“We’re in a damn tight spot!”
The woman struggled to sit up. She lifted her arm and pointed out the spiderwebbed front windshield down the road from where they had fled.
“I only want to see my little girl again. Please, you have to help me see her again.”
Her voice was too raw with emotion for it to be a lie, and Bolan couldn’t help but respond with the same honesty.
“I will, I promise you, I will help you. But you have to help, you have to fight.”
“Here they come!” she cried.
The Executioner whipped his head around and saw headlights appear out of the darkness, bearing down on them with deadly speed. He snarled and continued driving. The vehicle was shaking apart from the brutal beating it was taking on the rough road. The woman fought her way into a sitting position and snapped her seat belt into place as Bolan pushed the gas pedal to the floor.
Then the grenades began to rain down.
Desperate Passage
The Executioner®
Don Pendleton
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Nathan Meyer for his contribution to this work.
Between two groups that want to make inconsistent kinds of worlds, I see no remedy except force.
—Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.
1841–1935
When there is no option but force, I will be that force.
—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
1
Mack Bolan stood on the runway at Diego Garcia.
The thirty-seven-mile long atoll sat in the Indian Ocean just over one thousand miles south of the southern coast of India. It formed a sort of geographical aircraft carrier for U.S. military forces, with a runway long enough to accommodate the heaviest planes in the Air Force.
Bolan closed his eyes to the warmth of the sun and turned his face toward the sea breeze coming through the lush tropical vegetation. He wore a flight suit devoid of identification and rank. It was splattered with blood.
Diego Garcia curved around a twelve-mile-long lagoon nearly five miles across. The atoll was a joint British and American venture and had become increasingly pivotal to U.S. strategic interests since its inception as a military base in 1971.
It had served as the launching pad for Marine Prepositioning Squadron Two and similar units designated as logistical support of naval and army units. It had also been rumored to be a clandestine location site in the government’s controversial Extraordinary Rendition program for terror detainees.
The base commanding officer hadn’t batted an eye when presented with paperwork originating from the director of National Intelligence, instructing him to give the unidentified man before him every operational courtesy while maintaining complete indifference as to his purpose.
Bolan put a foot on the heavy pack at his feet. A slim wireless ear jack was set into his right ear, and it chirped. Bolan pressed a finger to the device.
“Go ahead,” he said quietly, the sensitive microphone picking up his speech vibrations through the hard, prominent angle of his cheekbone.
“We’re coming in now,” Jack Grimaldi said.
“Copy, Jack,” Bolan replied.
He turned his head toward the horizon and was able to immediately pick out the quickly growing shape of the C-12 Huron, the military version of the twin-engine Beechcraft King Air model airplane.
Grimaldi touched the aircraft down gently and braked along the runway, following instructions from military air traffic controllers. Bolan reached down and shouldered the heavy pack at his feet. An M-4 carbine was strapped to the outside. While waiting, he had spent some time disassembling and cleaning the weapon.
As Grimaldi taxied the plane
