The girl had fought her way through to the front of the bar, Bolan behind her, and had caught the eye of bartender who was obviously pleased to see her. He ignored the customers in front of him and came over to her. She ordered herself a beer and caught Bolan’s eye. He nodded and handed over the money, then took the bottle, which dripped ice-cold condensation from the cooler.
“Come on,” the girl mouthed, leading him past the stage area, skirting the pit, and toward the rear of the club. At the back, hidden from view by the stage was a soundproofed door guarded by another large black security man. Despite the darkness inside the club, he, too, was wearing wraparound shades.
“Hey, Charlie,” the blonde yelled at him, “let us in?”
A large grin broke his face, although the eyes were still impassive behind the shades. He opened the door as they neared, and the blonde took Bolan through into a long, narrow room. As the soundproofed door closed behind them, the roar of the band was cut to a muffled thud, and the conversation in the back room became a louder hum.
“This is better. At least you can hear yourself think,” Bolan said wryly.
“Yeah, I didn’t have you figured for a headbanger. And there’s no way you would have known about this room without me, is there?” she added coquettishly. “So maybe you should be nice to me.”
“Yeah, why not,” the soldier agreed.
She led him to a table and draped herself over him.
“I know what you think I am, but I’m not. I just like the look of a guy, then I go for it. I figure, if guys can do it, why can’t I? And I like the look of you a lot.” Her voice had slipped from little girl into predator, making Bolan suppress a smile. She continued, in the same tone, “So why don’t you tell me a little about yourself, Matt?”
Bolan began to talk. She hung on his every word, with a sexual hunger in her eyes. He gave her a cover story about being a U.S. journalist doing a feature on the south of France for a possible travel book. He’d spent so many years under-cover in one form or another, having to keep his true identity and history secret, that it was incredibly easy to tell these lies.
It seemed to the girl as though he were pouring out his heart to her, sometimes telling her something that cut so deep that he had to look away. In fact, although in one sense he hated the deceit, he had become so used to covering his tracks that he was able to be consistent with his lies without even thinking about it, and he used the emotional moments where he had to look away to survey the rest of the back room.
It was obvious that this was a private section, for use only by a select clientele. At first glance, he was sure that he could see money changing hands for drugs and information, and there were some seamen looking as though a hijacking on the docks wouldn’t come as a surprise to them. Whores and pimps argued with clients, and even though it was obviously an openly criminal place, there were proprieties to be observed, as he saw money change hands over the table, but automatic pistols and revolvers wrapped in oilcloth were passed under the table.
The room itself was about twenty feet deep, with a small bar in one corner. It was a drinking den rather than anything else, and the lighting was dim but sufficient. He had little trouble surveying the room.
“Anyway, I know nothing about you,” Bolan said suddenly. “Let me get you another beer, and then you can tell me about yourself.”
“That’d be cool.” She smiled at him as he got up and went over to the bar which enabled him to get a full view of the whole room. And what he saw gave him pause for thought.
Bolan paid for the drinks and returned to the table.
“Thanks,” she said, clinking bottles with him. “So you want to know about me? Well, I’ll tell you…”
The girl launched into a story. She was orphaned in her early teens, and rather than go into a state home she had run away and started living on the streets. That was where she had met Claudette, another runaway. They had worked menial jobs, and scrimped and saved to rent a small garret near the club. She had never become a whore, despite the efforts of local pimps. She and Claudette had been street girls, and knew nearly everyone in the quarter.
It sounded a little too much like a French film to be entirely true, and Bolan was sure he was getting a version that was either cleaned up for him, or was the idealized version that she dearly wished that she had lived. As she talked, Bolan surveyed the room.
Sitting in the corner with a woman was Salvatore Signella.
Two tables away were a redheaded guy and an elegantly dressed black man. The white guy was talking animatedly, his partner replying sparingly. Bolan caught enough of the dialogue to realize that they were speaking English.
Ross and Goldman.
5
“Mickey,” Bolan said softly but with insistence, breaking across her rambling tale and making her stop dead with the quiet force of his tone. It was just the one word, but enough.
“Why do I get the feeling there is going to be trouble,” she asked in a plaintive tone.
The soldier had to smile. “Sorry, but it’s not my fault. I’ve just got this feeling, too. Without being obvious about it, can you tell me if you know anything about the Sicilian in the corner, and the two guys arguing a couple of tables away?”
The girl raised her beer bottle, using the motion to take a look toward the end of the room. She took a long draft, eyeing the men Bolan had indicated. When she put the bottle on the table she leaned across and grasped his hand, looking into his eyes as though they were getting more intimate.
She was a good actress, Bolan had to give her that.
“The two English who are arguing I’ve never seen before. I only know they are English because I can hear them. But if they’re connected with the other guy, then it’s trouble all right.”
“You know him, then.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Not that well, but still more than I wished I did. Salvo, they call him. I don’t want to know any more than that. The slut with him is Celeste. She works the dock area. I guess that’s where he gets his information from.”
Bolan grasped her hand. “You know what he’s involved in?”
