Cutting Edge Read online

  Annotation

  Mack Bolan's war takes him south of the border, following a trail he thinks will lead him to the heart of the Medellin drug cartel. Saddled with a bush-league mercenary coerced into fingering key Medellin strike zones, the Executioner is walking a deadly tightrope straight to hell.

  As he cuts a deep swath through th hierarchy of the most notorious narcotics distributors in the world, Bolan uncovers a sinister conspiracy between the Cartel and the Cuban premier that could push his Everlasting War into the no-win zone.

  But the Executioner vows to stalk his prey to the highest corridors of power. He knows the bigger they are… the harder they fall.

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  Don Pendleton's

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  Don Pendleton's

  The Executioner

  Cutting Edge

  We, too, born to freedom, and believing in freedom, are willing to fight to maintain freedom. We, and all others who believe as deeply as we do, would rather die on our feet than live on our knees.

  Franklin Delano Roosevelt

  June 19, 1941

  I've been asked, on occasion, what payment I expect for services rendered. Payment? I've been paid, all right, but not in money. The U.S. has provided me and other Americans with the finest brand of freedom in the history of the human race. It's the only payment I've ever gotten. It's the only payment I want.

  Mack Bolan

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jerry VanCook for his contribution to this work.

  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.

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  The house reeked of death, the death of the thousands who had died so that it might be built.

  Mack Bolan raised the bottle of beer to his lips, took a sip and carefully returned it to the coaster on the coffee table. The clink of glass against glass echoed hollowly throughout the spacious room. Bolan's eyes scanned the oak-paneled walls of the second-story den, the warrior's mind instinctively registering possible cover, concealment and escape routes that might be utilized at a moment's notice. Leaning back in the overstuffed leather armchair, he crossed his legs and felt the Beretta 93-R bite into the hard flesh beneath his belt.

  Mexico meant hot weather; hot weather meant no jackets and no jackets meant no holsters — at least not in the role he was playing.

  Once again he took inventory of the wooden gun cabinet on the far wall: three bolt-action hunting rifles, one 12-gauge Ithaca shotgun and an Uzi. Some or all of "which he might soon call into action.

  His decision to go undercover into one of the largest of the Medellín cartels had left him necessarily undergunned.

  Absently Bolan studied the label on the Mexican beer bottle before him, mentally retracing the steps that had led him to the Rodriguez ranch. David Warren, the cartel's new American connection, had finally agreed to tell Bolan all he knew about the pickup scheduled today at this ranch house south of Nuevo Laredo. A special little Executioner interrogation had convinced Warren it was his only course of action.

  Bolan had learned from Warren that this Mexican faction of the Colombia-based cartel had never met the American face-to-face. The warrior had decided to simply step in and take his place, and the American death merchant was given a one-way ticket to the hell he so richly deserved.

  The Executioner surveyed the elaborate den once more, knowing his unease stemmed from the fact that it had all gone too smoothly. So far, waiting had proved to be the hardest part of the mission. The cocaine shipment from Colombia wouldn't arrive until evening, and it went against the Executioner's grain to lounge around a multimillion-dollar ranch house built by the blood of others.

  He suddenly became alert, his senses detecting the rich smell of a cigar that would cost the average Mexican peasant a week's pay. Seconds later the heavily carved oak door to the hall swung open on silent hinges.

  Manuel Rodriguez waddled into the room and set a silver tray of caviar, fruit and assorted cheeses on the coffee table before collapsing into the sofa across from Bolan. Smoke streamed from an enormous Cuban cigar caressed by the Mexican's fleshy lips. The thin, light blue cloth of the fancy pleated guayabera rode up his side, revealing rolls of fat that folded the top of his slacks over the restricting alligator belt. Contentment oozed from the drug dealer as he settled into the soft leather upholstery and blew a perfect smoke ring toward the rough-hewn ceiling beams.

  "So, Senor Warren," Rodriguez finally said, "how shall we spend our day? I have an excellent bottle of tequila in the cabinet. Scotch or cognac, if you prefer." He paused to lean forward to the coffee table, his face reddening with the exertion. Heaping caviar onto a huge slab of white cheese, he jammed it past his lips, tiny black eggs falling from the sides of his mouth to leave purple stains on the front of his shirt. "I have also several of the most beautiful young women in all Mexico here today," Rodriguez continued through the mouthful of food. "And as you Americans like to joke, each of them a virgin." The giant belly quivered as he cackled with vulgar laughter.

  Bolan lifted his Corona and smiled. "I'm fine."

  "Yes, though we have never met, we have many common friends. They tell me you're a man of restraint. I like that. I like that very much. I think this is the beginning of a very long and profitable friendship of our own."

  The Executioner smiled once more, careful not to show his impatience. "I'm sure that it is."

