The vehicles came to a halt just below Bolan's position. A car door opened, feet moved on the sidewalk, then both pairs of lights winked out. A nasal voice called, 'Depechez-vous!'
Yeah, Bolan thought, hurry up and die.
Distorted shapes wavering in the gloom, car-doors in motion, a quiet murmur of voices — this was the area of perception. Bolan moved softly toward the entrance to the house. A lone figure approached, nothing more than a shapeless suggestion of mass. Bolan stepped beside him and caught him behind the ear with the butt of the gun, then grabbed the falling body and assured it a soft and soundless descent to the ground.
Three more blobs moving toward him... yeah, here was paydirt — the middle blob sort of bent and sagging and being dragged along by the other two. The .32 whispered two coughing little words, the two outside blobs fell away and the inside one tumbled toward Bolan. He caught it, hissing, 'Quiet, quiet,' and got an arm around it and guided it up the sidewalk toward Rue St. Jacques.
Behind them a troubled voice called out, 'Armand? Henri?'
Bolan kept moving, trying to get as much distance as possible before the light dawned back there. He saw the headlamps of the lead car flash back on and heard the sounds of aroused voices. The man beside him was breathing raggedly and trying to tell him something in a pained monotone. But there was no time for sidewalk conferences. Running feet were pursuing them up the sidewalk and the vehicle was moving forward again.
Bolan pushed his burden against the wall of a building and shoved him down into a seated position, then dropped to one knee and swivelled to the attack. Immediately the running feet became an identifiable figure bearing down on him. He squeezed off another quiet phut and the running figure pitched forward and became a sliding mass.
The .32 angled up and over, Bolan sighting in an imaginary target just above the dull glow of an automobile headlamp, and he sent three quick rounds into there in a right-to-left scan. The crashing of window glass and a sudden veering of the headlamps announced his success; the vehicle headed off on an erratic course, crossing the street to the other side and moments later smashing into an immovable object.
A man's voice was yelling something in a mixture of French and Italian, then the same voice rose in hysteria and was screaming for help. A sudden flash of light hinted at the fire over there, and then an explosion settled all doubts. Confusion and running about and excited voices down near the maison de joie; screams and hot flames piercing the fog at the far side of the street; female voices pitched high in excitement and floating down from Madame Celeste's balconies — to this backdrop, Bolan took time to thumb in two fresh rounds of ammo, then he reclaimed his charge and hustled him along the street as fast as he could move him.
They reached Rue St. Jacques as Rue Galande began bursting with curious life and all traffic seemed to be heading counter to Bolan's progress. He paused at the corner and allowed Martin to get his breath. Back there were leaping flames and excited people crowding about like wraiths in the weird glow. If there was a pursuit, Bolan could not see it — but then, he could not see much of anything. He asked Gil Martin, 'Are you okay?'
'No,' Martin groaned. 'They... fiends. Fingers broken... and kicked, kicked, ribs burn.'
'We have to keep going,' Bolan told him. 'Can you make it?'
'Yes. Anything. Th-thank God. Yes, go.'
They went, moving quietly and surely along Rue St. Jacques and onto Boulevard St. Michel, Bolan beginning to develop an entirely new feeling about the quality of one Gil Martin. They paused again there, at the Boulevard, Bolan trying to orient himself as to present location and desired goals. A name that sounded like an American whiskey flashed into his mind and the inviting declaration re-whispered, 'I usually stay at the Pension de St. Germain.'
Bolan did not know the place but he knew the street and vaguely recalled the area of Boulevard St. Germain where budget hotels were prominent. For a guy in good shape it was within walking distance, but for his hurting companion... He guided Martin toward the metro station. If he remembered correctly, Metro Odeon would put him somewhere in the ballpark and he could find it from there.
As they approached the station, Martin gasped, 'Why are we... running? Let's... find a cop.'
Bolan replied, 'We can't do that.'
'Why not?'
'All right, change that to read I can't do that. Do you want me to leave you here, or do you want to go on my way?'
They had reached the entrance to the metro station, and in that light Bolan got his first good look at the kidnap victim. Martin's arms were folded across his stomach, crossed at the wrists so that the fingers could find support upon the forearms. His face was welted and lumped, one eye closed completely, the upper lip puffed and bloodcaked. Beneath the coat and inside the shirt, Bolan knew, would be found more horrors. The mob did not take kindly to the adventures of Mack Bolan. His voice was softly sympathetic as he asked Martin, 'Well? Are you with me?'
The actor was staring at his benefactor with quiet gratitude. In his one good eye was a light of revelation as recognition flared there. He nodded and said, 'I'm with you, Bolan.'
Bolan smiled and helped him down the steps. If things should work out, the actor would be with someone else very shortly and a brassy-talking airline stewardess would have her chance to put up or shut up. And maybe she'd get herself a bonus layover, after all. But not Bolan. The Executioner was even then mentally committing himself to a hellish layover. He felt an attack of Mafia Fever coming on, an infection to which the sharpshooting sniper from Vietnam was most susceptible.
There were but two cures for it.
Death, or Mafia blood.
Bolan was ready for either.
6
Dimensions of Death
Bolan pushed the door full open and planted his burden in the doorway. 'We need a bed, and quick,' he told the startled girl.
She fell back into the room with a stifled yelp and allowed Bolan to maneuver the injured man to the bed.
The girl wore a terry cloth mini-sarong which didn't quite make it over jutting breasts and bottomed-out just below the hips. A small bath towel was wrapped about her head in a neat turban. She looked pink and shiny- scrubbed and a hell of a lot prettier than the airline uniform had made her. She fussed about with the pillow and guided Martin's head to it, then she turned to Bolan with a sick look and said, 'Don't tell me he got that way hurrying here to keep a date you neglected to confirm.'
Bolan muttered, 'You still have it all wrong.'
Her mood was visibly shifting from startled concern to one of marked hostility. 'Oh no,' she told him, 'I have it all right. You're Johnny Charming sans face wig, and this poor slob has taken one too many dives for you. How does it work, Mr. Martin? You take the women and he takes on the infuriated boyfriends?'
Bolan read it that she had been smarting under her own overplay on the plane, and was now letting him know that the game had changed. He pressed Martin's passport into her hand and said, 'I tried to tell you that you had it wrong.' He turned back to the bed and left her staring at the passport photo. He asked Martin, 'How is it?'
'I'll live.'
Bolan wished to make sure. He carefully opened the shirt and peeled up the undershirt with gentle hands. The guy's chest was one big blue-blotchy mess, with angry red bloodblisters spaced about. 'They did this with their feet?' Bolan inquired. He was tenderly probing the ribs with sensitive fingers.
Martin grimaced and replied, 'Yeah. The belly, too.'
'Must've had steel caps on the shoes.' Bolan opened the waist of the trousers and bared the lower torso, took one quick look, then shook his head and stood up. 'You'll have to have a doctor,' he told the actor.
'I'm for that. My hands... God, my hands.'
Nancy Walker bustled in with a wet towel and began carefully dabbing at his face. She told Bolan, 'Don't