The girl gave a brief shake of her head. “Only that he’s a hard man—even Charlie is scared of him,” she added, indicating the security man on the other side of the door. “Salvo is frightened of nothing and doesn’t think about getting hurt. He used to work security down at the harbor for some rich guy, but next thing he’s hanging about with petty thieves and political idealists,” she spit. “He’s into stealing and violence. I think a lot of crime around here is his fault, but I keep well away.”
“I can’t say that I blame you,” Bolan said softly. “Now listen. I wasn’t exactly truthful with you, but I know I can trust you well enough, and I don’t want you to get hurt. Some of what I said was true, but the fact is that I’m in Marseilles to try to track down the man you call Salvo. The other two guys are also after him. In a room like this, with the four people involved, it’s going to get tough. And I don’t want you involved in that. So I want you to go. Walk out of that door, walk out of the club and don’t come back for a very long time. Because people like Charlie and the other guys on the door may wonder about me, and about how involved you are. Will you do that for me?”
Michelle reached up and cradled his cheek in her hand. “I appreciate what you’re doing for me.”
The girl stood and walked toward the door without looking back. Bolan sat watching her, waiting until she had pulled open the soundproofed door, briefly letting in a burst of heavy-metal thunder before it closed on the room. He counted ten, but the door didn’t open again, with an angry Charlie headed for him. There was always a chance that she would have gone straight to the security and told them what was going down. But she didn’t.
Bolan turned toward the rear of the room, rising from his seat. He scanned the room, taking in the two mercenaries, drinking now in silence. The black man—Ross—gave him a brief look. His brow furrowed, as though an instinct had
given him a sniff of trouble ahead.
Move fast.
Bolan slipped a button on the loose shirt and reached under to where the Desert Eagle was holstered. He ignored the two mercs and concentrated for the next few moments on his target. Signella was pawing at the woman Celeste, his hand in her blouse. His other hand was out of sight.
Bolan slipped onto the seat opposite Signella. The Sicilian, catching the soldier entering his field of vision, grunted in surprise and tore his attention away from the woman.
“Fuck off, this is a private table, not a floor show,” he said with a sneer, his French heavily accented with his native Italian.
“It is, but she’s not the attraction. You are,” Bolan said quietly, the menace in his tone belying the smile he adopted for any onlookers.
Through his drunken haze, Signella frowned, realizing something was wrong but not able to pinpoint what it was.
Bolan drew the Desert Eagle quickly and aimed it under the table, where it was trained on the man’s crotch. The move was smooth enough to be almost hidden from those around, but showed enough of the hardware to the Sicilian to signal intent.
“You won’t be much good to her without balls, so listen very carefully,” Bolan said quietly.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Doesn’t matter. All you need to remember is that I’m the one with the gun,” Bolan said calmly. “We’ve got a lot to talk about, and it won’t be here.”
“Look, I’m surrounded by friends in here. You try anything and—”
“Not all are friends,” Bolan interrupted. “If you look two tables down, you’ll see a white guy with red hair and a black guy. They’re looking at us now and I tell you, they’re not friends. Yours or mine. And they want you, too. I’m giving you the option to cooperate. They won’t. If it was them sitting here, you would have already been killed.”
He paused, waiting a beat to see how Signella reacted.
The Sicilian didn’t let him down.
“Okay, we talk. But when I see you again after this, I’ll kill you very slowly.”
“I think that’s a risk I’m prepared to take,” Bolan replied. “Now get up and move toward the door, slowly. I’ll be behind you, and I’ll have the gun on you the whole time.”
“How are you going to manage that?” Signella asked, as he adopted the puzzled tone of a fellow professional faced with a problem.
Bolan grinned. “Let me worry about that. You just do as I say. And as for you—” he turned his attention to the woman “—give me your shawl.”
The puzzled woman gave Bolan the heavy shawl that was hanging off one shoulder.
“Yeah, I’ll take it. Thanks,” he said in a voice loud enough to be heard at the next table. Still holding it in his free hand, he brought out the Desert Eagle and draped it over his arm and hand, as though stretching it out to examine it. “Yeah, it looks really good,” he said in the same voice, before dropping the level to add, “I’m going to be looking at this as I follow you out. It’s heavy enough to get entangled after one shot, but that’s all I need. Remember that.”
Signella nodded. “Not bad,” he said, indicating the shawl. “I’ll remember that. Maybe use it when I kill you.”
“You’ve got to get out of here first. Now move.”
Signella stood and motioned for the whore to stay behind as she made to join him. Bolan rose with him, allowing Signella to move out from behind the table, and standing well back so that the Sicilian couldn’t simply flip it over at him.
As Signella moved down the room to the far door, he glanced nervously over his shoulder to see where Bolan was. If there was any opportunity of taking him, he suddenly found his path blocked by the two mercenaries as they rose from their table.
It was a standoff, but in the dim light and the general activity of the back-room bar, it wasn’t obvious to any but those taking part.
“Hang on, you’re being a bit presumptuous, aren’t you?” the redheaded man—Goldman—said with a nervous twitch.
“What my friend means is, why do you have to leave so soon?”
