Arctic Kill

  DORMANT DEATH

  Formed in the wake of World War I, a renegade secret society has never lost sight of its goal to eradicate the “lesser races” and restore a mythical paradise. This nightmare scenario becomes a terrifying possibility when the society discovers an ancient virus hidden in a Cold War–era military installation. Called in to avert the looming apocalypse, Mack Bolan must stop the white supremacists by any means necessary.

  Bolan tracks the group to Alaska, enduring the harsh arctic conditions while dodging highly trained killers. But the clock is ticking down, and Bolan will need all his skills and resourcefulness to eliminate this threat. All that stands between millions of people and a sure death is one man. The Executioner.

  “I have a gun,” Sparrow said

  He kicked the air marshal, who was sitting on the floor, his face a mess of burns and blood. The man groaned. “And I have a hostage.”

  “No, what you have is a problem,” Bolan said, edging closer. “You’re only going to get one shot, and I’m fairly certain you’re not good enough to hit me, even this close. And if you miss, one of four things will happen.” Bolan slid forward another few inches. “One, you’ll punch a hole in the plane itself. Not a big deal, really, despite what movies would have you believe.”

  Sparrow was staring at him with wary fascination, like a rat watching an approaching snake.

  “Two, you’ll pop a window, which is worse. Someone could get sucked out and the cabin will be filled with so much flying debris that a concussion will be the least of your worries. Three, your bullet clips some wiring. You might stop the in-flight entertainment or you could kill the radar or something worse. And four, your errant shot could puncture one of the fuel tanks. Which, if we’re lucky, just causes a fire, but if we’re not…” Bolan spread his hands. “Boom.”

  The Executioner

  #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

  #424 Amazon Impunity

  #425 Patriot Strike

  #426 Pirate Offensive

  #427 Pacific Creed

  #428 Desert Impact

  #429 Arctic Kill

  Arctic Kill

  There is nothing more inglorious than that glory that is gained by war.

  —Thomas More, Utopia

  I don’t fight for glory, power or wealth. My War Everlasting has only one goal: justice…by any means necessary.

  —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 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

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 1

  Reno, Nevada

  The heat of a Nevada summer sun beat down on the forecourt of the Rancho Santo Motel with hammer-like intensity. The parking lot was practically sizzling, even in the few scraps of available shade, but Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, felt the cool patience of a hunter.

  Idly, he reached up to scratch at the stubble that coated his jaw. Three days ago, Bolan had agreed to take on a mission for Hal Brognola, and the soldier hadn’t shaved since. He was squatting between the motel trash bins, a mostly empty bottle of cheap liquor clutched in his grimy fingers, and his threadbare thrift store duds reeking of booze, sweat and an all-prevalent odor of urine. He’d gotten used to the smell by the second day. “Small favors,” he murmured. It was a good disguise. No one saw street people, not if they could help it.

 
He shifted his weight. The sound-suppressed Beretta 93R holstered at the small of his back was a comforting presence. More easily concealable than his normal sidearm, the Beretta could be set to fire a 3-round burst. It had a 20-round magazine, plus one in the chamber. Bolan swept the Rancho Santo with his keen gaze, scanning the peeling paint, the rust on the piping and the filthy windows. All in all, it was a depressing place. Perhaps that was the point. Who would look for one of the past century’s leading research scientists in a place like this?

  Bolan had seen the man called E. E. Ackroyd only once since he’d begun his stakeout. Ackroyd was in his late sixties, if Bolan was any judge, but still fairly spry. He dressed like a stereotypical retiree and seemed to spend his days smoking, drinking and reading. At one time, he’d been one of the country’s leading microbiologists and could have easily won a Nobel Prize if his research hadn’t been part of some hush-hush, black-bag Cold War shenanigans. Or so Brognola had intimated.

  Regardless, if his current residence was any indication, Ackroyd seemed to have fallen on hard times, and they were only going to get harder. Someone had set their sights on Ackroyd and targeted him for a snatch and grab. Sadly, who was behind it and why it was planned hadn’t been as easy to determine.

  The big Fed had sounded worried on the phone. That wasn’t unusual; while Hal Brognola was one of the most unflappable men Bolan had ever met, he was also a man burdened by a weight of responsibility that would have crushed Atlas. Bolan wouldn’t trade places with his old ally for anything in the world. Brognola fought on fields far removed from Bolan’s experience, waging quiet wars in the back rooms of the Wonderland on the Potomac, his only weapons words and favors and influence.

  Beneath his mask of grime and stubble, the Executioner smiled thinly. Brognola had been one of his most tenacious opponents once upon a time, in charge of the task force assigned to bring the Executioner to heel. Now they were brothers-in-arms. War makes for strange bedfellows, Bolan mused, especially a war like ours. His smile faded.

