Bombshell Max Collins (best ereader for textbooks .txt) 📖

And the men—Agent Harrigan, and policemen, Secret Service, and uniformed KGB—streamed toward the spaceship like ants to a picnic.

Marilyn extracted her head from the window and rushed back down the stairs, onto the landing where the two warriors were on the floor now, locked in a deadly embrace, the man in black on top.

The assassin was trying to stab Nikita in the throat, Nikita holding the man’s hand back with one hand, his own blade in the other hand, wrist pinned to the floor by his adversary. They grunted and squirmed and then the killer kneed Nikita in the side, and the pain-wracked premier lost his grip on the razor, which the assassin swept away with a hand releasing itself from Nikita’s wrist, sending the razor skittering into the darkness, even as the blade of the knife drew closer to the premier’s throat. But this allowed Nikita, his hand freed, to deliver a short yet powerful blow, a fist to the chest that sent the assassin reeling back, off of the Russian…

“Stop!” Marilyn shouted, jumping up and down like a child in a tantrum. “It’s over! They’re coming!”

But even with the end drawing near—Marilyn could hear the shouts of men far below—she could see that the assassin would not stop until his grim task was finished.

The two men, both winded—only one of them armed with a blade now—again squared off. Marilyn looked frantically around for that fallen razor and could not find it; at the same time the assassin was putting some distance between himself and the premier, and she felt certain would hurl the knife…

Nikita saw her, threw her a conspiratorial signal by the tightening of his eyes, circling further, maneuvering until the assassin’s back was to her.

Then Marilyn threw herself on the man, covering his eyes with her hands, locking on with her legs, holding on with dear life, praying this would buy Nikita a few precious seconds to bring this monster down.

Though he was small, the assassin was lithely powerful, and with a growl of rage he flung her off, pitching her roughly against the curving wall, where she slid down in a pile, the air knocked out of her.

But Nikita took advantage of this latest Monroe distraction and leapt at the man, knife or no knife, and grabbed him by the throat, and—his face split with a terrible smile Marilyn would never forget—the premier of Russia twisted the would-be assassin’s neck with bear-claw hands until there was an awful, terminal … crack!

The killer—his eyes wide but empty—crumpled to the floor, his body twitching once before going limp, his head at an impossible angle, knife tumbling with a thunk from impotent fingers.

Marilyn, shakily on her feet now, covered her face with both hands and began to sob: the horror, the jeopardy, the emotions, all catching up with her.

Nikita came to her and held her tenderly.

“Is all right, now,” he said softly, stroking her hair. “Is all over… You are very brave woman. Braver than many Russian soldiers. You I owe my life.”

She looked at him through her tears; his eyes were as moist as hers.

“That goes for me, too, Nikkie,” she whispered.

And there on the landing of the moon rocket at Disneyland, in the presence of a common enemy the Russian man and the American woman had worked together to defeat, their lips met in what was not a passionate or lustful kiss, but meant so much more than just friendship.

The pandemonium of an army of men swarming up onto the landing brought their embrace to a close, and Marilyn discreetly buttoned her blouse.

Suddenly Agent Harrigan was at her side. “Miss Monroe, are you all right?”

She nodded weakly.

Khrushchev’s KGB agents had surrounded him, and the men were joyously giving their leader hugs, speaking in Russian, some laughing with relief, the premier beaming, emitting a chuckle or two. One of them found his absent shoe and helped him on with it.

An American agent was leaning over the dead assassin.

Typically, Khrushchev’s mood changed.

“This assassin,” he said gruffly, gesturing to the corpse. “Who is he?”

A tall cadaverous man stepped forward with an answer. “John Munson, Premier Khrushchev,” he said, meaning himself not the corpse. “Central Intelligence … and that’s Lee Wong. We were tracking him in Hong Kong until he dropped out of sight a month ago.”

“Nationalist China send him?”

“We believe this is Chairman Mao’s work, sir… Perhaps we should reserve the debriefing till we’re off-site.”

Marilyn blurted, “See, Nikkie—what did I tell you? Red China!”

Harrigan and Munson exchanged bemused looks—several of the men were turning to each other to mouth, Nikkie?—but Khrushchev only grunted, nodding solemnly.

Harrigan spoke, “Let’s get you and Miss Monroe down off this thing … and get that arm looked at.”

As Marilyn was helped down the flights of stairs by an attentive Harrigan, she heard Khrushchev and Munson chatting like old friends, coming down behind them.

“Maybe,” the premier was saying, “we could help each other.”

“How do you mean, Mr. Khrushchev?” the CIA agent asked.

“We are first in space, yes? But you are first in espionage. Perhaps we could share … information.”

“Go on.”

“I believe we get many secrets from same sources. Why not we combine forces, and cut down bill?”

There was a pause. Then the CIA agent responded with a laugh. “You know, Premier Khrushchev—if you don’t mind my saying, that’s a hell of an idea.”

“Ah, I have been to hell already tonight. Let us call it … heaven of idea.”

“Fine. Fine.”

Everyone had to jump down from that first platform onto the cement “launching pad,” and Harrigan and Nikita were the first to make their landings, after which Marilyn lowered herself into Harrigan’s waiting arms. The State Department agent began issuing orders and four groups of assorted Secret Service agents, KGB guards, and police moved off in various directions.

Then Harrigan approached the actress and the premier, his expression somber.

“I’m going to escort the two of you out of here,” Harrigan said. “The assassin wasn’t working alone, and his back-up could still be on