Killing Game

A thin, well-worn carpet ran down the middle of the stairs, leaving a foot or so of exposed wood on either side of each step. Bolan stayed on the carpet, both pistols in front of him, ready to send a .44 Magnum RBCD total-fragmentation round or a 3-round burst of the same “exploding” bullets in 9 mm, up the stairwell. The carpet muffled the sounds of his hiking shoes. But the ancient wood still creaked with every step.

Bolan knew there were more CLODO terrorists upstairs, and they knew he was on the way.

Just before he reached the top step, the Executioner stopped and dropped to his knees, leaning forward to peer around yet another corner. He could see roughly half of the room, and it looked like it had been set up as a young boy’s bedroom by the previous owners. Posters of rock bands and rap groups covered the walls, European, American and Japanese. He could also see two half doors against the far wall that reached from the floor to the point where the ceiling sloped downward.

Closets, the Executioner realized, with latch locks to keep the doors closed.

But although the doors were both closed, the latches hung straight down, unlocked. It didn’t take a genius to assume that if there were terrorists on this floor of the house, they’d be inside the closets.

The Executioner straightened and took the last step to the landing just outside the top bedroom. He peered around the last corner, surveying the other half of the room. It appeared devoid of human beings, but the front wall of the room contained one more of the odd, slanting closets

Bolan stepped into the room. The floor was bare wood, and he took advantage of the soft rubber soles of his hiking shoes to make the least amount of noise possible as he moved to the closet to his right. A large window looked out over the backyard next to the unlatched door, and he glanced that way for a second.

The light had been on in the upstairs bedroom when he’d arrived, adding to his suspicions that the room was occupied. That meant that his vision out of the window into the backyard was limited, while anyone behind the house could see him clearly.

But no one fired at him, which told the Executioner that Platinov had taken out any of the terrorists who might have been in the backyard.

Holstering the Desert Eagle, Bolan transferred the Beretta 93-R to his right hand and stepped just to the side of the closet door. The way the roof angled downward, he was forced to stoop slightly and bend his knees. From this uncomfortable, semibalanced position, he reached out with his left hand, grasped the door latch and swung the door open.

A second after that, a hailstorm of gunfire blew out of the opening just to his side. Bolan waited for the blasts to die down. Then, during the lightning-fast millisecond when the shooters wondered why they saw no dead body in front of them, he curved his arm around the corner into the short closet, blindly spraying four 3-round bursts up, down and to both sides.

With only four rounds left in the Beretta, Bolan dropped the magazine and inserted a fresh 15-round box. Inside the closet, he could hear a soft moaning and the deep intakes of breath. He kept the Beretta close to his shoulder as, still stooped, he leaned around the doorway and angled the pistol inside the tiny room.

Lying on the floor were four CLODO terrorists. Three wore the tan shirts and brown trousers that the group used for identification purposes. The fourth was dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt that bore the likeness of the American comedian Jerry Lewis.

Two of the men, both wearing these unofficial CLODO uniforms, lay on the floor, obviously dead. They were as still as rocks, having taken the frangible 9 mm rounds in their heads. The third man in brown and tan lay across them. It was he who was doing the moaning as he clutched his lower abdomen with both hands.

A 3-round burst into the man mercifully ended his moaning.

Shotguns, pistols and rifles were scattered across the floor and on top of the bodies.

Bolan knew that the men in the other two closets had to have heard the gunfire. So as he backed out of the room, trading the Beretta in his right hand for the Desert Eagle. This time, he moved in front of the door of the second closet but fired an entire magazine of Magnum rounds through the splintery wood before reloading and holstering the big .44, all the while keeping the door covered by the Beretta.

The wood of the door was now splintered and warped, so rather than open it, the Executioner lifted a foot and kicked. Sharp pieces of wood flew into the closet ahead of him as the door disintegrated. Forced to bend his knees and stoop again, Bolan stepped forward and surveyed the contents of the closet. Only two of the terrorists had chosen this tiny room in which to take refuge, and both lay dead on the ground.

There was no reason to waste any more time, or ammo, here.

The Executioner turned toward the third closet, which was set into the wall facing the front of the house. He still hadn’t checked under the bed but now he saw an arm reach out from beneath the bedspread holding a 9 mm SiG-Sauer.

Bolan aimed at the weapon and shot it out of the hand holding it. The gunner beneath the bed screamed in pain and jerked his arm back beneath the bed. The soldier dropped to the floor, facing the bed. Beneath the box spring, he could see the man with the bloody hand as well as two more of the CLODO terrorists. He wasn’t surprised.

But having their attacker drop down into firing range shocked the men under the bed, which caused them to hesitate.

