Bolan waited, ducking out of range as Lemaire threw several more kicks. Bolan stepped in, stepped back and repeated the maneuver as Lemaire found a rhythm. The terrorist was smiling. He had picked up on what Bolan wanted him to see: the soldier was coming just a little closer each time, seemingly giving the Frenchman the opening he needed for a power blow. Lemaire loved high kicks; that much was obvious. Bolan raised his chin slightly. He would draw Lemaire in for the throat shot the killer would be searching for.
Lemaire made his move. Bolan shifted, taking the sweep of the kick against his body, pushing forward so that his adversary’s foot struck air beyond where the soldier stood. The Executioner brought his elbow down on Lemaire’s calf. The Frenchman screamed.
He toppled to the floor, and Bolan went down with him. The large terrorist struggled beneath the big American, but soon the soldier had him pinned, mounting Lemaire’s chest and raining down hammer-fist blows onto his opponent’s face. It was a maneuver in sporting combat known as the “ground and pound,” and while Bolan was no sporting martial artist, he understood the utility of pinning a man with his weight and smashing that man with the meaty undersides of his fists.
Lemaire groped for something concealed in the pocket of his BDU pants.
Bolan heard the snap of the knife well before he saw the weapon. The folding knife had a vicious hook-shaped, hawk-bill blade with a serrated edge. Bolan managed to clamp a wrist over Lemaire’s before the Frenchman could begin carving away the flesh of Bolan’s thigh.
Lemaire pulled his arm sharply inward.
Bolan was pulled closer to the Frenchman, which was exactly what the wounded terrorist wanted. He wrapped the fingers of his other hand around Bolan’s throat. It was a battle of strength, now, with gravity pinning Lemaire, and the terrorist leader’s fist squeezing off Bolan’s air supply...as both men battled for the knife. If Lemaire managed to pull it free, he could maim or kill Bolan in an instant.
It was one of the truisms of fighting on the ground with another man in real life. A simple folding knife changed the entire game.
Bolan used his right hand to fight off the fingers around his neck, squeezing Lemaire’s wrist. The Frenchman was incredibly strong, fueled by adrenaline and the knowledge that he was going to die on the floor of the estate. Bolan could breathe, but only barely. It was a stalemate.
The floor beneath them was growing hotter. Bolan’s nose twitched. Smoke was now hanging like a bank of storm clouds on the ceiling. Somewhere at the other end of the floor, what Bolan thought had to be a smoke alarm was beeping furiously.
“The sounds of chaos, American,” Lemaire hissed. “We die...together.”
“Give up, and we can both walk out of here,” Bolan said. “You’ve lost, Lemaire.”
“Not for me the easy death,” Lemaire whispered. “Not for me the coward’s release. I will gladly take you with me, American. You and your government schemes and your foolish belief in your own superiority. You and your love for inferior races. We die in the fire, American.”
“You’ll die alone,” Bolan gritted out. “You’ll burn alone. And for nothing. And everything you’ve devoted your life to, all the hate that motivates you, will be nothing but ashes by tomorrow morning.”
Lemaire screamed and struggled to bring up his knife hand. The fingers of his other hand grasped more tightly around Bolan’s neck. The soldier could no longer breathe. His vision was starting to blur. The world turned an amber-pink hue. Oxygen deprivation was claiming him. If he passed out, if his strength wavered even a little, Lemaire would finish him off.
The evil grin on Lemaire’s face widened. “Which will it be, American?” he whispered. “The blade in your belly? Or the sweet release of the gray death, as you lose your grip and fall asleep? Shall I sing you a lullaby?”
Spots began to dance in front of Bolan’s eyes. The folding knife with its wickedly curved, serrated blade was inching closer to him as he fought to keep it away. Worse, Bolan’s eyes were drying in the heat, as if they were boiling. He knew the feeling. He had been in enough parched desert combat zones to know the effects of extreme heat.
