Free MacK Bolan: Bloodsport by Don Pendleton

Not terribly difficult."
    "Maybe not for you," Bolan commented. "What do the others do?"
    "Udo here skis a rather steep slope, carrying the same kind of knapsack with two bricks that I carry."
    "It's a little more complicated than that," Udo interrupted, turning back to face them. "Not only must I navigate the steep slope, but I must also make a twenty-foot jump off a hidden ramp. Then, while I'm in mid air, I must drop the sack into the back of a truck that drives under me."
    "Sounds difficult," Bolan said.
    Babette smiled. "Not for one of the best skiers in the world." Udo Ganz shrugged modestly, obviously pleased. "At one time, maybe. But now... That..." He shrugged again.
    "What about your silent friend?" Bolan nodded at Clifford Barnes-Fenwick, squatting several feet away from the others, still hugging his knees.
    "They want him to practice a series of unusual archery shots. One from two hundred yards, and another in which he must fire off five bull's-eyes from thirty yards, but all within fifteen seconds."
    "Sounds impossible. Is that why he refuses?"
    Babette lowered her voice again, more out of respect than any possibility that he could not hear her. "No, Cliff can do the shots all right. But be retired last year from his trick-shooting career following, well, an accident. His fourteen-year-old son was killed. It wasn't Cliff's fault, he'd been away on tour. But his son and some friends were practicing tricks they had seen him do, and one of them accidentally shot an arrow into Cliff's son. After that, he quit his job and refused to pick up a bow again. These people have beaten him, but they don't want to hurt him to the point where he won't be able to shoot."
    "I've got a feeling they may not be so careful next time." Bolan moved directly under the hanging bulb. He motioned the others to come closer. All except Clifford obliged.
    "I can't go into details yet," he told them. "But I can guarantee that you'll soon have a chance to escape. What you make of that chance will be up to you."
    "When does this "chance" take place," Mako asked, the skepticism thick in, his voice.
    "Sometime over the next two days. That's the best I can do."
    "Who are you?" Udo asked. "Army Intelligence?"
    "Just a guy in the same tight spot that you're in. Now, you're going to hear me saying some things and see me doing some things that won't make you think I'm on your side. But I am. You have to believe that, no matter what happens. Everything depends on that. Do you understand?"
    Before they could respond, the door was wrenched open and Rudi's mountainous frame stood in the doorway. Bright sunlight streaked around his body like white flames.
    He stepped into the room, tapping his log into his open palm.
    Tanya Morganslicht appeared behind him, her expression calm, her voice crisp and businesslike.
    "We have decided to exploit you, Sergeant," she said to Bolan. "Welcome to the Zwiaing Horde."
    "What exactly is my percentage of this deal?" Bolan asked immediately. "In dollars and cents."
    Tanya allowed herself a small smile. "You have just come within an inch of horrible death, and all you can think about is your percentage. You amaze even me."
    Bolan started toward the open door, but before he had taken a full step, Babette grabbed his arm and whirled him around. She slapped his face with stinging authority.
    "You lying traitor!" she spat.
    Tanya laughed. "Well, Sergeant Grendal, apparently your charms have their limitations after all."
    "Yeah," Bolan said, rubbing his check. "Apparently."

14
    Bolan sat in the back of the VW van with six other members of the assault team as they sped through the cool German night. The big Heckler and Koch lay flat across his knees like a streamlined hunk of modern sculpture. Tanya Morganslicht was driving, and was also holding onto the H and K's ammo clips until this tense party had reached the Black Sunday hideout. Rudi literally rode shotgun, the thick log temporarily replaced by a Stevens Model No. 77