turned to Joe, hands clutching her middle, and he saw her waist and legs were dark and wet.
“Oh my God—Brandy! Brandy! What the fuck—” Joe grabbed her as she staggered and fell, easing her to the ground and placing her on her back. As he did, he moved her hands aside and saw a gush of blood well from the wound in her stomach. “What the fuck did you do to her?”
“I stabbed an uppity bitch, that’s what I did.” Zeta knelt next to him and wiped her bloody blade on Brandy’s jeans. “She’ll bleed out in a day or two, and be in the most unimaginable agony the whole time. It’d be better if you let one of them put a bullet in her brain.”
“Joe…please don’t…please don’t leave me.” Brandy’s eyes were huge white pools of terror. She shook again, grabbing his jacket with bloody hands. “I’m cold—so cold.”
“Oh, fuck this.” Before Joe could do anything, Zeta reached out and drew her blade across the wounded girl’s throat. More blood gushed out, and she made horrible choking noises as she died in Joe’s arms.
The woman cleaned her blade off again and stood. “Trust me, you should really be thanking me—”
Joe saw red. A howl of fury burst from his throat, and he lunged into the woman, knocking her off balance and sending her tumbling into the men behind her. Whirling, he rushed at the two blocking the path, catching them both by surprise. As they scrambled to bring up their weapons, Joe drew the flashlight from his back pocket and swung it at the nearest man’s head, the plastic housing making a satisfying thunk as it connected with his skull. The man staggered under the blow, and Joe shoved him into his partner as he took off into the woods, hearing urgent orders behind him.
“No open shooting!”
“Stop him!”
“Sigma, Theta, go! Execute scorched earth!”
Joe ran like the Devil himself was behind him, stumbling along the path leading through the dark forest. The trail, which had seemed wide and clear earlier, was now a twisting, narrow ribbon of dirt under his feet. Branches clutched at his arms and clothing, and an exposed root caught his foot and made him hit the ground and bite his tongue. Tasting blood, he spit it out as he leaped to his feet and kept going, limping now on a twisted ankle. He tried to look around to see if the camouflaged crazies were chasing him or what, but all he saw was black forest, trees trunks rising everywhere like a huge fence, their branches looking like skeletal fingers reaching for him.
Joe knew they couldn’t have gone more than a half mile at the most, but his journey back seemed to be a marathon. Every time he thought he’d round one more turn and find the clearing and campsite, he only saw more dark trail. At last, however, he saw the welcoming glow of the fire. Trying to shout, but too winded to do anything more than wheeze, Joe staggered out of the woods toward the laughing and drinking group, which hadn’t noticed him yet.
George was the first to spot him lurching from the darkness. “Hey, the prodigal architect returns! Hey, buddy, you all right?”
Joe nearly fell as he tried to reach his roommate, going down to one knee as he fought for breath. He held out his hands, still sticky with Brandy’s blood. “Help—please—”
“What the fuck happened, Joe?” George held him up as the rest of the group clustered around, their questions flying.
“Did you guys have an accident?”
“Is Brandy injured?”
“Where is she?”
Joe labored to talk in between breaths. “She’s…she’s dead, and we’re next…killers…in the forest…coming after me—”
“What the hell are you talking about, Joe? And where the hell’s Brandy?”
Joe grabbed George’s down vest and pulled him close. “She’s dead, goddamnit! And we’re next if we don’t get outta here right fucking now!”
“Holy shit, you’re serious, aren’t you—” George had straightened and was looking around when Joe heard a strange noise, like cloth tearing. He looked up to see George staring at him with unfocused eyes, a small hole in his forehead leaking a trickle of red down his face. His roommate fell backward onto the fire, making Sandra scream as his body started burning.
“Oh shit—they’re here!” Joe sank to his knees as he realized what he’d done. “I led them right to you.”
Sanjay and Sam ran for the Jeep, while Sandra tried to pull George’s body from the fire. Joe looked back to see two camouflaged men appear from the woods and track the two running students. He heard that strange ripping cloth noise again, and both Sanjay and Sam fell to the ground near the Jeep, motionless. One of the men peeled off toward the two fallen students, while the other headed toward the fire.
Falling into shock, Joe could only watch as the man approached the fire and put a quick burst of bullets into Sandra’s chest. She flung up her arms and fell across George’s burning body in the fire, which was popping and crackling in the flames, the stench of burning flesh making his stomach clench. Through his numbness, Joe heard the tearing cloth sound again, and slowly looked over to see the far man putting bullets into the heads of his friends.
“Sorry, man.” Joe looked up into the muzzle of the automatic weapon pointed at him, the masked man holding it shaking his head. “Just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
The end of the submachine gun spit fire at his face, and Joe knew nothing more.
Chapter 1
Four days earlier
Mack Bolan strode through the luxurious casino floor of the Marina Bay Sands Singapore, oblivious to the bells and clatter of sophisticated slot machines and the chatter and exclamations of well-dressed men and women trying their luck at dozens of gaming tables. His feet sank into soft, plush carpet, while attractive staff served drinks to the high rollers, but he ignored all of the activity, his eyes alert for just one man.
Dressed in a tan sport coat, black short-sleeved shirt and navy slacks, Bolan blended easily into the crowd of natives and foreign tourists, despite his height and imposing presence. The clothes were brand-new—mainly because his luggage had been lost by one of the six airlines he had been on in the past four days, and was presently at least twenty-four hours and several thousand miles behind him. Bolan himself felt edgy from two weeks of nearly constant travel, all in pursuit of one man.
Kim Dae-jung was a renegade nuclear scientist who’d defected from North Korea after working ten years at the highest levels of that country’s nuclear program. The U.S. had mounted an audacious, top-secret mission to free him, only to suffer the embarrassment of having him give the slip to his handlers and walk out of his hotel in Sydney, Australia. Since then, he’d been traveling around the world, freely spending the ten million he’d stolen from the North Korean government, rarely staying more than one night in the same place, and being chased by an assortment of agents and operatives from several nations, including assassins from his homeland who were tasked with assuring Dae-jung took any military and national secrets to his grave.
Despite his flamboyant style—he favored Dom Perignon champagne and the most expensive luxury suites in every hotel he’d been at—the diminutive Korean had the devil’s own luck, escaping government dragnets in several countries. The President had contacted
