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  FREEDOM BROKERS

  When notorious killers and drug lords break out of a maximum security penitentiary, it soon becomes clear that these weren’t escapes; they were highly organized rescues. A covert organization is selling prison “insurance,” promising to bust criminals out of jail for a hefty price. With the justice system in shambles, the President is on the verge of declaring martial law—until Mack Bolan steps in.

  Undercover as a rival insurance salesman, Bolan hires his own team of con men. Establishing himself as a major player in the ‘’criminal relocation’’ business should bring him face-to-face with the operation’s kingpin. He’ll need more than his war skills to destroy this ruthless businessman. But when the Executioner sets up shop, he won’t back down until he obliterates the competition.

  “You’ll have to go undercover and earn a street rep.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Bolan replied. “I’m going to need a crew as backup. Street soldiers, good old-fashioned hardcase killers. Real criminals.”

  “What about Ziggy?” Brognola queried. “He might talk and blow the whole thing.”

  “We made a deal, and so far he’s keeping up his end with hard intel. The Farm is keeping him safely under wraps until this is over.”

  “So, you’ll call Leo? Man, this is going to be bloody.”

  “Hal, I’ve got no choice. I have to make Castle approach me. Then I’m going to burn their house down.”

  THE EXECUTIONER

  #348 CARNAGE CODE

  #349 FIRESTORM

  #350 VOLATILE AGENT

  #351 HELL NIGHT

  #352 KILLING TRADE

  #353 BLACK DEATH REPRISE

  #354 AMBUSH FORCE

  #355 OUTBACK ASSAULT

  #356 DEFENSE BREACH

  #357 EXTREME JUSTICE

  #358 BLOOD TOLL

  #359 DESPERATE PASSAGE

  #360 MISSION TO BURMA

  #361 FINAL RESORT

  #362 PATRIOT ACTS

  #363 FACE OF TERROR

  #364 HOSTILE ODDS

  #365 COLLISION COURSE

  #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

  Breakout

  In a market economy…the individual has some possibility of escaping from the power of the state.

  —Peter L. Berger,

  American sociologist

  Money may allow some people to escape the power of the state, but no one will escape my brand of justice.

  —Mack Bolan

  THE

  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 com-mand 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 1

  Preston County, West Virginia

  A thundering explosion ripped apart the night, chunks of concrete and tattered pieces of human remains soaring high and away into the starry sky. In a wild panic, birds erupted from the laurel and pine trees, and fat raccoons frantically waddled from their lairs to head for the nearby river.

  Unconcerned with such earthly matters, a full moon peacefully illuminated the West Virginia foothills and the river valley beyond. The cool, clear glow from above cast the rocky terrain in purest silver, every shadow an ebony pool of the deepest black.

  The echoing boom of the stentorian blast was still spreading across the landscape when the debris began to arrive, the horrid chunks smacking into the grass and river weeds with the sounds of a hard autumn rain.

  Instantly dozens of proximity sensors hidden underground went off the scale at the hellish impacts, and then a score of nonlethal land mines erupted into action, spraying huge clouds of tear gas and launching salvos of bright red flares skyward to show the prison guards exactly where to shoot.

  Automatically, thick steel slabs emerged to block every access road. The box-trestle bridge rose before turning slightly and blocking any possible access across the white-water river.

  Moments later piercing sirens started to howl and powerful sea
rchlights crashed into operation. The blinding beams brilliantly illuminated the cracked walls of the Preston State Penitentiary and the surrounding countryside.

  Dense volumes of acrid smoke poured from a gaping hole in the middle of the eastern wall, the smoldering bodies of guards and prisoners mixed among the smashed tons of concrete, broken bricks and twisted steel rods.

  By now, the remaining prisoners were fully awake in their cells and shouting at the tops of their lungs. Some wanted to know what had happened, but most were just delighted that anything had occurred to break up the endless monotony of staring at four gray walls. With an audible crackle, the generators died and every cell door slammed aside. Pausing for only an instant, the prisoners boiled out of their cells, dashing madly around in every direction. There was no plan, coordination or scheme. Only mindless chaos.

