Murder Island Read online

  HUNTER’S SNARE

  On an uncharted island in the Indian Ocean, a psychotic hunter stalks the most dangerous prey: man. His newest target is an international arms dealer, a criminal who was in CIA custody when his plane was shot down. Sent in to locate the missing prisoner, Mack Bolan finds himself caught in the same trap.

  But Bolan isn’t the only one trying to secure the arms dealer. A team of mercenaries has joined the game, and they’re playing to win. Hunted by the mercs, a psychopath’s army and the island’s deadly animal life, Bolan will need every tactic in his arsenal to recapture the prisoner and put an end to a maniac’s big game hunt.

  The tiger sprang toward him, jaws wide.

  Bolan hurtled forward, the sharp edges of the plants smacking into him. He could hear the tiger panting behind him.

  The Executioner began calculating the distance he would need between himself and the animal to get off a good shot. If it came down to it, he would have to roll when the beast lunged and try to get under it. He might stand a chance if he could put a shot into its heart or its head before the tiger opened him up with its claws.

  Suddenly, the greenery gave way to a sea of lights. Bolan skidded to a halt inches away from the wide expanse of tinted glass that marked the boundary of the rooftop atrium. The glass was wet with condensation, but even so he could see the panorama of Hong Kong at night spread out before him.

  Bolan heard the scrape of the tiger’s paws and spun, leveling the UMP. Too late. The tiger hit him like a cannonball, and he slammed backward into the glass. There was a sound like a hundred bottles shattering, and then the night air caught him, and he was spinning through space in a cloud of broken glass.

  #366 Pele’s Fire

  #367 Loose Cannon

  #368 Crisis Nation

  #369 Dangerous Tides

  #370 Dark Alliance

  #371 Fire Zone

  #372 Lethal Compound

  #373 Code of Honor

  #374 System Corruption

  #375 Salvador Strike

  #376 Frontier Fury

  #377 Desperate Cargo

  #378 Death Run

  #379 Deep Recon

  #380 Silent Threat

  #381 Killing Ground

  #382 Threat Factor

  #383 Raw Fury

  #384 Cartel Clash

  #385 Recovery Force

  #386 Crucial Intercept

  #387 Powder Burn

  #388 Final Coup

  #389 Deadly Command

  #390 Toxic Terrain

  #391 Enemy Agents

  #392 Shadow Hunt

  #393 Stand Down

  #394 Trial by Fire

  #395 Hazard Zone

  #396 Fatal Combat

  #397 Damage Radius

  #398 Battle Cry

  #399 Nuclear Storm

  #400 Blind Justice

  #401 Jungle Hunt

  #402 Rebel Trade

  #403 Line of Honor

  #404 Final Judgment

  #405 Lethal Diversion

  #406 Survival Mission

  #407 Throw Down

  #408 Border Offensive

  #409 Blood Vendetta

  #410 Hostile Force

  #411 Cold Fusion

  #412 Night’s Reckoning

  #413 Double Cross

  #414 Prison Code

  #415 Ivory Wave

  #416 Extraction

  #417 Rogue Assault

  #418 Viral Siege

  #419 Sleeping Dragons

  #420 Rebel Blast

  #421 Hard Targets

  #422 Nigeria Meltdown

  #423 Breakout

  #424 Amazon Impunity

  #425 Patriot Strike

  #426 Pirate Offensive

  #427 Pacific Creed

  #428 Desert Impact

  #429 Arctic Kill

  #430 Deadly Salvage

  #431 Maximum Chaos

  #432 Slayground

  #433 Point Blank

  #434 Savage Deadlock

  #435 Dragon Key

  #436 Perilous Cargo

  #437 Assassin’s Tripwire

  #438 The Cartel Hit

  #439 Blood Rites

  #440 Killpath

  #441 Murder Island

  MURDER ISLAND

  The good man is perished out of the earth: and there is none upright among men: they all lie in wait for blood; they hunt every man his brother with a net.

  —Micah 7:2

  The world is full of bloodthirsty men, but not all of them are brutal hunters. And those who would betray their brothers, their allies or their country will have to deal with me.

  —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

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  1

  Mack Bolan paused, straining to catch the smallest whisper of sound. The air was hot, and a trickle of sweat inched its way between the dark fatigues he wore beneath his body armor and the skin on the back of his neck. Insects buzzed softly around him, audible but not visible. The jungle was awash in sound, but it was muted by the close-set foliage that cast shadows over the trail ahead.

  Bolan had a lean, rangy shape. He stood so still that if anyone had been present, they might have thought him simply one more shadow among the multitude cast by the trees that rose up around him. Their wide, fleshy leaves formed a green canopy overhead.

  There was no sky to be seen above him and no road ahead of him—only a wall of vibrant greens, yellows and browns. The air pressed in on Bolan’s mouth and nose like a wet towel. He was reminded of a Louisiana hothouse he’d once had the bad fortune to spend a night in. He’d been hunting that night, as well—different targets, but for similar reasons.

