Killing Game. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ minutes later, the laptop beeped and a mechanized voice said, “You have mail.”

      Bolan tapped the appropriate keys to open the e-mail from Aaron the “Bear” Kurtzman, Stony Man Farm’s computer wizard.

      When he had read the message, the soldier said, “We’ve got a hit. It leads to another safe house address.” He grabbed a large canvas-and-leather portfolio, which looked little different than a shoulder-carried bag any tourist or French businessman might have. Quickly, he unzipped it and pulled out a long, triangular-shaped canvas case with a zipper that ran three-fourths of the way around.

      “What is that?” Platinov asked as he dropped the case into his shoulder bag and turned back to her.

      “I could tell you—” he said as they started toward the door again.

      “But then you’d have to kill me,” Platinov finished the tired, overused cliché as she rolled her eyes.

      The Executioner chuckled as he led the way down the hall to the elevators, then pressed the down button.

      A minute later, he and Platinov were striding out of the lobby of the hotel and back to the Nissan.

      CHAPTER TWO

      Bolan kept the Nissan just under the speed limit as he and Platinov made their way toward the next safe house. He had just checked in with Stony Man and learned that what had begun as mere rumors that CLODO was working up toward some kind of large-scale terrorist attack had now been confirmed by two independent CIA informants. And while Bolan wasn’t, and never had been, employed by the CIA—or any other government agency for that matter—he did retain an “arm’s length” relationship with Stony Man Farm. And Aaron Kurtzman, the wheelchair-bound computer genius at the Farm, regularly hacked through all of the Central Intelligence Agency’s security safeguards to obtain the intelligence information the “spooks’” field agents collected.

      Word in the terrorism underground was that CLODO was building up to something big. Something, according to one of the CIA snitches, that would reputedly make the attacks on September 11, 2001 seem like a Fourth of July fireworks display by comparison.

      Bolan knew it was true. He could feel it in his gut. Though not rigged for war, he had adequate weapons for the hit. In addition to his pistols, he had brought along his TOPS SAW knife, which was sheathed at the small of his back. Platinov had slid into the double horizontal shoulder rig that bore her twin Colt Gold Cup .45 pistols. Inside her skirt, she had the other 1911 Colt .45, and several spare mags that would fit any of the three pistols.

      After crossing the Seine and traveling some distance, they arrived at a residential area of the city. While there were still lights on in a few of the house windows, the streets were devoid of pedestrians.

      Bolan turned onto the Rue de Jeanette as Platinov pulled a small flashlight from her purse and unfolded a map of the city. Frowning in the semidarkness, she asked, “Can you see any of the house numbers?”

      Bolan nodded. “There’s 1112,” he said. The Nissan continued to roll past the next house. “We’re at 1116.”

      Platinov nodded back. “Good,” she said. “We’re going the right way. It should be about three blocks farther down on the left.” She cleared her throat. “Don’t you think it’s about time you told me the game plan?” She glanced over her shoulder at the Executioner’s bag, where the mysterious canvas case was hidden.

      Bolan nodded. “Yeah.” He indicated the back of the vehicle with a twist of his neck, then said, “Grab the case I stuck in there.”

      Platinov twisted between the seats and pulled the triangular object out of the Executioner’s bag.

      “Unzip it,” Bolan said as he slowed, then stopped at a stop sign.

      The sound the zipper made was loud inside the vehicle, which added to the rising tension as they inched their way down the dark and lonely Parisian street. When Platinov pulled the top cover back to reveal a giant revolver with a scope mounted on top of it, she burst out with, “Are we expecting these CLODOs to be elephants?”

      The Executioner chuckled. “No. But by now, word of what we did at the other safe house will have reached this place. They’ll be on their guard, so the element of surprise is already lost to us. I think we should take out as many of them as possible from long range.”

      “Well, this should do it,” Platinov said. “What is it? I’ve never seen one before.”

      The former Olympic track and field star might never have seen that particular model of Smith & Wesson wheel gun, but she’d seen enough S&Ws to know how they operated. Pushing the latch on the side of the weapon with her thumb, she swung the cylinder away from the mammoth frame.

      “It’s a 500 Smith and Wesson Magnum,” the Executioner said. “Meaning .50-caliber on Smith’s new X-frame.”

      “It’s big, all right,” Platinov said. “But it holds only five rounds.”

      Bolan drove on through the intersection as he said, “Imagine how big it would have to be to hold six.”

      “Point taken,” Platinov agreed. “What you have here is a rifle disguised as a pistol.”

      “Exactly,” Bolan agreed as he cruised slowly past the next block. “It was created for long-range silhouette shooting and big game hunting. But it’s easier to carry and conceal than a sniper rifle, and for what we’re about to do it should be more than accurate enough.”

      Platinov agreed. “We don’t need the pinpoint accuracy of a true sniper rifle from across the street,” she said, nodding. “How long is this barrel?”

      “Eight inches,” Bolan said. “But the last inch, you’ll notice, is actually a recoil compensator.”

      “I expect it still has quite a kick,” the Russian agent said, turning the weapon around in her hand to stare at the compensator holes.

      “Well, I think you’ll know you’ve fired something. There’s factory ammo on the market with bullets up to 500 grains. But since we’re after men instead of dinosaurs, I’ve got it loaded down with 325-grain hollowpoints.”

      “I suspect I’ll still feel quite a jolt,” Platinov said.

      Bolan laughed. “It doesn’t scare you, does it, Plat?”

      Platinov looked up from the gun, a quick trace of anger on her face. “Of course not,” she said.

      One of the many things the Executioner had learned about the beautiful Russian woman over the years was that she couldn’t stand her courage, or dedication to an assignment, being questioned. Another was that while her days of Olympic stardom might have ended, she had retained the same competitive mind-set that had won her the gold medals.

      Bolan stared ahead but watched Platinov out of the corner of his eye. Almost as quickly as the grimace of anger had appeared, he saw it disappear, leaving her face deadpan. “No, it doesn’t scare me,” she said again in a voice that betrayed only a slight degree of irritation. “Have you shot it yet?”

      The Executioner nodded.

      Platinov’s smile was as plastic as a smile could СКАЧАТЬ