Jungle Hunt. Don Pendleton
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Hostile takeover
Genocide is spreading through the jungles of South America. The swift and silent massacre in villages on the Ecuadorian border seems to be part of a larger plan fueled by blatant greed. Mack Bolan heads into the rain forest to expose the truth behind the slaughter and put an end to this new wave of atrocities.
Bolan comes face-to-face with pure evil when he gets caught in the cross fire between a rogue army general hungry for power and a ruthless multinational corporation plotting to reap billions from the blood of the innocent. But the Executioner is ready to lay his trap as he heads deep into the bush to stalk the deadliest predator of all—man.
The masked man came in low
Mack Bolan staggered backward, lining up his sights on his opponent. Before he could draw a bead, the man was on him, grabbing the pistol. Bolan hit the earth with a breath-stealing thump, his gun flying from his hands. His opponent jumped on top of him and settled on his chest, crushing the air out of his lungs.
Just as Bolan’s vision began contracting to a fuzzy gray tunnel, his hand scrabbled over the other man’s mask and found his unprotected throat. Curling his fingers, Bolan threw a short punch directly at his enemy’s Adam’s apple. Taken by surprise, the man choked. His grip slackened for a moment, and that was all Bolan needed.
Twisting his upper body, he wrenched the merc’s hands from his throat and shoved him off.
Bolan rose first.
Tackling his opponent, he slammed his interlaced fingers into the back of the man’s neck.
The merc collapsed to the ground, with the Executioner on top of him, and lay there, unmoving, as one last breath wheezed out of him.
Jungle Hunt
Don Pendleton
Do not call the forest that shelters you a jungle.
—African proverb
I often find that those who rape and pillage villages within Third World nations think no one will notice or care. And I am happy to show the perpetrators the error of their ways.
—Mack Bolan
The
Mack Bolan
Legend
Nothing less than a war could have fashioned the destiny of the man called Mack Bolan. Bolan earned the Executioner title in the jungle hell of Vietnam.
But this soldier also wore another name—Sergeant Mercy. He was so tagged because of the compassion he showed to wounded comrades-in-arms and Vietnamese civilians.
Mack Bolan’s second tour of duty ended prematurely when he was given emergency leave to return home and bury his family, victims of the Mob. Then he declared a one-man war against the Mafia.
He confronted the Families head-on from coast to coast, and soon a hope of victory began to appear. But Bolan had broken society’s every rule. That same society started gunning for this elusive warrior—to no avail.
So Bolan was offered amnesty to work within the system against terrorism. This time, as an employee of Uncle Sam, Bolan became Colonel John Phoenix. With a command center at Stony Man Farm in Virginia, he and his new allies—Able Team and Phoenix Force—waged relentless war on a new adversary: the KGB.
But when his one true love, April Rose, died at the hands of the Soviet terror machine, Bolan severed all ties with Establishment authority.
Now, after a lengthy lone-wolf struggle and much soul-searching, the Executioner has agreed to enter an “arm’s-length” alliance with his government once more, reserving the right to pursue personal missions in his Everlasting War.
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Travis Morgan for his contribution to this work.
Contents
PROLOGUE
Quito, Ecuador
The air in the large office, located in a nondescript building on a side street of the capital city, was humid and still, barely stirred by a slow-moving ceiling fan. The daily rain had already come, leaving a damp scent of water ignored by the two men in the room.
Jaime Cordero sat in the guest seat, a leather-upholstered wingback chair that squeaked with his every movement. A thin, stooped man, his shoulders were hunched from decades of civil service, service that had worn on him over the years, lined his face, eroded his stature, receded his hairline. His brown, off-the-rack suit hung on him like a scarecrow’s costume, a stained tie loosely