  Closely surrounded by a cadre of guards armed with M16 assault rifles and wearing full-body armor, Warden Davis O’Hara blinked the sleep from his eyes and struggled to close his robe as he stumbled along the dark corridor toward his office. He had barely managed to tug on shoes before the guards arrived in force.

  “Emergency lights!” O’Hara shouted as they passed a darkened security camera.

  “Sir, there is no chance that the main computer is still operating,” the chief guard snarled.

  But just then a soft green glow started radiating from the thick tubes set deep into the smooth concrete ceiling. Startled, the warden paused at the sight of cracks in the terrazzo floor. The damage was this far into the prison? How was that possible?

  Shrugging off the matter, O’Hara rushed forward to press his hand against a small BRS plate set alongside the riveted steel door to his office. The Biometric Refusal System scanned his fingerprints against those in the files, then sent a measured jolt of electricity through his flesh to make sure the hand was still attached to a living body. That aspect of the BRS had been a major selling point to the warden.

  A moment later the BRS plate softly chimed, there came the hard click of a metal bolt disengaging and the door silently swung aside on multiple hinges.

  Somewhere deep inside the prison, a man shrieked in unimaginable agony, then abruptly stopped.

  Rushing into the office, Warden O’Hara scowled at the array of blinking red lights on the status board. With a head shake he dismissed them, went behind his desk and heavily sat.

  “Okay, what the hell happened?” he demanded, flipping a row of switches to activate the emergency control panel. With a sigh, the top of the wooden desk rotated over to display a complex array of dials, levers, buttons and meters, even as a flat-screen monitor descended from the ceiling.

  “We’re not sure yet, sir,” the chief guard replied, gesturing to the other men to take positions near the doorway. “All I know for certain is that—”

  He was rudely interrupted as the entire penitentiary rocked from another explosion. Then it happened twice more. On the last blast, which sounded like hundreds of glass windows loudly shattering, the noise combined into an almost animal growl. With that, the prisoners shouted even louder than before, hooting and whistling as if in a sports arena.

  “Are we being bombed?” a guard asked, pressing his face against a reinforced window to try to see above the complex.

  “Radar is clear,” O’Hara muttered in reply, his hands flying across the controls. “And sonar shows nothing unusual in the sewer or the nearby river.” Then he scowled. “However, half of my sensors are dead.”

  “I’m not surprised,” the chief guard growled, twisting both hands on the assault rifle. “I saw the first blast and thought we had been nuked!”

  “Nuked?”

  “Nuked. Honest to Christ, there’s a hole in the outer wall wider than Route 80!” a guard added grimly. “There’s no way of knowing how many of us are dead.”

  Tactfully, the warden said nothing. He knew that “us” only referenced the guards or civilian personnel. The prisoners were considered livestock, barely human, little more than animals to be controlled. “Did any prisoners escape?”

  “Unknown.”

  “Damn!”

  “...entral to the warden,” a voice crackled from a small speaker set into the desk. “Repeat, this is Central to the warden. Come in please!”

  “O’Hara here,” the warden replied, thumbing a button on the control panel. “What’s the situation down there, Central?”

  “Total madness, sir,” the man replied breathlessly. “Rockets...or maybe bombs blew holes in the primary walls and secondary walls. Then we lost power and all of the cells opened!”

  The warden felt himself go pale. “All of them?”

  “Yes, sir. Most of the prisoners are loose and fighting each other with their bare hands, shivs...table legs...anything they can find!”

  “Any breakage?” O’Hara asked just as the chief guard demanded, “How’s the fence?”

  “No known guards missing,” the man replied. “But the electric fence is dead. There’s a crater where the transformer used to be. A crater!”

  “Impossible!” the warden snapped.

  Just then an intense growl sounded from deep within the complex of buildings, thousands of angry voices combining into a mindless roar.

  “Central, what’s happening?” O’Hara demanded anxiously.

  There was a muffled reply, but the words were lost amid a rush of static and hash.

