Killing Game. Don Pendleton

twisted between the seats and pulled the triangular object out of the Executioner’s bag.

      “Unzip it,” Bolan said as he slowed, then stopped at a stop sign.

      The sound the zipper made was loud inside the vehicle, which added to the rising tension as they inched their way down the dark and lonely Parisian street. When Platinov pulled the top cover back to reveal a giant revolver with a scope mounted on top of it, she burst out with, “Are we expecting these CLODOs to be elephants?”

      The Executioner chuckled. “No. But by now, word of what we did at the other safe house will have reached this place. They’ll be on their guard, so the element of surprise is already lost to us. I think we should take out as many of them as possible from long range.”

      “Well, this should do it,” Platinov said. “What is it? I’ve never seen one before.”

      The former Olympic track and field star might never have seen that particular model of Smith & Wesson wheel gun, but she’d seen enough S&Ws to know how they operated. Pushing the latch on the side of the weapon with her thumb, she swung the cylinder away from the mammoth frame.

      “It’s a 500 Smith and Wesson Magnum,” the Executioner said. “Meaning .50-caliber on Smith’s new X-frame.”

      “It’s big, all right,” Platinov said. “But it holds only five rounds.”

      Bolan drove on through the intersection as he said, “Imagine how big it would have to be to hold six.”

      “Point taken,” Platinov agreed. “What you have here is a rifle disguised as a pistol.”

      “Exactly,” Bolan agreed as he cruised slowly past the next block. “It was created for long-range silhouette shooting and big game hunting. But it’s easier to carry and conceal than a sniper rifle, and for what we’re about to do it should be more than accurate enough.”

      Platinov agreed. “We don’t need the pinpoint accuracy of a true sniper rifle from across the street,” she said, nodding. “How long is this barrel?”

      “Eight inches,” Bolan said. “But the last inch, you’ll notice, is actually a recoil compensator.”

      “I expect it still has quite a kick,” the Russian agent said, turning the weapon around in her hand to stare at the compensator holes.

      “Well, I think you’ll know you’ve fired something. There’s factory ammo on the market with bullets up to 500 grains. But since we’re after men instead of dinosaurs, I’ve got it loaded down with 325-grain hollowpoints.”

      “I suspect I’ll still feel quite a jolt,” Platinov said.

      Bolan laughed. “It doesn’t scare you, does it, Plat?”

      Platinov looked up from the gun, a quick trace of anger on her face. “Of course not,” she said.

      One of the many things the Executioner had learned about the beautiful Russian woman over the years was that she couldn’t stand her courage, or dedication to an assignment, being questioned. Another was that while her days of Olympic stardom might have ended, she had retained the same competitive mind-set that had won her the gold medals.

      Bolan stared ahead but watched Platinov out of the corner of his eye. Almost as quickly as the grimace of anger had appeared, he saw it disappear, leaving her face deadpan. “No, it doesn’t scare me,” she said again in a voice that betrayed only a slight degree of irritation. “Have you shot it yet?”

      The Executioner nodded.

      Platinov’s smile was as plastic as a smile could get. “Then it should be quite easy for me,” she said with phony pleasantry.

      Bolan let the Nissan roll on as he suppressed a smile. One of the things he liked most about working with Platinov was her competitive nature. He didn’t know whether she’d been born with it or had it taught to her as she grew up in one of the Soviet Union’s “athletic schools,” but she definitely had it now. It made no difference whether she was sprinting or running hurdles in the Olympics, or helping him take down a terrorist cell during a firefight, Marynka Platinov was going to win.

      Platinov broke the icy silence by saying, “Okay, that childish little outburst of ego was my fault and I apologize for it. Now—” she paused to draw in a deep breath “—does all this imply that I’m the one who’s going to be shooting this monstrosity?”

      “That’s right, Plat,” Bolan said. “I’m going to park somewhere down the block, then give you time to find a decent place to snipe from. I’ll make my way up next to the house before you start shooting, then hit them up close and personal.”

      Platinov nodded. “Makes sense. Is that all there is to it?”

      “No. Couple of other things.” He twisted at the waist and reached into the bag in the backseat. Pulling out a plain brown paper bag, he set it in his lap, opened the top and pulled out a round steel object with .500 Magnum rounds sticking out from it in a circle. “The .500 wasn’t designed as a combat weapon,” he said. “And nobody makes speed loaders for it. So I had a friend do a little gunsmithing on it. He had to bevel out the holes in the cylinder so the moon-clips would fit. But now you can load all five rounds at the same time.”

      Platinov frowned, tipped the big pistol up in her hand and caught the 5-round bundle already loaded as it fell out. She nodded as she skillfully stuck it back into the weapon, then took the sack filled with full moon clips from the Executioner. She began transferring the extra ammo from the sack to the side pockets of her jacket.

      “There’s one other thing,” Bolan said as he drove on. “And it’s the most important of all.”

      Platinov waited.

      “Once I enter the house, I’ll be close to your targets. Don’t shoot me by mistake.”

      Platinov laughed. “If I ever shoot you, Cooper,” she said, “it will not be by mistake.” Now her smile turned seductive. “Besides, I have other plans for you. And I’ll need you alive for them.”

      Bolan grinned. It seemed there was no getting around the attraction between them. “Then it sounds like I’m safe until then,” he said.

      “Yes, certainly until then.”

      Bolan slowed the Nissan as they passed the address Kurtzman had sent them. It was a split-level clay house, at least a century old. Nothing unusual about it. Nothing that made it stand out from any of the other older dwellings up and down these residential streets.

      Except for the fact that an oversized picture window was set in the front of what Bolan expected would be the living room. The curtains were tightly closed, but a light glowed brightly behind the draperies.

      And unless there was some kind of party going on inside the house, there were far too many vehicles in the driveway, and along the curb, for it to be occupied by just one family.

      Bolan circled the block, passed the safe house again, then pulled over to the curb as soon as he found an open space just past the other parked vehicles.

      The Russian agent got out of the car, then paused, looking back in. She held the huge S&W 500 in her right hand, and the side pockets of her jacket bulged with the extra moon clips. “I’m going to see if I can get up on top of that house without waking anyone inside,” she said, pointing to the darkened structure directly across the street from the safe house. “From there I should have a direct shot into the living room through that front window.” She paused a second, then said, “Get that curtain out of my way as soon as you can.”

      “I’ve got a better idea,” Bolan stated. “Signal me with your flashlight when you’re in place and ready.”

      “I will. But what—”

      The Executioner held up a hand to cut her off. “I’ll signal you the same way when I reach the corner of the house.” He paused a moment, thinking through his strategy once again. “When you