“Right,” Bolan said, wryly understanding that while these people needed his expertise, he would still be regarded as an outlaw.
Chamson said, “We understand from certain rumors that have been filtering in for some time that something big is brewing in the Riviera underworld. But we have no idea what. It may not be connected with the four killings, but we thought that here was a perfect opportunity to find out from the inside. What do you say, monsieur?”
“I say it’s a start,” Bolan replied.
And that’s all it was, nothing more, the big guy knew.
“But will you use it? Your feelings about the predators in our society are, as I said, no secret. We thought perhaps you would welcome the chance of striking another blow. We would stand by to give you any help we could.” In his turn, Chamson paused. “Monsieur Bolan, will you help?”
“This Hamburg hit man — where did he die?” was all Bolan said.
2
It was night and the cold mistral wind was rushing down the Rhone Valley when Bolan pulled the BMW sedan off the expressway and drove through a deserted rest area to the gas station. No cars stood by the rows of brightly lit pumps, and as he coasted to a halt an attendant came out of the pay booth. “Fill her up?”
Bolan nodded, glancing beyond the booth to the refreshment bar as the man stooped to unscrew the gas tank’s cap.
It was then that Bolan saw the boots, toes pointing skyward, protruding from behind the candy counter at the rear of the small shop.
And that the nozzle in the attendant’s hand was attached not to a hose but to an 8-round magazine.
Bolan hit the driver’s door handle and dropped as the gun barrel rose to the window and belched flame.
The glass imploded, spraying the interior of the car with cubes of crystal. Bolan’s reflexes, honed to razor edge keenness by a lifetime in the killing grounds, were that vital hundredth of a second faster than the assassin’s. The soldier had the door open and was already pitching down and out while the killer’s trigger finger tightened.