  Instantly the four guards dropped into firing positions, their weapons aimed at the closed steel door to the office. Escaped prisoners either headed for the wall or straight to the warden’s office for bloody revenge. They had to be ready to handle both.

  “Okay, Central, grab a mask and find someplace to hide,” O’Hara said, his hands almost a blur operating the control board. “Because I’m releasing the sleep gas.”

  “Should have installed tear gas.”

  “Illegal. And yes, we should have.”

  Unexpectedly, a soft chuckle came from the speaker.

  “Hi. It seems that Central is on a coffee break,” said a strange whispery voice.

  “Fair enough,” the chief guard said, his face an iron mask of control. “Who is this?”

  The only reply was laughter.

  Muttering curses under his breath, O’Hara typed a long string of commands on a keyboard and then flipped several switches.

  “Okay, National Guard units are on the way and state police are blocking the main roads,” he announced with marked satisfaction to the other people in the office. “Once the gas hits them, most of the bastards will race back into their cells to try to pretend that they never left in the first place.” He grimaced. “That should hold down the deaths to a minimum.”

  The chief guard snorted in disdain. “Except for the hard cases and the lunatics.”

  “They’re all freaking lunatics,” a guard commented hatefully.

  Outside the bulletproof window of the office, there came the deep throb of a helicopter, then a shadow darkened the office as something briefly blocked the beam of a searchlight.

  “The bastards are on the roof?” a guard shouted in surprise.

  “Bullshit, it’s a diversion,” O’Hara stated, going to a blank section of the wall.

  “How do you know?” the chief guard demanded.

  “It’s what I would do to throw off pursuit,” O’Hara replied, removing a picture of the state capital to press his palm to a cinder block. It grew warm at his touch, and then the plaster cracked apart as a hidden door slid aside to reveal an armored safe room.

  “If anybody wants to stay in there, it’s your call,” said the warden, going to a wall cabinet. Yanking open the door, he started pulling out military-grade body armor.

  “If you’re going to do a cakewalk into the gen pop, then we got your six, sir,” a guard stated proudly, slowly sta
nding.

  “Thanks,” O’Hara said, strapping on the chest shield. “But it is your legal right to stay if you wish. Any takers? Last chance....”

  “Stop wasting time,” the chief guard growled impatiently. “We want to find out what happened down there just as much as you do.”

  “Then let’s go,” O’Hara said, sliding on a gas mask.

  Checking over their own equipment, the guards flanked the warden as he left the safety of the office and returned to the outside corridor.

  Small vents along the floor issued a steady stream of white gas as the group proceeded deeper into the prison. Soon the distant sounds of the rioting prisoners were replaced with an eerie silence, the bursts of machine-gun fire coming less often.

  “Sounds like we got most of them,” a guard stated confidently.

  “Yeah? Well, that’s what they said at Attica,” the chief guard replied grimly.

  “That was over fifty years ago, sir!”

  “And there have been jails since the dawn of time,” the warden snarled from inside his gas mask. “What’s your point?”

  Having no possible reply to that, the guard said nothing as he stepped over the twitching form of a civilian janitor. He appeared to have been beaten to death with his own mop.

  “Computer, activate protocol nine!” the warden shouted into the microphone dangling from the rafters by a single wire.

  There was no reply.

  The blue-white beams of their flashlights sweeping through the swirling fumes, the men said nothing as they gazed at the mounds of broken debris mixed with countless pieces of human bodies, some of them wearing prison gray, others guard uniforms.

  Quickly reaching the third-floor balcony, the warden looked down into the heart of the damaged prison. In the unearthly glow of the emergency lights, he could see that all of the cell doors were wide open. Bodies lay everywhere and dark pools of blood dotted the littered floor.

  Just then, a large group of prisoners charged out of the billowing clouds. Wet strips of cloth were tied around their faces as crude gas masks, and each of them was armed with a club made from broken furniture.

  Immediately the guards opened fire with their automatic weapons. Hammered by the streams of rubber bullets, the prisoners dropped their makeshift weapons as they were brutally slammed against the cinder-block walls. As each man fell, a guard would use the hard plastic stock of an M16 to knock him unconscious.