So many ways to die. So many choices...none of them acceptable.
“Lemaire,” Bolan growled. Orange light danced beneath the floorboards. The surface on which they fought was aflame beneath them. The flames had only to eat through the boards themselves and the room would be a furnace.
“Which lullaby would you like to hear, American?” Lemaire grinned. Would you like to—”
Bolan stopped trying to relieve the pressure from Lemaire’s hand on his neck and instead wrenched his combat knife from Lemaire’s shoulder and rammed it through the man’s left eye socket.
The floor was shifting beneath him again when he finally staggered to his feet. Still shaking off Lemaire’s attempt to choke him to death, he did the only thing he could do to prevent himself from being burned alive.
He jumped out the window.
* * *
BLACKNESS. MACK BOLAN swam through blackness. But the blackness hurt, which meant he wasn’t dead. At least he assumed he wasn’t. “Cooper!” Inspector Bayard said. His face loomed over Bolan’s. “Cooper, can you hear me?”
“I could use some water,” Bolan said.
Bayard’s worried expression eased a bit. “Here. Let me help you sit up. Take this.”
Bolan accepted the metal canteen cup of water he was given. It was cold and tasted of steel. He drank it anyway, enjoying the cool sensation that spread through his body.
He was on a compact bedroll that had been extended in the shelter of one of the French tactical teams’ armored vehicles. He could see a dense cloud of thick, black smoke rising into the sky. Even from his position he could feel the heat and hear the flames. There were also fire department trucks working their way through the barricade. The sound of their emergency horns assaulted Bolan’s eardrums.
Bolan checked himself. His pistols were gone. He had not expected that, but it was no surprise to him that he found no combat knife. That was back with Lemaire, probably still in the French terrorist’s eye socket.
“My weapons?”
“Confiscated by the authorities,” Bayard said, shrugging. He jerked his chin at the cordon around them. “Here.”
The inspector passed a newspaper-wrapped bundle to Bolan. The soldier unwrapped it and discovered it contained a Glock 19 and several loaded 15-round magazines. He looked up at Bayard and raised an eyebrow.
“To whom do I owe the favor?”
“To me,” Bayard said. “It is a loan from a friend that I suspect will not be returned. So you owe me the cost of the weapon. Among other things.”
Bolan’s leather coat was ripped and scorched and smelled of smoke. He shrugged out of it and left it in a pile next to him. He also took off his now useless leather shoulder harness and put it with the coat.
“I have battle dress uniforms in your color,” Bayard said. “I believe I have judged your size correctly. Your clothing is not dissimilar to those worn by the tactical teams. You should thank me, Cooper. I have convinced them not to arrest you, telling them I already have you in provisional custody. Let me see your jacket.”
Bolan handed the garment to Bayard. “Can you get me a windbreaker or something?”
“Yes,” Bayard said. “And something else I suspect you will want.” He disappeared around the corner of the vehicle for a moment. When he returned, he was holding a heavy messenger bag made of black canvas. He handed it to Bolan. “It is empty, this man purse.”
“It’s a war bag, not a man purse.”
“As you say.” The Frenchman shrugged. “Your wounds were cleaned and bandaged while you slept.”
“I hope the nurse was pretty,” Bolan said.
“His name is Helmut. Years ago he defected from East Germany. He weighs nearly three hund
red pounds and is blind in one eye. He can also lift a truck by the bumper.”
“Not my type,” Bolan said. He stepped out, stood on the ground, steadying himself against the armored car. Turning, he surveyed the estate, which was now an inferno. The heat from the fire played across his skin, and he coughed, more by reflex than from a real need.
“How do you feel?” Bayard asked. “You may have some smoke inhalation.”
“I’m fine.”
“Tell me something, Cooper. Did you see Leslie Deparmond inside?”
Bolan stared. “No. It was Lemaire and what’s left of the ES troops. They’re dead. Bomb factory in the basement.”
“This blew up prematurely?” Bayard asked.