  Wary now, his combat-honed senses tingling, the Executioner sank down and checked his gear. A Heckler & Koch UMP-45 was strappe
d across his chest and his Ka-Bar knife sat snugly in its sheath on his leg. His Desert Eagle pistol was on his hip and a sound-suppressed Beretta 93-R was holstered at the small of his back. The Beretta was set to fire 3-round bursts—something that had proved handy more than once. It was a .22 TCM conversion, with a 25-round magazine, plus one in the chamber. The Desert Eagle, in contrast, had only eight rounds in the magazine, but it also had a good deal more stopping power.

  All three firearms, as well as the quintet of M-18 smoke grenades hanging from his web gear, had been provided by Stony Man Farm’s resident weapons guru, John “Cowboy” Kissinger, and as such could be relied on to perform to battlefield specifications.

  Bolan crouched there for long moments, poised on the knife edge of action. An acrid odor filled his nostrils—a raw scent, an animal stink that set cruel hooks into the atavistic portions of his brain. His body screamed at him to freeze, but he had long experience in ignoring such instincts and he lunged forward, rolling away.

  A heavy body, tawny and striped black, slammed down on the spot where he’d been crouched. A long shape unwound and turned toward him, tail lashing in frustration as Bolan rose to his feet. He hadn’t expected to see a tiger and the microsecond of surprise that followed nearly cost him his life. The animal leaped again. Bolan jerked aside. His back slammed into a tree and the tiger surged past, vanishing into the foliage with a frustrated snarl.

  Adrenaline pumping now, Bolan tracked the flashes of orange as the animal circled him. He hefted the UMP, considering. The soldier rarely killed animals unless absolutely necessary. Then again, he might not get the chance. Tigers were, pound for pound, among the most dangerous animals on the planet, fully capable of killing a man as well-schooled in the ways of war as himself.

  Even as the thought crossed his mind, the tiger sprang at him again, jaws wide. Bolan shoved away from the tree and began to run. He hurtled forward, the sharp edges of the plants smacking into him. He could hear the tiger panting behind him. The Executioner began calculating the distance he would need between him and the animal to get off a good shot. If it came down to it, he would have to roll when the beast lunged and try to get under it. He might stand a chance if he could put a shot into its heart or its head before the tiger opened him up with its claws.

  Suddenly the greenery of the jungle gave way to a sea of lights. Bolan skidded to a halt inches away from the wide expanse of tinted glass that marked the boundary of the rooftop atrium. The glass was wet with condensation, but even so he could see the panorama of Hong Kong at night spread out in front of him.

  This close to the window, he could hear the alarms and see a query mark of oily smoke rising from the car he’d set on fire on the street below. The fire had occupied the building’s staff while Bolan had taken the elevator as high as it could go. Unfortunately the elevator required a code and a retina scan to go any higher. It had been simple enough to climb out the hatch in the elevator’s roof and haul himself up the cables to the next floor, insert a pry bar between the elevator doors and make his way into the penthouse apartments of Byron Cloud.

  The guards outside Cloud’s apartment had been easy enough to dispatch, and quietly at that. But the ones inside had been a different matter. The firefight had allowed Cloud to make his escape. He had the instincts of a rat and he’d fled the moment Bolan showed his face, running for the stairs that led from the penthouse to this atrium and a helipad.

  The indoor jungle was only one of Cloud’s seemingly endless indulgences. The tiger was another, judging by its rhinestone collar. Cloud had likely let the animal loose, hoping it would occupy Bolan. He shook his head slightly, bemused. It wasn’t often that someone threw a vicious animal at him.

  Cloud made his tiger money by selling weapons to the weaponless. Guns, bombs and worse were his stock-in-trade; if it could be used to kill, Cloud had it in stock. He’d supplied more than a dozen terrorist organizations and criminal cartels with the tools of their filthy trade, and he had contact with the representatives of a dozen more.

  Cloud was a walking Rolodex of operational intelligence, both for American security agencies and those of America’s allies. But he was protected, both politically and otherwise, which meant extradition of any sort was out. He occupied the first three floors of a building he owned through a shell corporation, and he had a security staff big enough to take over a small island nation, which meant any attempt to remove him forcibly would get very ugly very quickly.

  None of which bothered the Executioner.

  Bolan had come to Hong Kong at the request of the man who, once upon a time, had been in charge of the Federal task force assigned to bring the Executioner to heel. Now they were brothers-in-arms. Brognola was head of the Sensitive Operations Group and he directed the Stony Man Farm counterterrorist teams. When Hal Brognola, asked for help, Bolan gave it gladly. Especially when it involved taking down a creature like Cloud, a man who was no less guilty than the criminals and terrorists he supplied.

