www.mirabooks.co.uk

      Special thanks and acknowledgment to

      Mike Linaker for his contribution to this work.

      Where there is no vision, the people perish.

      —Proverbs 29:18

      When leaders are motivated by personal gain their vision becomes clouded and the people they are meant to protect instead suffer. I will make those men see 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.

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      1

      Colombia

      Mack Bolan heard them coming for him again. The same two men had taken him from his cell for the past two days, always at dawn. He recognized the familiar scrape of boots on the worn stone slabs.

      He lay on his hard cot, counting the steps until they reached the cell door. Then came the grating of rusty bolts and the dry squeal of hinges as the door was pulled open. Pale light from the exterior passage lit the windowless cell. Each time they returned him to the room and closed the door he was plunged back into darkness.

      Bolan swung his legs off the cot and stood, working the stiffness from his bruised limbs. He moved around as much as possible during the empty hours, resisting the urge to simply be still. He knew if he did that his battered body would seize up. Moving was no less painful, but he persisted, always thinking ahead to the moment when he would be offered his chance. He would be ready.

      The first man to enter the cell was the one named Ricco. He was a big man, Bolan’s height, but with a poor physique. Overweight and out of condition, he wore a permanent scowl on his unshaven dark face. A mass of thick, untidy black hair hung to his rounded, soft shoulders.

      “Come on, yanqui,” he ordered. His English was slow and heavily accented. “Your friend is waiting for you. Today is special, too.”

      He pushed the Executioner out of the cell ahead of him.

      Ricco’s partner, Noriamo, stood outside the cell. Noriamo was lean, his bony face scarred with knife marks. He wore a heavy mustache that hid his mouth. As Bolan passed him Noriamo watched with small, glittering eyes. His amusement at Bolan’s nakedness was evident as he looked the captive over. As always, Noriamo was armed with a 9 mm Uzi that dangled from his skinny neck by a braided leather sling. He was constantly touching the weapon, as if to convince himself it was still there. Noriamo displayed a heightened degree of nervousness.

      They walked the length of the passage, reaching another door. Noriamo slid past Bolan and pushed the door open. Bolan knew what to expect in the interrogation room—stone walls and rough concrete floor. The room was marked with dark, dried bloodstains that announced it had been used many times. Some of that blood was his own. He expected the same treatment as the day before, and the day before that. Brutal, but not life threatening. Punches and blows delivered by experts who knew how to inflict pain without killing the recipient. Beatings that went on for long periods until his numb face and body didn’t register pain any longer. When that happened they stopped and let him rest before starting again.

      And then the questions. Again and again. The same questions every time….

      Who are you?

      Who do you work for?

      What do you know about us?

      Bolan had no answers for them. They wanted confirmation of their suspicions about Maggie Connor. The detail Bolan had learned in Miami would stay with him until he was able to use it against them.

      His chief tormentor, the man known as Santiago, was waiting for him.

      The cell door closed with a solid thud.

      “I admire your resilience,” Santiago said quietly. “But as I have already said many times, you are simply wasting your life and my time. We can end the unpleasantness now. Give me what I want and it will be over very quickly. There’s no point in letting this go on. In the