Dying Art. Don Pendleton
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out.
A blood trail wound toward the window, and more smears of red decorated the wall next to it. Bolan sprinted to the opening and chanced a quick look. Twenty feet below, the black van revved its engine, then started to roar away from the scene, the rear door partially open. A hand holding an MP5 jutted from the rear and fired another blast of rounds skittering off the side of the building.
Bolan ducked back. By the time he was able to return fire, the van was no longer in sight. He’d been too late...
The best weapon against an enemy is another enemy.
—Friedrich Nietzsche
The road I’ve chosen hasn’t been an easy one to travel, but anything worthwhile seldom is. I’m committed to justice. And I will follow a money trail to the end. Count on it.
—Mack Bolan
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
Casa del Mar Resort Baja California, Mexico
It was 2:45 a.m., and the party was still going strong. The cacophony emanating from the exclusive resort was loud, and the smell of marijuana wafted down from the white stucco buildings and over the rows of cabanas and the large potted palm trees along the private beach. As well as the sweet odor of the cannabis, the lively music and sounds of laughter carried far into the warm summer night. Several couples strolled down the multitiered stone staircase toward the rows of smaller thatched-roof shelters along the beach. Some walked in the moonlight near the wire fencing that separated this section of oceanfront from the vacant expanses on either side of the resort. A few ventured out into the shallow portion of the surf. One particular couple had retreated into a beachfront shelter, apparently to enjoy the modicum of privacy the shadows offered.
The tension was coiling within Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, as he checked the directional indicator on his smartphone and then focused his night-vision binoculars on the amorous pair. Half a dozen solitary men, all carrying Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine guns, followed the would-be lovers at a close, but respectable, distance.
Bodyguards for the drug lord’s son, no doubt, Bolan thought.
He and the team of Mexican marines had been in place for hours, and the waiting and watching had long since grown tedious. But he knew it was also necessary to monitor various couples if they wanted to catch the brass ring.
Sergeant Jésus Martinez checked the directional scope and said, “Those two.” He was a big man, dressed in the camouflage uniform of his team. He and Bolan had worked missions together before, and the Executioner felt a confidence in the man’s abilities and expertise. He’d specifically requested that Martinez and his men accompany the two Americans on this special, unauthorized mission south of the border. The balaclava mask that usually covered Martinez’s face during ops was rolled up on his forehead. The area around his eyes was blackened with camo paint. “You see them?”
“The pair necking in the shelter?” Bolan whispered. He pointed to the area. “You’re sure?”
Martinez brought his own night-vision binoculars up and studied the amorous pair intently for several seconds. Then he grunted. “Sí.”
Bolan took another look at the man and the woman. They were stretched out on a lawn chair under the