Continental Contract te-5

by Don Pendleton

  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.

  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. Already 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.

  He had recognized the man instantly, from a photograph on his battle order. He said, "Okay, Vicareau, who else is aboard?"

  "Four men, M'sieur." The man's eyes rolled toward the overhead. "Upon the flying bridge, all of them."

  "Okay, tell the lady to relax," Bolan whispered. "Maybe you've bought yourself something. Get this thing moving, high gear."

  "Impossible," the man hissed. "The mooring lines, M'sieur."

  "Never mind that. Just throw the power to it, all you've got."

  The man swallowed hard and his hand moved to a control. Seconds later the deck was quivering beneath Bolan's feet and the entire craft was vibrating in the strain to free itself from confinement.

  A muttered curse drifted down from above and the sound of moving feet directly overhead sent Bolan spinning into the open. The four guns were crowding the rail of the flying bridge in an attempt to determine what was happening below. They saw Bolan at about the same instant, but he was readier, and he zipped them in a blazing criss-cross and they went down like wheat before a scythe.

  Bolan allowed the pistolet to hang free and grabbed a fire-axe from the cabin bulkhead and moved swiftly to the bow. A voice down the pier was yelling hoarsely as he hacked the line free. The bow immediately swung outboard and another hail of fire came in as Bolan hurried along the shadows toward the stern.

  There was a mixture of gunfire now, from far back; Bolan supposed that someone had opened fire on the police, and now a full scale battle was raging back there. He chanced a run to the open stern and delivered a smashing chop to the tautly quivering line. It parted halfway through, twanged into a rapid unravelling, and then gave altogether with a loud pop — and the Viviane was loose and surging away from the pier.

  Two men ran into the open on the pier, blazing away at Bolan in a rapid discharge of weapons. His pistolet swung up from his side in a quick retort, the two went down, and Bolan dragged himself back along the deck toward the cabin, his thigh gushing blood again and the arm burning from the exertion with the axe.

  Viviane was about fifty yards clear now and throttling back for better control into the channel, and up ahead two fast police cruisers with searchlights were whizzing toward the fleeing yacht, with a rapid interception already a foregone conclusion.

  Then like out of a pleasant dream Bolan heard the hot-honey voice of Cici Carceaux calling, "Stand-een, stand-een!"

  She was pulling alongside in the sleek little cruiser which Bolan had last seen snuggled into the boat dock at the Cannes villa. As naturally as though he had been rehearsing the scene for years, Bolan climbed the rail and dropped into the cockpit of the cruiser. She went on around in a wide, power-off circle, swinging close to the pier as the yacht charged on into the channel — and as she idled about, Bolan noticed a floating figure in the water not ten feet away, a dark face turned toward the sky and white teeth gleaming in the moonlight in the most tranquil expression Bolan had ever observed on that big beautiful black face.

  He touched Cici in a holding signal and leaned over the gun'l to hiss, "Lieutenant — come on aboard!"

  "Go on, man," came the quiet reply. "Don't go messin' me up now."

  Bolan gave him a grin and a restrained wave, and Cici notched the powerful engine into a quietly murmuring advance. She hadn't been kidding; she knew the area like the back of her 'and, evidenced by a skillful navigation in and around and through the orderly rows of anchored craft — and when they reached open sea they were
quite alone and unpursued and roaring free.

  Bolan took the wheel then and Cici took over with the first-aid kit. "Oh-kay, drop the pants, stand-in," she commanded.

  "Hell, I thought you'd never ask," he told her.

  * * *

  It was nearing nine o'clock when they reached the sheltered cove between Nice and Cannes. Bolan's wounds were clean and bound up and adjudged negligible, and Cici had also cleared up a couple of points which were bothering Bolan's mind.

  The police, she explained, had been at the villa since shortly after Bolan's departure and had remained until just past Bolan's telephone call from Monaco. They had connected her with Bolan because of the message she had left for Gil Martin at the hotel in Paris, and had strongly suspected a continuing association due to her abrupt departure from that same hotel — and at about the same time as the police close-in there. They had quit the stake-out, with apologies, and presumably gone on to Monaco to bolster the forces there.

  Her eyes dancing with the excitement of the adventure, she added, "They should 'ave known bettair, no? To leave Cici flee to dart to the scene in 'er cruisaire and loosen the jaws of this trap?"

  Bolan found himself entirely reluctant to question her further, but he did ask her about the message-failure regarding the requested cease-fire.

  "But it did not come ovaire," she explained, "until the vairy moment that you 'ang up the telephone."

  Bolan left things right there and they huddled together in a silent run for the balance of the trip. They tied up the boat and went arm-in-arm up the stone steps, Cici crutching him a bit as he favored the injured leg.

  Then went into the villa and she undressed him as he stared grimly at a French television play. Then she rechecked both wounds, cleaned them again and applied fresh dressings, and tried to put him to bed.

  He dropped into a chair instead and told her, "Hell I'm not through. If something doesn't come across that tube for me pretty soon I'm going back out."

  Cici clucked furiously and threw a blanket over his chair, then went into the kitchen to prepare "a queeck peeek-you-up."