And hesitation cost them their lives.

Bolan peppered the underside of the bed with 3-round bursts as the men tried to bring their weapons into target acquisition. It was a losing battle for them, and a second later they, too, lay dead in an ever-spreading pool of mixed blood.

The only place left that could have hidden a CLODO man was the final closet. The Executioner bounded back to his feet and squinted at the door. Its latch was down, too.

The roof in the front wall of the house was higher, so this door and closet were not as slanted as the other two had been. The Executioner moved swiftly now, speed having taken precedence over stealth.

This time, he didn’t have to open the door himself. It flew forward on its own, and a terrorist stepped out, aiming a 12-gauge Remington autoloading shotgun at the Executioner.

Bolan dived to the floor, as a heavy load of buckshot sailed over his head, missing him by millimeters. He twisted on the slick hardwood floor, then slid to the foot of the bed and turned onto his shoulder, the Desert Eagle aimed upward.

A moment later, two .44 Magnum rounds had destroyed the intestines and heart of the man with the Remington. He fell backward as the Executioner sprang to his feet again, ready to take out the next terrorist who came out of the closet.

But there were no more.

As the roar of the gunfire faded and the smell of cordite settled into his nostrils, Bolan heard footsteps on the stairs just outside the bedroom. A moment later, they stopped and a heavily Russian-accented voice said, “Don’t shoot, Cooper. It’s me.” Without waiting for an answer, Marynka Platinov stepped into the room. She had discarded the jacket that, along with the matching skirt, formed her suit. Both of her Colt Gold Cup pistols hung at the end of her arms, aimed at the floor.

The enormous Smith & Wesson 500 was tucked into her waistband along with her third .45.

The Russian quickly took in the dead men in the room, then turned to the Executioner. “You leave a trail of bodies that make finding you as easy as following bread crumbs,” she said, referring to the old fairy tale.

“Yeah,” Bolan said. “But how could you be sure it was me still alive up here?” Bolan asked her.

Platinov chuckled. “I have worked with you several times now, Cooper,” she said, “and you always seem to come out on top.”

Before Bolan could reply, the sound of distant but rapidly approaching police sirens broke the stillness on the top floor of the split-level house.

“We’d better search these guys for leads, and do it fast,” the Executioner said.

“Yes,” Platinov agreed.

The Executioner dropped to his knees and began going through the pockets of the last CLODO man he had killed. He pulled a wallet and a key ring out as he said, “How’d you like the 500 Magnum?”

Platinov tapped the Pachmayer grip covering the butt of the colossal revolver, which still stuck up out of the waistband of her skirt. “I’m keeping it,” she said. “You’ll have to get another one.” Then she sank to her knees and began helping Bolan with the search.

THE NISSAN PASSED several approaching police vehicles as Bolan and Platinov made a slow-speed, nondescript getaway from the split-level safe house. Just as they’d done before, they had hurriedly gathered all items of interest from the men’s pockets into a pair of sturdy canvas equipment bags and pulled away from the curb only seconds before the first flashing lights had appeared.

The French police would be operating off of the vague information given to them by their dispatcher, which would have originated from the telephone call of one of the neighbors. At this point, it would be thought of no differently than any of a half-dozen “disturbance” calls that they’d probably already worked that evening.

So as Bolan and Platinov looked at the two gendarmes, and the gendarmes returned the look as the vehicles passed each other, no one was stopped, questioned, or searched. Instead, all four heads within the vehicles nodded polite “hellos.”

The two drove on in silence as they headed back toward their hotel to go over the contents in the bags. Something had been bothering the Executioner ever since the first gunfight at the other house, and that concern had grown while they’d filled the bags with possible evidence. Now, as he turned onto Rue de La Foyette, what was bothering his unconscious finally surfaced in his mind.

It was not anything that he and Marynka Platinov had found at the two CLODO safe houses that bothered him. It was what they hadn’t found.

Platinov had evidently been thinking along the same lines because as they neared the hotel, she said, “Correct me if I am wrong, but the last time CLODO did anything big—I mean really big—was when they bombed the Phillips Data Plant way back in the 1980s, right?”

“Right,” Bolan said, pulling the Nissan into the hotel’s parking lot.

“And since Rouillan revived them a year or so ago, everything they have done has involved explosives of one kind or another. Correct?”

Bolan could tell she was headed in the same direction he’d been thinking. “Or guns,” the Executioner said. “Bombings and random machine-gunnings at train stations and other public places are pretty much their trademark.”

“Then why haven’t we found any bomb-making supplies at either of the safe houses we’ve hit?” Platinov asked bluntly. “Or weapons? Oh, we’ve found these men’s personal weapons. But we haven’t found either stores of arms and ammunition or the ingredients it takes to make bombs.”

