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NARCO BREAKDOWN
The drug syndicate running the heroin pipeline from the Golden Crescent of Afghanistan, Iran and Pakistan crosses a line when it begins hijacking the narco-traffic markets controlled by Asia’s Triads. When the ensuing turf war claims lives on America’s streets, Mack Bolan prepares to do battle—without official sanction. The Executioner is willing to do or die to prevent a bloodbath on U.S. soil.
In a retaliatory strike, Bolan hits New York’s Chinatown, where a scorched earth message ignites fear and uncertainty. Exactly as planned. Now all he has to do is follow the panicked trail to the big predators across the ocean in France and Hong Kong. As his relentless pursuit puts a savage enemy on the defensive, the Executioner homes in for the kill. To cripple both factions, he must successfully play the rivals off each other. Victory means both cartels go down in flames.
The HE grenade blew the door off its hinges
As the triad overlord sprawled across a sofa, bleeding from a gash below his hairline, he fumbled in vain for the semiauto pistols he’d dropped when he was taken down. He stared up into Mack Bolan’s eyes.
“Who are you?”
“I’m your judgment,” Bolan replied, dropping the grenade launcher and whipping out his pistol, drilling the man with a 9 mm Parabellum round between his arched eyebrows. The overlord sagged and slid off the couch, leaving his final thoughts spread over the upholstery.
“Back out the way we came,” Bolan advised Bizhani, brushing past him on the short run toward the service stairs. He now had the Steyr AUG in hand, prepared to greet gunners waiting on the flights below.
Job done, and all that remained now was for the Executioner to get out of here. Alive.
China White
Don Pendleton
Justice should remove the bandage from her eyes long enough to distinguish between the vicious and the unfortunate.
—Robert Ingersoll, 1833–1899
My eyes are clear. I recognize the guilty. They have judged themselves.
—Mack Bolan
For Staff Sergeant Clinton Romesha, U.S. Army
Contents
PROLOGUE
Confucius Plaza, New York City
Tommy Mu was starting to get nervous. He was due on Mott Street, at the Lucky Dragon, in ten minutes, and he wasn’t sure that he could make it. Being late was bad, particularly with the product he was carrying. It could mean punishment.
But getting killed along the way was worse.
He had been followed from the pickup, though he hadn’t seen the stalkers on his tail until his taxi had crossed Henry Street and rolled into Chinatown. He had begun to let his guard down, relaxing as he made it back to his home turf, and then he’d spotted it: a jet-black SUV he’d glimpsed before, while he was getting in the cab, and hadn’t thought to watch for on the ride downtown.
Stupid.
He should have paid closer attention, should have known there might be watchers, what with all the other crazy shit that had been going on the past few weeks. The SUV’s windshield was tinted just enough that Mu couldn’t make out who was trailing him, but he felt safe in ruling out the DEA. If they’d been on his case, they would have swooped in at the pickup, grabbing him with the product, his supplier with the cash he’d handed over. Get the whole damn ball of wax.
No. This was someone else.
Which only made it worse.
If he’d been busted, Mu could have called his lawyer, posted bail and started thinking about where to run and hide in lieu of facing trial. But these weren’t cops. And that meant, if they took him in, the odds of him coming back were nil. He might wind up in the East River, or he might just disappear.
Whatever. Dead was dead, and Mu wasn’t ready for it.
So he’d told the cabbie that he’d changed his mind about going to Mott Street. He had the hack stop at Confucius Square, where there were people all around, making a snatch more hazardous.
Back in the old days, Mu understood, New Yorkers might have stood and watched him be