  Bringing Cloud to heel was too far outside the remit of any organization—even an extralegal group like Stony Man—to accomplish without jeopardizing international relations. But the Executioner could do as he damn well pleased.

  Bolan heard the scrape of the tiger’s paws and spun, leveling the UMP. But too late. The tiger hit him like a cannonball and he slammed backward into the glass. There was a sound like a hundred bottles shattering at once, and then the night air caught him and he was spinning through space in a cloud of broken glass. His stomach gave a lurch and he lost his grip on the UMP. The startled roar of the tiger filled his ears.

  The Hong Kong skyline spun crazily around him for a moment that seemed to stretch for an eternity, a revolving kaleidoscope of colors and lights. As he twisted, the scope of his vision was abruptly filled by an orange expanse of water.

  2

  Bolan crossed his arms over his head as the water rose up to meet him. He hit the surface and the force of his descent slammed him down against the bottom. White and yellow tiles burst at the point of impact and pain shot through him, shocking him into motion.

  He’d been hurt worse, and he forced the pain aside as he fought the instinct to struggle. It took him only a few seconds to realize he was in a swimming pool. He’d held his breath just before he hit, but if the water was deep enough to cushion his landing it was deep enough to drown in.

  Through chlorine-stung eyes, he saw the rush of bubbles that signaled the tiger joining him in the water. The animal struggled to the surface with great flailing motions, and Bolan thrust upward a moment later, muscles and lungs burning in equal measure. He splashed toward the shallow end of the rooftop pool, away from the tiger. His body armor had three great slashes running across it where the big cat’s claws had caught him. The vest was fully capable of stopping bullets, but 600 pounds of angry carnivore was a different matter entirely. Luckily, the tiger didn’t seem interested in resuming the hunt. It glowered at him for a moment before it shook itself and padded away.

  Satisfied there was no immediate danger, Bolan took in his surroundings. The atrium was only a single story above him, and he’d fallen into the pool that occupied the flat, patio-style balcony of the penthouse apartments below. Only luck had prevented his landing from being more unpleasant or even fatal, and a surge of anger, both at himself and at his quarry, rippled through him. It wasn’t often Bolan was caught by surprise. He thrust the thought away as he began to pull himself out of the pool.

  He turned as a crackle of static assaulted his ears and a voice said, “It’s like this, right—what good is owning a tiger if you don’t let it eat somebody every now and then? That’s half the value right there, I swear to God. I think I’m going to get a leopard seal next, though. Or maybe a hyena. I know a guy in Lagos who’s got one—a hyena, I mean, not a leopard seal. Though wouldn’t that be great? Shit, maybe I’ll get both. What do you think? Never mind, you’ve got other things to worry about.” A second wash of static accompanied this burst of verbal diarrhe
a and Bolan spotted the intercom speakers wired along the wall.

  A moment later he heard a familiar noise and turned as a helicopter bobbed into view above the edge of the roof. The intercom crackled again as the side door to the helicopter was hauled open by a wiry man in a suit worth more than the penthouse, with an artificial tan and teeth whiter than nature intended.

  Byron Cloud was a parody of every renegade Wall Street trader and stock-and-bond hustler Bolan had run across in his long career. Cloud lifted his designer sunglasses onto his head and waved at Bolan as if to catch his attention. He was wearing a headset and, as he spoke, his voice emerged again from the intercoms.

  “You like it? I got it cheap—it’s a Sikorsky S-76,” Cloud said. “Of course, I’ve made a few adjustments,” he continued, patting an M-60 machine gun mounted on an adjustable pintle arm. “Yard sale,” he said, bringing the machine gun around. “You would not believe what you can get for under a sawbuck in this economy.”

  He grinned at Bolan over the length of the weapon. “Shame about the pad, but, hey, buyer’s market. Besides, the feng shui needs a shakeup. Am I right? Ciao!” Cloud fired and the M-60 bucked in his grip. His laughter echoed from the speakers.

  Bolan ran for the patio doors and hurled himself through even as gunfire chewed the frame and the wall around them. Splinters of wood, plaster and glass filled the air. Bolan hit a leather couch with his shoulder and flipped it over. Bullets punched through, narrowly missing him.

  He scanned the room, wishing he hadn’t lost the UMP in the fall. Bolan couldn’t take on an M-60 with only a pistol. He caught sight of the bodies of the guards he’d killed earlier. More importantly, he saw their weapons. He reached out with his foot and snagged the nylon strap of an AR-15 semi-auto rifle. He dragged it closer as bullets continued to sear the air around him.

  “Still alive?” Cloud called through the few speakers he hadn’t managed to hit with his spray of gunfire. Whatever else he was, Cloud was no marksman. Nor did he seem to be trying particularly hard. He was like a child with a new toy. “Sweet,” Cloud said, as if Bolan had replied. “Look, I’m not a bad guy, right? I’ll give you a five count to get to the elevator. Then I’m opening up again.”