Stolen Arrows. Don Pendleton
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Bolan closed the cell phone with a click
The man had wished him luck. The Executioner shook his head at the sentiment. Right now civilization needed more than that. Balls and brains could only take a soldier so far; after that it was the draw of the cards. So far, his luck was holding, but for how much longer? Just one slip on his part and the bombs would disappear, until atomic fire burned a city to the ground.
A nuclear fireball bearing the technological signature of America and possibly starting a war that might never end.
The soldier hoped that Lady Luck would stick with him. He had to find the Zodiac in twenty-four hours.
Other titles available in this series:
Hardline
Firepower
Storm Burst
Intercept
Lethal Impact
Deadfall
Onslaught
Battle Force
Rampage
Takedown
Death’s Head
Hellground
Inferno
Ambush
Blood Strike
Killpoint
Vendetta
Stalk Line
Omega Game
Shock Tactic
Showdown
Precision Kill
Jungle Law
Dead Center
Tooth and Claw
Thermal Strike
Day of the Vulture
Flames of Wrath
High Aggression
Code of Bushido
Terror Spin
Judgment in Stone
Rage for Justice
Rebels and Hostiles
Ultimate Game
Blood Feud
Renegade Force
Retribution
Initiation
Cloud of Death
Termination Point
Hellfire Strike
Code of Conflict
Vengeance
Executive Action
Killsport
Conflagration
Storm Front
War Season
Evil Alliance
Scorched Earth
Deception
Destiny’s Hour
Power of the Lance
A Dying Evil
Deep Treachery
War Load
Sworn Enemies
Dark Truth
Breakaway
Blood and Sand
Caged
Sleepers
Strike and Retrieve
Age of War
Line of Control
Breached
Retaliation
Pressure Point
Silent Running
Stolen Arrows
Mack Bolan®
Don Pendleton
In doing what we ought, we deserve no praise, because it is our duty.
—St. Augustine, 354–430
It’s a soldier’s duty to stand guard against the forces of evil and to shout that none shall pass. In this I will not falter.
—Mack Bolan
As always, for Melissa.
And a special thanks to Lucia Read. She knows why.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
Archbishop Park, London
Distant thunder rumbled softly in the cloudy London sky, warning of a coming storm. Soon now, very soon.
Trying to act casually, heavily armed CIA operatives strolled through the budding greenery of the south bank parkland. No two were dressed alike, but each had a telltale flesh-colored wire trailing from his earplug to the compact transponder clipped to his gunbelt. A few smoked, one was eating an ice-cream cone,