State Of War. Don Pendleton
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TAKE NO PRISONERS
Death floods the streets of Florida as rival gangs kill for blood rights to the distribution of a new synthetic drug, Crocodil. The Russian substitute for heroin, it’s the ultimate prize in the drug turf wars—a cheap high that brings even cheaper death. As rival Mexican and Salvadoran cartels shoot it out for kingpin status, Mack Bolan joins the war. Unleashing incendiary hell on gang territory in Miami, he blasts his way through a pipeline that leads south to Guatemala, where a corrupt Swiss pharmaceutical company has set up manufacturing. Allied with a couple of locals equally dedicated to stopping this lethal fix before it hits Main Street, U.S.A., Bolan faces an army of hard-core mercenaries and miles of cartel blood lust. Outgunned but never outmaneuvered, the Executioner doesn’t soft-sell his brand of payback to these merchants of human misery. Bolan goes in hard and without mercy.
Bang scythed the grenadier’s legs out from under him
Bolan rose to one knee, swung up both .45s and emptied them into the remaining enemy gunner. He dropped his left-hand gun and clawed for his last magazine. The two surviving bikers tore away.
The soldier got to his feet and lurched into the street. The biker he had shot was crawling away. Most people didn’t crawl away with three .45’s in their back. That told Bolan the guy was wearing body armor.
The Executioner searched for his team. Kaino was helping Svarzkova to her feet and weeping from the CS stench she gave off. Bang had reloaded and was covering Bolan, who could barely hear his own voice as he shouted, “Banger, we’re taking this guy with us! Get the car. We’re out of here!”
State of War
Don Pendleton
Junk is the ideal product… The ultimate merchandise. No sales talk necessary. The client will crawl through sewer and beg to buy.
—William S. Burroughs
There’s a new drug on the scene, one that consumes the addict’s flesh from within. What kind of madness is this? We must drive the people who promote this horror back to the sewers they emerged from. Permanently.
—Mack Bolan
Special thanks and acknowledgment to
Chuck Rogers for his contribution to this work.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
Miami Metropolitan Area, Florida
Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, slid into the unmarked car and stuck out his hand. “Evening, Master Sergeant.” Miami-Dade Police Master Sergeant Gadiel Kaino could have been Bill Cosby’s younger, bigger, redheaded brother who had been a prizefighter but let himself go. The Puerto Rican cop shook Bolan’s hand. “Call me Kaino.”
“Call me Cooper.”
“You sure you want to do this? They eat white men alive where you want to go, and they’ll eat me for aiding and abetting.”
Bolan had done his research. Kaino had a large reputation in the Miami Metropolitan Area for breaking rules, stepping on toes and being one of the toughest cops in the county. Bolan noted the small tattoo of a heart with a scrolling N inside it on the flesh between his right thumb and forefinger. Kaino had been a member of the Puerto Rican Netas gang in his youth. “I’m down if you are.”
Kaino was down. He stepped on the gas and the eighties-vintage Crown Victoria rumbled forward. Bolan could feel the tightness of the suspension as Kaino took them into the bowels of the Metro. Kaino was clearly wary of Bolan. “Justice Department Observation Liaison Officer?”
Bolan grinned. “That would be me.”
“You aren’t Marshals Service.”
“No, but I know some good marshals.”
“Yeah, me, too.” Kaino’s eyes narrowed. “You sure as hell aren’t a lawyer.”
“No.”
“Homeland Security?”
“Nope.”
Master Sergeant Kaino had come up through Miami-Dade during the explosion of cocaine and the war on drugs of the 1980s. He gave Bolan a disparaging look. “Tell me you aren’t CIA.”
“I’m not CIA,” Bolan confirmed.
“Okay, so, not to be a dick or anything...”
“But...?”
“Who