Read Online MacK Bolan: Bloodsport by Don Pendleton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Don Pendleton
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pencil thin slash of a mustache. Bolan could have recognized him without having been warned of his kidnapping: Mako Samata's martial arts studios were advertised all over Europe. "There is no practical use for football skills here," he said in a French accent, making the immediate assumption of Bolan's elective recreation.
"What do you mean, practical use?" Bolan asked. "What use do they have for you?"
The martial arts master released a sardonic laugh. "You will see soon enough, my friend."
"Don't mind him," Babette sighed. "He likes to play the inscrutable oriental. Too many Charlie Chan movies."
Bolan looked past the three of them at the burly man hunkered down on his heels, hugging his knees. He was just beyond the light, his face partially obscured. "What about him?" Bolan pointed.
"That's Clifford Barnes-Fenwick, the Welsh archer. A silver and a bronze." She lowered her voice. "Used to do trick shooting for a while." At that the silent man looked up and Bolan could see his haggard face. And the softball-size knob over his right eye. The bruise surrounding it was a nasty purple-yellow-black. But even worse was the nose, which looked as if it had been slammed by a locomotive. Most of it was pushed to one side at an impossible angle. Crusted blood clung to the edges. The injuries made it difficult to judge, but Bolan figured him to be near fifty, easily the oldest of the group.
"What happened to you?" Bolan asked him.
The big Welshman stared at Bolan a few seconds, then lowered his head back to his knees.
"That fat gorilla did it," Babette explained. "Cliff wouldn't do what they asked, so Rudi clubbed him with the log. You've seen the log?"
"What is it that they want you to do?" Bolan persisted.
"Well..."
"Hold it!" Udo Ganz interrupted. "We don't know anything about this man. He could be bad news."
The leggy blonde raised her eyebrows.
"What, a spy, Udo? For what purpose?"
Bolan cut in. "Maybe some introductions are in order. Then we can fill each other in on what the hell is going on around here. I'm Sergeant Edsel Grendal."
The others formally introduced themselves in turn, all except the Welsh archer who remained huddled at the edge of the light. Each recounted the details of their kidnapping experience.
Except Bolan.
He asked one more time. "What exactly do they want from you?"
"Knowledge," Mako said, his hands erupting in a series of expert lightning slashes.
"That's what we think, anyway," Babette qualified.
"Explain."
"All they make us do every day is to practice routines while they all stand around and watch. Mako, here has to do a sneaking through the woods routine, surprising two guards and disabling them for real with a couple of his fancy chops."
In the few moments he had been in the tiny garage, Bolan had noticed the icy teeth of the cold nipping at his skin. The temperature could be no more than a few degrees above freezing in this dark hovel. "How do they expect you to survive here?" he asked.
"They don't!" Udo barked, desperation in his voice. Bolan noted the man's creeping hysteria and filed away the information.
"They don't keep us in here all the time," the lady gymnast said. "We're only locked up when we aren't practicing. At night they allow us to sleep in a preheated cabin. By then the exercise and cold have worn us down even if we could escape, we wouldn't have the energy to go anywhere."
"Some of us, anyway," Mako said quietly.
The accusation hung tensely in the air. Udo's eyes widened with sudden anger. Then he pivoted away, turning his back to the three of them. Bolan realized that unless they were rescued qdickly, the abducted athletes might destroy each other and, forever, their chances for survival.
"What do they make you practice, Babette?" he asked.
"The balance beam. Nothing tricky, just running as fast as I can along a four-inch by twentyfoot wall that they have constructed. All I do is run back and forth along the edge, carrying a knapsack containing two bricks.
"What do you mean, practical use?" Bolan asked. "What use do they have for you?"
The martial arts master released a sardonic laugh. "You will see soon enough, my friend."
"Don't mind him," Babette sighed. "He likes to play the inscrutable oriental. Too many Charlie Chan movies."
Bolan looked past the three of them at the burly man hunkered down on his heels, hugging his knees. He was just beyond the light, his face partially obscured. "What about him?" Bolan pointed.
"That's Clifford Barnes-Fenwick, the Welsh archer. A silver and a bronze." She lowered her voice. "Used to do trick shooting for a while." At that the silent man looked up and Bolan could see his haggard face. And the softball-size knob over his right eye. The bruise surrounding it was a nasty purple-yellow-black. But even worse was the nose, which looked as if it had been slammed by a locomotive. Most of it was pushed to one side at an impossible angle. Crusted blood clung to the edges. The injuries made it difficult to judge, but Bolan figured him to be near fifty, easily the oldest of the group.
"What happened to you?" Bolan asked him.
The big Welshman stared at Bolan a few seconds, then lowered his head back to his knees.
"That fat gorilla did it," Babette explained. "Cliff wouldn't do what they asked, so Rudi clubbed him with the log. You've seen the log?"
"What is it that they want you to do?" Bolan persisted.
"Well..."
"Hold it!" Udo Ganz interrupted. "We don't know anything about this man. He could be bad news."
The leggy blonde raised her eyebrows.
"What, a spy, Udo? For what purpose?"
Bolan cut in. "Maybe some introductions are in order. Then we can fill each other in on what the hell is going on around here. I'm Sergeant Edsel Grendal."
The others formally introduced themselves in turn, all except the Welsh archer who remained huddled at the edge of the light. Each recounted the details of their kidnapping experience.
Except Bolan.
He asked one more time. "What exactly do they want from you?"
"Knowledge," Mako said, his hands erupting in a series of expert lightning slashes.
"That's what we think, anyway," Babette qualified.
"Explain."
"All they make us do every day is to practice routines while they all stand around and watch. Mako, here has to do a sneaking through the woods routine, surprising two guards and disabling them for real with a couple of his fancy chops."
In the few moments he had been in the tiny garage, Bolan had noticed the icy teeth of the cold nipping at his skin. The temperature could be no more than a few degrees above freezing in this dark hovel. "How do they expect you to survive here?" he asked.
"They don't!" Udo barked, desperation in his voice. Bolan noted the man's creeping hysteria and filed away the information.
"They don't keep us in here all the time," the lady gymnast said. "We're only locked up when we aren't practicing. At night they allow us to sleep in a preheated cabin. By then the exercise and cold have worn us down even if we could escape, we wouldn't have the energy to go anywhere."
"Some of us, anyway," Mako said quietly.
The accusation hung tensely in the air. Udo's eyes widened with sudden anger. Then he pivoted away, turning his back to the three of them. Bolan realized that unless they were rescued qdickly, the abducted athletes might destroy each other and, forever, their chances for survival.
"What do they make you practice, Babette?" he asked.
"The balance beam. Nothing tricky, just running as fast as I can along a four-inch by twentyfoot wall that they have constructed. All I do is run back and forth along the edge, carrying a knapsack containing two bricks.
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