Bolan nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “All we’ve come across are personal arms. The biggest and ‘baddest’ thing so far was that lone Browning on the second level back there.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Where are they storing their other rifles, hoarded ammunition, and everything else along that line if not at the safe houses? If CLODO’s really back in business, and going to war with the computer companies and everyone who uses computers, what are they planning to destroy everything with? Sledgehammers?”

The last suggestion had been meant to be sarcastic and Platinov took it as such. “That is bothering me, too,” she said. “Do you believe it is likely that their other weapons and explosive materials are hidden at some other location we haven’t come across yet?”

“That’s one possibility.”

For a moment, silence reigned over the Nissan again. Bolan parked the car, they got out, and he opened one of the rear doors. Then Platinov said, “Your tone of voice indicated that you believe there are other possibilities.” She opened the back door on her side of the vehicle.

“There are,” Bolan answered as they each pulled out one of the canvas bags and started toward the main entrance of the hotel. “But let me mull them around a little longer before I tell you about them,” he said. “I’m not all that straight with it myself, yet.”

Platinov had slipped back into her suit jacket to cover her double shoulder rig and now she shrugged. “Okay.”

Bolan shook his head at the bellmen when they hurried down the steps to help them with their bags. A moment later, Bolan and Platinov were picking up their key at the front desk, then boarding the elevator toward the third floor.

Once in the room, Bolan took a look at his watch. It was nearly 0200 hours in Paris, which would mean it was around 9:00 p.m. back home in the eastern States. Pulling his satellite phone from the inside pocket of his jacket, Bolan dialed the number to the Farm.

Barbara Price, mission controller at Stony Man Farm, answered. “Hello, Striker,” she said, using his mission code name. “What do you need?”

“Nothing at the moment.” He gave her a quick rundown of what had happened since their last conversation, then said, “I’ll probably be calling you back with more after we go through these bags.” He glanced at the two canvas bags that contained all of the evidence they’d taken from the safe house. “In the meantime, pass what I’ve just told you on to the Bear and see if he can make use of any of the information. He not only speaks, he thinks in computerese, so he may come up with some way to use some of this intel that would never cross the rest of our minds.”

“Will do, Striker,” Price said. “May I assume that you’re still working with Agent Platinov?”

There had been no trace of jealousy in Price’s voice. And no one who had heard the question would even notice that a tiny amount of resentment had even been in the question. But Bolan knew Barbara Price better than anyone else in the world, and he had picked up on it.

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.

They were ready. A moment later they were out of the door.

And a moment after that, they were on their way to Chartres.

CHAPTER FOUR

It was just as the Executioner had feared it would be as he guided the Nissan down Chartre’s main street. As he and Platinov passed, everyone on both sides of the street looked up to take note of them.

They were strangers. And just as it was in small towns all over the world, strangers were duly noted by the locals, which meant that he and Platinov stood out.

Mentally, Bolan shrugged. There was no sense worrying about it because there was nothing he could do to change that fact. All he could hope for was that they could pass themselves off as tourists. The problem with that was the majority of such visitors arrived on tour buses or by train. Driving a car put them in a whole new minority of what was already a minority.

Bolan lifted his satellite phone from his lap and tapped in the number to Stony Man Farm. When Barbara Price answered with, “Yes, Striker?” he said simply, “Put the Bear on.”

A moment later, the call had been transferred to Aaron Kurtzman in the Computer Room. “What can I do for you, big guy?” the computer wizard asked.

“You can hack your way into the French police files,” Bolan said. “I need anything you can get on Achille LeForce from Chartres.”

“Easy enough,” Kurtzman said. “Hang on. I’ll put you on the speakerphone while I search.”

A moment later, Bolan heard a click. Then the tapping of fingertips on a computer keyboard. Thirty seconds later, Kurtzman was back. “Found him,” he said.

“Never dreamed you wouldn’t.”

“Achille LeForce,” Kurtzman said. “Five feet ten inches tall, two hundred and forty pounds. Brown curly hair, and a scar on the left side of his forehead. Quick summary—small-time criminal. Arrests for burglary, drug dealing, firearms and parole violations. Never served more than three months on any of them.” The wheelchair-bound computer genius paused to take a breath. “But the part that’ll interest you is his known associates. Any idea who tops the list?”

“Pierre Rouillan.”

“Well, if you smoked cigars I’d buy you an Arturo Fuente Gran Reserva,” Kurtzman said.

Bolan chuckled. “Give it to Hal,” he said, referring to Stony Man Farm’s director, who usually had a stubble of cigar in his mouth.