  Bolan was sure that the next few hours would be profitable. Not to Rodriguez, or the cartel, but to the decent citizens of the world. As soon as the plane carrying the cocaine arrived, he would take care of the ruthless savage and the rest of his men, destroy the shipment, then search the ranch for leads that would take him to the next rung on the cartel's ladder.

  The warrior leaned back once more in the armchair. He smiled again at his host, this time without strain. "Yes, Seňor Rodriguez, I'm sure that today will be profitable."

  It was then that they heard the plane.

  Rodriguez smiled. "Ah, amigo. It seems that your order arrives early." The fat man struggled from the couch and waddled toward the large picture window overlooking the courtyard and landing strip.

  Bolan followed. Far in the distance he saw a speck grow larger as it neared the ranch. Soon the distinctive lines of a Beechcraft Baron became visible. From the corner of his eye, he saw wrinkles of curiosity begin to etch across Rodriguez's face.

  "That's not our airplane," Rodriguez said.

  Bolan turned to face him. "Then whose is it?"

  Rodriguez shrugged, turned his palms up and expended his arms in Latin drama. "I don't know." Turning suddenly toward Bolan, he asked suspiciously, "How about you, seňor? Do you know who is honoring me with a surprise visit?"

  "No," Bolan stated flatly.

  The Executioner's eyes followed Rodriguez to the telephone on the bar. One hand lifted the receiver from its cradle while the pudgy fingers of the other tapped numbers. The man spoke in rapid Spanish, and through the window Bolan saw half a dozen men, armed with Uzis and M-16s, gather near the elaborately landscaped courtyard.

  Rodriguez replaced the telephone. "It's undoubtedly nothing, Seňor Warren. Perhaps a pilot who has gone off course and needs directions. It happens with small aircraft." Rodriguez stuffed a new cigar in his mouth and lighted it. "But in our business," he said — through puffs of black smoke, "it pays to take no chances, eh? I have alerted my guards here as well as the reinforcements who are presently waiting to protect your shipment tonight. They will arrive early — just in case."

  Bolan glanced again at the gun cabinet on the wall behind him. Depending on who was in the plane that now circled overhead, he might need its contents earlier than he'd planned.

  Rodriguez rejoined Bolan at the window as the Beechcraft prepared to land, coughing and choking, with bluish-green clouds of smoke trailing behind.

  The dealer seemed relieved. "Ah, amigo," he said. "As you see, I was correct. It appears one of
the engines is out, no?"

  "No." The Executioner didn't know who was in the plane that now touched down on the landing strip, didn't know if it was friend or foe. But years of doing battle in the jungles of southeast Asia — and those created by drug pushers and other savages throughout the world — had honed Bolan's instinct for impending trouble to a razor's edge.

  Regardless of who exited the airplane in the next few moments, Bolan knew that a firefight was about to take place.

  Without speaking, he drew the Beretta from beneath his waistband and smashed the weapon against the temple of the flabby-faced dealer.

  Before the drug lord's body hit the floor, the warrior was on the move, crossing the room to reach the gun cabinet. He grabbed both the Uzi and Ithaca 12-gauge, slung the shotgun over his shoulder and returned the Beretta to his waistband along with extra magazines for the Uzi.

  He got back to the window just in time to see four heavily armed men in black vests and hoods exit the plane, firing on the run. Two of Rodriguez's drug guards went down while the others scrambled for cover.

  Still wondering who the new arrivals might be, Bolan raced down the steps of the ranch house. On the landing halfway to the bottom, a surprised and confused guard raised a .357 Magnum as Bolan approached.

  He was a split second too slow.

  Firing from the hip, the Executioner cut a 9 mm S from the gunner's waist to his neck.

  Through the glass doors to the courtyard, Bolan saw two of the newcomers sprint across the runway toward the hangar. The steady fire of the other two had the remaining Mexican gunners pinned down behind various cover. Closer now, Bolan could see that the black headgear the invaders wore extended down over their Faces to form a mask.

  Bolan's gut-level instinct told him that the men in the ski masks were no better than the savages who returned their fire. But while the Executioner had learned to trust his instincts, he had always gone to whatever extent was necessary to ensure the safety of innocents. Anyone on the side of justice — police, military, even morally justified mercenaries — were his allies.

  Even when they mistakenly hunted him. Even when they tried to kill him.

  And Bolan wasn't positive that the newcomers were the enemy. Any number of possibilities existed, ranging from American DEA agents to rival drug dealers. True, their disguises suggested motives less than honorable, but the Executioner wouldn't act until he was certain.

  Bolan had never killed an innocent man, and he wasn't about to start now. But as he burst through the glass doors to the courtyard, the warrior was sure that this Mexican branch of the Medellín cocaine empire was the enemy. So he'd focus his attention on them. And if he learned in the process that these mysterious new arrivals were yet another threat to the law-abiding citizens of the world then they, too, would feel the cleansing fire of the Executioner.

