cried out, “Hold your fire, hold it! Everybody back here, ’cept you boys on the Viviane! Wait ’im out, I think he’s hit!”

  Bolan was not waiting for anybody. Alread
y he was wriggling along the pier, keeping to the shadows of the big yacht, Viviane, listening to the rustlings and scurrying sounds of the enemy regrouping into their holding position.

  Another searchlight came on from a boat downrange and began sweeping the area Bolan had just vacated.

  At the far end of the pier another movement was beginning, as police began hurrying toward the sounds of warfare.

  Someone behind him announced, “Cops are coming! How much longer can we wait, Sammy?”

  Bolan had reached a point where the main deck of the yacht was level with the pier. To this moment, the firefight was barely a minute old. He could not give them time to regroup their senses, as well. He rolled swiftly onto the deck of the yacht, fell lightly into a deeper shadow, and pulled himself up in a test of the wounded leg. It held him okay, but the blood was oozing out and soaking his pantsleg. The arm wound burned like hell but was apparently bleeding very little and already clotting. He pressed the fabric of his clothing into it to help the process and moved quietly along the shadows of the deck.

  Brown had said five guns aboard the yacht. If he could catch them bunched up, he just might …

  Only the cabin lights were on now. Someone was cranking the engine. It caught, and rumbled into a soft purr. A voice from somewhere up above called out, “Hold it, just hold it, don’t get nervous.”

  Bolan moved quietly to the outboard side and found himself peering through an open cabin window onto a handsome couple, a smooth-looking man of about fifty, a beautiful platinum blonde woman of maybe forty, both of them cringing low in the pilot chairs. The pistolet muzzle edged into the opening and Bolan softly commanded, “Do not make one sound.”

  The man’s hands went up and he declared in a quavering whisper, “M’sieur, I am not armed.”

  The woman’s eyes were haunted holes of terror. Her lips were forming words that would not come, and Bolan was hating these lousy wars more than ever.