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.'
Bolan grinned and left the chair momentarily to retrieve his machine-pistol, inserted his final clip of ammo, sat back down with the weapon in his lap, pulled the blanket over him, and continued his grim watch at the TV set.
A few minutes later Cici delivered a tall glass of mixed vegetable juices, with 'jus' a leetle brandy' blended in. It tasted terrible but Bolan dutifully addressed it and had it half gone when the TV play suddenly blanked off the screen and a dramatic voice began an unscheduled announcement.
Bolan caught the words 'L'Executioner' and 'Bo-lawn.' He sat up alertly and snapped, 'What is it, Cici?'
In a hushed voice, she said, 'A moment.'
Then a picture came on, not very good quality and badly-lighted, but one of the nicest pieces of film Bolan had ever viewed. It was an interior scene, probably a police station, and a group of women were emerging from a passageway and entering a large room. Judy Jones was there, and Madame Celeste, and eight other weeping young women — Bolan counting closely. They looked like they'd been to hell and back, he decided, and probably they had, but thank God they were all there and proceeding under their own steam.
Bolan found his own eyes misting over and he quietly commented, 'Oh hell that's great. Where is this, Cici?'
'Marseilles,' she told him. 'The police station near the waterfront, The announceire says an anonymous telephone call directed the police to an eempty ware-'ouse near the 'arbor. And 'e says they are all well and thankful to be free. They are to be 'ospitalized, jus' the same, for obsairvation.' She turned to Bolan with glowing eyes and added, 'This is wondairful, this thing you 'ave done — no mattair 'ow many rats you 'ad to keel to do it.'
The weight of the day was now showing in Bolan's face. With success came also the inevitable letdown, the slowdown of vital juices, the cessation of stubborn determination to push on whatever the price.
Cici went to the TV set and switched it off, then turned to him with compassionate concern. 'You mus' go to bed now,' she told him. 'It is done.'
It was not, however, quite done. As Cici was crossing the room toward Bolan, the front door opened and a wild looking man stepped into the house. He had a big fancied-up luger in his hand and a circular burn on his forehead and he announced triumphantly, 'So I have snared our lion.'
Bolan stared at the man through his weariness, and only vaguely heard Cici's cry of, 'Rudolfi, no!'
Bolan said, 'Get out of here, Cici.' He tossed off the balance of the drink she had made him and threw her the empty glass. 'Fix me another one of those.'
'Yes, a last drink would be most fitting,' Rudolfi agreed. 'Fix him another of those, Cici, but do not make it too large — he will not have time to finish it.' His pleasure obviously knew no bounds as he told Bolan, 'Well, would you not wish to bargain again, M'sieur Executioner? I have sat out there in the darkness awaiting you for many hours, thinking of the many deals we could make. But you sneak in from the sea, eh? I did not consider this — but just as well, the wait makes the banquet sweeter, eh? Tell me, Bolan — what do offer in exchange for your life, eh?'
Tiredly, Bolan said, 'It's okay, Cici, he just wants to talk. Go on and fix me that drink. I mean it, go on.'
Something in his eyes cinched the argument. She went hesitantly to the kitchen door and paused there, glaring at Rudolfi for a moment, then went on through and out of sight.
Bolan told him, 'I got those girls back.'
Nothing could rob Rudolfi of this supreme moment. He was exultant and almost giddy over his victory, in excellent spirits, and seemingly feeling no ill-will toward anyone, least of all Mack Bolan. He all but fawned over him, in fact, as he replied, 'So? Very well. Perhaps this is something we may bargain on, eh?' The cat was teasing the mouse, hugely enjoying the imagined tortures seething through the other mind. 'Would you give me back these prostitutes in exchange for your own life?'
Bolan replied, 'No, I went through too damn much to get 'em out. Think of something else.'
'But no, my friend, it is for you to do the thinking. I will give you until the count of five to think of something. Eh?'
Bolan shifted wearily beneath the blanket. 'I thought you were going to give me a last drink.'
'But of course! Cici! Bring Monsieur Executioner his final refreshment.' Rudolfi laughed and advanced closer, savoring each ticking second of this, his greatest moment. 'The armies of America did not stop you, as I knew they would not. They are street hoodlums, all guns and guts, no mind and no soul.'
'Oh you've got quite a soul,' Bolan said weakly. 'It takes more than guns and guts to send young girls to Africa. Yeah, you're quite a man, Rudolfi.'
The mad eyes blazed in brief anger, then settled back into a happy contemplation of the victim. He was saying, 'Think hard, my friend, before...'
Cici came in with the glass of juice, interrupting the gloating taunt.
Bolan told her, 'I guess I don't want that. Put it down, then pull off my blanket and get out of here. I want Rudolfi to see my wounds. Wouldn't you like that, Rudolfi?'
The underground ambassador to France was smiling delightedly. 'You think I will not shoot a wounded man? What manner of deal is that? What does Rudolfi get from a deal such as this, eh?'
Cici was withdrawing the blanket. Her eyes fell on the machine-pistol in Bolan's hands and in a flash she understood his instructions. She tossed the blanket to the floor and ran lightly toward the door.
Rudolfi was staring at the pistolet as though it were a swaying cobra. Bolan was telling him, in that wearied voice, 'This baby has a dead-man trigger on it, Rudolfi. One little twitch of my body and it starts talking. At 450 rounds a minute, that means you wouldn't catch probably more than twenty or so slugs in the belly. Or you might get zipped if I twitch too much, just a short incision from the crotch to the throat. That's the only deal I'm offering you, Rudolfi. I'm ready when you are. Go ahead.'
Triumph, and exultation, and every sign of living spirit sagged out of the man as he once again