  Raising the Uzi, Bolan fired a long burst at a cartel gunner who'd taken refuge behind a concrete statue of Aphrodite. The first few rounds shattered the Greek goddess, and Bolan heard the hidden man's screams as concrete exploded around him.

  The final rounds of the burst silenced those screams.

  One of the intruders dropped to one knee on the runway and fired a battle-scarred Thompson at a fleeing figure behind the swimming pool pump house. The other masked man struggled furiously with a weapon malfunction.

  Bolan dived headfirst behind a large planter and watched as the clumsy man, hands fumbling with an M-16, took a round in the chest. The force knocked him to his back, but he was on his feet again in seconds, still trying vainly to clear a jammed cartridge from the M-16's ejection port.

  Bolan took a closer look at the man's black vest. Kevlar. The helmet and face mask were undoubtedly made from the same bullet-resistant material.

  The Executioner fired another burst as the man with the jammed weapon took two rounds in the knee from a gunner who'd suddenly appeared on the roof. Bolan raised the Uzi and caught the sniper with a short burst to the throat. The man tumbled forward, his foot catching in the gutter at the roof's edge and somersaulting him into the swimming pool below.

  Bolan sprang to his feet and dashed toward what remained of the statue of Aphrodite. Spitting his own cover fire as he ran, the Executioner dived over the body under the shattered concrete and rolled to a stop behind another, similar structure.

  Ares. Greek god of war.

  From this new vantage point, he could see the hangar on the other side of the runway where the two men who'd crossed earlier now taxied a small Cessna through the overhead door.

  Bolan shoved a fresh clip into the Uzi and crouched behind the edge of the statue, inching his way into position to take out the remaining guards who lay hidden behind a three-foot brick wall. Suddenly two hands lifted an AK-47 over the bricks and fired blindly in the direction of both Bolan and the newcomers on the tarmac. The warrior ducked behind cover. He dropped the Uzi and unslung the Ithaca, racking the slide to chamber a round. Pressing the stock firmly against his right shoulder, he cut loose two rounds of double-aught buckshot. The AK-47 tumbled out of sight beneath the brick.

  The second gunner behind the wall rose and fired his Uzi at the masked men on the runway, effectively stopping what appeared to be a halfhearted attempt by the Thompson-gunner to drag his wounded partner to safety. Several rounds went wild, cutting through the thin skin of the Beechcraft Baron, and Bolan heard the man with the Thompson curse as the pilot took off down the runway to escape the onslaught.

  The Executioner fired his third round of buckshot through the embroidered peasant shirt of the Mexican gunner behind the wall. Wild eyes rolled up and under the lids as the corpse plunged forward over the bricks.

  From the corner of his eye, Bolan saw the man with the Thompson bolt across the runway toward the Cessna, twisting periodically to lay down short bursts. Some of the rounds flew toward the ranch house, but the fleeing masked man directed most of his fire at his fallen comrade on the runway.

  From somewhere far in the distance came the faint sound of vehicles approaching the ranch.

  Rodriguez's reinforcements.

  The Executioner had no idea how many men he might face when they arrived in the next few minutes. Checking his weaponry, he counted one shell left in the low-capacity Ithaca and two full clips for the Uzi. And the Beretta didn't have a full magazine.

  It wouldn't be enough. Not by a long shot.

  Bolan harbored no fear of death. He had resigned himself to its dark embrace long ago when he first embarked on his one-man war against evil. He fought each battle under the assumption that he was already dead, in a sense, and that each breath he took, each shot he fired, was on borrowed time. But he had vowed that as many as possible of the world's human predators would accompany him down that lonely dark road.

  The warrior quickly scanned the ranch house. He could retrace his steps and procure the remaining weapons and ammunition in the upstairs gun cabinet, but bolt-action rifles were hardly what this situation warranted, and his quick inventory had revealed a very limited supply of ammo for the Uzi and shotgun. The ranch's primary arsenal had to be hidden somewhere on the grounds, but he'd need time to locate it.

  And time was something the Executioner didn't have.

  This arm of the cartel was only a small part of a virus that threatened to infect the world. Many other, larger wars remained to be fought. If his quest ended here, the plague would rage on, eventually engulfing society.

  Bolan gritted his teeth as he made a decision that tore at his soul. He wouldn't, couldn't, sacrifice the war for one battle. Withdrawal was the only sensible course of — action.

  Temporary withdrawal. He'd return to his shabby hotel room in Nuevo Laredo to regroup and rearm.

  And return.

  Bolan replaced the near-empty Uzi chip with a fresh one. Far in the distance he could see the masked man with the Thompson grab the door of the taxiing Cessna and swing on board.

  A short, muscular Mexican rose from behind the brick wall and took his time sighting on the Cessna, which gave the Executioner more than enough time of his own to take out the man with a stream of 9 mm death.