Signella scowled. He had two men in front of him, and a gun at his back. Bolan knew he couldn’t fight back. The only option was to set three men at one another’s throats while he made a getaway. Bolan would avoid that if possible.
“Hey, who do you work for?” Bolan called to them, his voice cutting through the background noise.
Goldman frowned heavily and quickly glanced at Ross, who remained impassive.
“I hear you two are CIA. Maybe gendarmes?” The soldier switched to French as he said the second sentence, knowing what effect it would have.
“Oh, for fuck’s sakes, did you have to do that?” Ross sighed heavily, reaching into his immaculately pressed jacket and pulling out a 9 mm Beretta that matched the one Bolan had stowed in his blacksuit.
The sight of the Beretta in full view caused an immediate change in the room. A tense silence had descended when the word gendarmes had cut through the noise, and the clientele near the back bar had been waiting to see what would develop.
Above all else, Bolan wanted Signella alive. And he knew that the two freelancers wanted that as well. But would circumstances allow them to accomplish that and get out? The atmosphere had changed to one of hostility, and it was directed solely at the two mercs, Bolan being seen by the crowd as with Signella rather than against him.
Ross’s finger tightened on the trigger of the Beretta, and he began to arc the weapon around, firing indiscriminately into the crowds at the tables. Bolan dived for cover and pushed Signella so that the Sicilian stumbled and fell, the arc of fire just missing him as he sprawled across a table.
From his position on the floor, Bolan suddenly realized that this was not the random act that it had at first appeared. As Ross continued to fire, Goldman drew a snub-nosed .38-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver and grabbed for Signella, hauling him to his feet and holding the gun to his head. He barked a few words that Bolan couldn’t hear above the roar of gunfire in the enclosed space, and Signella nodded quickly.
Some of the customers were dead or injured, the 9 mm rounds ripping into them at close range. But most had either been out of range or were simply too quick. They were under cover before Ross could complete his circuit of fire. Those who were armed had already drawn their weapons.
Ross was still firing, backing away toward the door. Some of the customers had begun to fire back, but the impeccably dressed black agent was impassive, ignoring the bullets that riddled the wall and bar around him. He had an almost fatalistic air. If he was going to be hit, then it would happen anyway, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He would trust fate. That worked for him. It made him seem formidable to those who were firing at him, although most of this was blind fire, so it increased his odds.
What concerned Bolan more was the activity of Goldman and Signella to the rear of Ross. The Sicilian was up on his feet, starting to tug at the door, Goldman at his back with the Smith & Wesson firmly in his ribs. They would have the door open and be out into the main area of the club—and the cover of darkness—before the soldier could be on his feet to go after them. He was pinned down both by Ross’s covering fire, and the random shooting of the other club patrons.
Signella tugged the door open, and the sound of gunfire had to have cut over the sound of the band, as Charlie turned his head.
Bolan saw him reaching for the mike on his headset, which would connect him to the rest of the security in the club. They were the last words he would ever utter, as Goldman stepped out from behind Signella and shot him in the face at point-blank range. The redheaded merc was covered with blood, brain, and slivers of flesh and bone as the .38-caliber round took off the back of the security man’s head, and obliterated his astonished expression.
As the guard fell back, and the sounds of the metal band pounded around the small back room, cutting out the noises of the gunfire, Goldman and Signella moved into the darkness of the club, Ross backing out a
fter them, still firing. He used his free hand to swing the door closed behind him.
A last, stray shot cracked against the door as it shut with a soft thud, leaving the back bar stinking of cordite. The stunned patrons, some still holding their guns, looked around. Who was to blame for what had happened? Should they risk opening the door and being framed perfectly in the light from the bar, against the dark of the club beyond?
Bolan sprang to his feet, losing the shawl as he did and exposing the Desert Eagle in his fist. He had to take the chance. He couldn’t afford to lose Signella and the two free-lancers. With them, the trail to the chemical weapons and the sonic weapons died. Besides which, they had pulled civilians into what was supposed to be a private battle. These people were probably criminals for the most part, albeit petty in the bigger picture, but that didn’t give anyone the right to kill them indiscriminately.
And there was one other thing—if he didn’t get out of there soon, then Celeste would point the finger at him, and he would have to kill a few people to get out alive.
Bolan was at the door in a few strides before anyone else in the room had time to gather their wits.
“Jack, are you still on-line?” he yelled.
“Affirmative, Sarge,” Grimaldi’s voice said in his earpiece. “What’s been going on?”
“Ross and Goldman have Signella, and they’ve put me into the middle of a bear pit. Any intel on them yet?”
“Negative. Aaron tells me that there’s some heavy-duty blocking going on. Whoever these guys are working for doesn’t want anything known about them.”
“Great, just great. Keep me monitored.”
“Affirmative. I’d say good luck, but you don’t need that.”
“I think I always need it, Jack,” Bolan commented as he crouched and pulled the door open from his lowered position. It took immense strength to pull the heavily insulated door open because of the angle of leverage, but Bolan had developed and strengthened muscles that had been trained and honed for such tasks. As the door began to swing, he threw himself through the gap, just clearing Charlie’s body, and rolling to come up on his feet out of the line of the light from the back bar.
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