“It had help.”
“Of course it did.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because that coroner’s vehicle there,” Bayard said, pointing to the emergency vehicles moving through an opening in the cordon, “is carrying the corpse of Deparmond. It would seem that Gaston will be running more or less unopposed. Deparmond’s party will furnish a last-minute candidate, probably, but such a man is unknown to the people. He will have no chance of victory in the wake of the scandal.”
“Spell it out for me,” Bolan said.
“He died here. Or so it has been made to appear. His body shows no signs that he was inside when the fire occurred. We found him on the grounds near a rear entrance.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Bolan said.
“It does if his body was brought here for us to find. He has been shot with a single bullet at close range. The gun was found with him. It has been made to look as if, out of shame, he took his own life.”
“Lot of that going around,” Bolan stated.
“Eh?”
“Levesque,” Bolan said by way of explanation. “Something’s not right.”
“Yes,” Bayard agreed. “How would you say it? Something is of the fish, n’est-ce pas?”
“Fishy,” Bolan corrected him, not really hearing the inspector. He was already considering the implications of what Bayard had told him, not to mention the fallout of Deparmond being killed. On paper, it wrapped everything up neatly. Gaston would surely take the election now. The Man’s interests, and therefore Bolan’s mandate to safeguard the United States’ interests in the region, were satisfied. There it was, all tied up in a nice, neat bow.
“I don’t like this at all,” he said. “If Deparmond’s a plant...”
“Then it means the enemy forces are actively working to build a narrative,” Bayard added. “This begs the question—to accomplish what? As, seemingly, their goals have already failed, and the back of their organization is now broken.”
“Can you get us a car?”
“I can. For what purpose? I was hoping you would allow me to drive you to the airport.”
“You and I both know this isn’t over.”
“No,” Bayard said. “Obviously not. But what can you do, Cooper? Your government’s needs have been satisfied, have they not? And the threat of the ES is now ended. You have single-handedly destroyed their operation in Paris. I am amazed you lived through the experience.”
Bolan shook his head. “I’m not convinced.”
The soldier’s secure satellite smartphone began to vibrate in his pocket. He took it out and flipped it open.
“Cooper here,” he said. He was signaling the Farm that his conversation was being overheard on his end.
“We’ve received certain situation updates through channels,” Barbara Price stated. “The French media is going to run with news of Deparmond’s death. Things are about to get even more interesting over there. And you probably already know that the French are demanding we pull you out. Director Vigneau of the DCRI has practically had a coronary on the phone.”
“Not a surprise,” Bolan said. “How is our mutual friend holding up?” He was referring to Brognola.
“He understands,” Price replied. “But he’s got a lot on his plate now. It’s stressful. I’m sure you can relate.”
“I can. Message received and understood. I’ll make arrangements for extraction...but not yet. I have some confirmations I need to conduct.”
“I trust your judgment,” Price told him, “but you know I have to ask you if that’s absolutely necessary.”
“It is. There’re some things I need to take care of right away. I’m going to have to call you later.”
“Make it soon...Agent Cooper,” Price said. “Everyone here is very eager to speak with you. Our mutual friend has other friends who are interested.” That would be the Man, and by extension the United States government as a whole. In theory, the Sensitive Operations Group answered only to the President. In execution, SOG and Brognola were always playing a very complicated political game.
“I understand the...factors involved,” Bolan said. “I’ll do what has to be done.”
“I know you will.”
“Cooper out.” Bolan closed the phone.
“I will pretend I don’t understand what that was about,” Bayard said.
“Good. Let’s get moving.”
“Oui. Let’s get moving. I have done nothing insanely dangerous for entire minutes.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Outside Paris, France
The Citroën C4 Aircross carried Bolan and Inspector Bayard across the countryside in reasonable comfort. It was silver in color, fairly nondescript as modern sport-utility vehicles went and roomy enough that Bolan’s big frame didn’t feel compressed. The soldier had verified the name and then the address of the digital media expert Gerard Levesque had given him. They were on their way there now.
The plan was to engage Edouard Tessier and see what he knew. If he had evidence that would validate the videos of Deparmond—videos now in the hands of both the press and the authorities, thanks to whatever arrangements Levesque had made before his death—so much the better. If Tessier could determine them to be fakes, that would complicate things, but it would at least confirm Bolan’s suspicion that something was amiss.
Tessier’s home was some distance outside Paris. The inspector and the soldier had by now left behind what passed for suburbs and the sprawling semiurban areas around Paris proper. The drive gave Bolan time to collect his thoughts, which was to say, it gave him time to sleep on and off as Bayard drove.
“It amazes me,” Bayard said, “that you sleep so readily. Tell me, Cooper, how many men have you killed today?”
“Every time you ask questions like that,” Bolan replied, without opening his eyes, “you sound less and less irritated.”
“I told you. The results you have achieved have earned you a certain amount of respect in my eyes. But that does not explain how a man who has just destroyed a small army with his own hands can sleep as if he has not a care in the world.”
“Easy,” Bolan said. “Fighting small armies makes you tired.”
“I suppose it makes you hungry, as well.”
“I could eat.” Bolan honestly hadn’t considered it, but, at the mention of food, he realized he was indeed very hungry.
Bayard reached across the soldier and removed a package from the glove compartment. He handed it to Bolan. “Save one for me,” Bayard said. “I will have something to eat later, perhaps.”
Inside the foil package were several roast beef sandwiches. Bolan took two gratefully. There was already a bottle of water in the cup holder on Bolan’s side. After checking the bottle for needle marks, he opened it and drank. Bolan’s ingrained habit wouldn’t stop a truly determined act of poisoning or drugging, of course; there were ways to seal a water bottle again after opening it to tamper with its contents. But he was not actually concerned about Bayard.
“That is odd,” Bayard said, after they had driven in silence for so
me time.
“What?” Bolan asked. He was finishing his second sandwich.
“Men on motorcycles,” the inspector replied. “Waiting by the roadside. If I did not know better, I would have thought they were wearing—”
“Woodland camouflage and black ski masks?” Bolan asked, sitting forward to check the rearview mirror on his side. “Trademark garb of ES.”
Bayard, also looking in the rearview mirror, sighed. “Yes. That was it exactly.”
“Maybe that wasn’t it.”
“Perhaps. Do you think we are that lucky?”
“No,” Bolan said.
“Nor do I.”
The whine of the motorcycles gaining on them was suddenly very loud. Bolan glanced at the GPS unit on the dash of the Citroën.
“If this map isn’t too simplified,” Bolan said, pointing to the moving diagram on the touch screen. “This is a bottleneck. This route leads to the address we want, and there are no major alternatives. This is the likely place to stage an ambush if they knew what to look for.”
“To what end?” Bayard asked. He began to accelerate.
“I’d say somebody doesn’t want us to talk to this Edouard Tessier,” Bolan said. “And if there are still elements of the ES out there, it means the business with Lemaire wasn’t the end of it at all. Maybe there are still some roots to this mess we haven’t dug out and burned yet.”
“You are a creature of dynamic metaphors,” Bayard said. “Perhaps they are simply a motorcycle club with an ironic taste in fashion. It may be nothing. It may be coincidence.”
Bayard’s side view mirror was shattered by a bullet.
Bolan braced himself as automatic gunfire began peppering the rear of the Citroën, shattering the window of the SUV’s hatchback.
“You are bad luck, Cooper,” Bayard said. “I am convinced of it. What is the word in English? Accursed?”
“Just cursed, I think is what you’re looking for.”
“Cursed,” Bayard repeated. “But I must admit something.” He stepped on the pedal and the Citroën roared as it revved to redline. The SUV quickly put distance between the two men and the motorcycles, but the bikes were faster and began to eat up ground in response.
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