  Brognola had been worried, but not for the usual reasons. There was something stirring, according to certain back-channel sources. There were ripples spreading in the ocean of information that the world’s intelligence agencies trawled, but they weren’t being caused by the usual suspects. Brognola wasn’t a man to sit on such a warning, and neither was Bolan. The information was too ephemeral for any organization or group to act on—even Brognola’s Sensitive Operations Group—but the Executioner could do as he damn well pleased. Bolan had haunted the motel like a ragged ghost for three days. He knew that Ackroyd paid by the week and had been there for a number of years. If Ackroyd was hiding from someone, he’d been doing it for a while. Most of the rooms in the motel were empty, and those that weren’t were occupied by nervous transients, drunken tourists, illegal immigrants, meth addicts and a transsexual prostitute named Sheena. Gunshots weren’t exactly background noise in this part of Reno but the police weren’t likely to be called with any alacrity, which meant he could do what he needed to do without fear of being interrupted. Bolan hoped for Brognola’s sake that it wouldn’t be too messy.

  That hope died when a black SUV pulled into the parking lot. The men who got out were hard cases. Bolan could tell by the way they moved and the set of their faces and the telltale bulges beneath their off-the-rack sport coats. White, middle-aged, trained muscle, rather than the gym-rat variety. They wore muted colors and dressed business casual. They could have been salesmen or FBI agents or hit men. Everything about them spoke of innocuous care—a chameleon-like desire to blend in to the pastel and stucco of the motel. They were nobody and no one, and that alone would have pricked Bolan’s curiosity. He knew, with a certainty born of grim experience, that he was going to have to kill at least one of them.

  Their voices lost to the wheezing roar of a dozen air conditioners, the three men climbed the outside stairs of the motel. They moved with purpose, but without hurry. Why rush, when their prey didn’t know they were coming?

  Bolan had asked Brognola why Ackroyd hadn’t been taken into protective custody at Stony Man, given that they knew someone wanted him. The answer had been callous in its simplicity. They needed to know who wanted Ackroyd as much as why. Moreover, Brognola wanted to know why Ackroyd, who knew what he knew, whatever it was, was allowed to live out his days in a flea-trap motel in Reno. So the old man was bait, and Bolan the hunter.

  “Try to keep one of them breathing,” Brognola had said. Bolan had made no promises, but he knew the value of information. They were boxing shadows, and getting some light—any light—would be helpful. Bolan wasn’t a fan of situations like these—too much could go wrong. There was too much they didn’t know. But when the situation warranted it, Bolan had little problem dealing himself in.

  Bolan stood, still clutching the bottle. He’d poured most of it over his clothes, but there was still enough remaining to slosh softly. Wobbling slightly, the Executioner stumbled in the direction of the stairs, his eyes on the trio as they ascended. They hadn’t noticed him yet.

  Bolan stumbled up the stairs, moving with deceptive speed. They had stopped in front of a room on the third floor. Two men stood to either side of the door and the third knocked politely. When Ackroyd didn’t answer he knocked again, a bit more forcefully. By the time Bolan had reached the third level, the knocker had stepped back and was readying himself to give the door a kick. He paused when one of the men gestured to the Executioner.

  Bolan took his cue and broke into song. He swung the bottle back and forth for emphasis and weaved toward them. The closest man intercepted him. “Be off with you,” he said tersely. His accent was harsh and Teutonic-sounding. German, possibly, Bolan mused. “Pitch him down the damn stairs,” the knocker barked. He was American, probably Nebraskan, Bolan thought. The German reached for him, apparently intent on following the orders.

  Bolan staggered back, forcing the German to pursue him. When the man reached for him, Bolan flipped the bottle around with a quick twist of his wrist, grabbed it by its neck and brought it up and across the German’s skull. Contrary to every bar brawl seen on film, a good bottle rarely broke when you hit someone with it. But it did the job well enough.

  The German toppled onto the Executioner, who caught him, shoved him aside and snatched the Beretta from his holster even as the German fell. Bolan fired. The member of the trio who hadn’t yet spoken pitched backward with a yell. The Nebraskan, caught flat-footed, clawed for his own weapon. “No,” Bolan said. A minute and a half had elapsed.

  The Nebraskan’s hand froze. “Back away from the door,” Bolan said and jerked his chin for emphasis. He stepped over the unconscious German and drew close to the door. The man backed away, hands spread.

  “Police?” the Nebraskan asked.

  “Not quite,” Bolan said.

  “We’ve got money,” the Nebraskan said, licking his lips.

  “Small world, so do I,” Bolan replied. “I want information.”

  The Nebraskan’s eyes went flat. He said nothing. Bolan gestured with the Beretta. “Downstairs. We’re going for a ride.”

  “No,” the Nebraskan said harshly.

  Bolan hesitated. He was a good judge of character. Some men could be pushed and threatened. Bolan himself was not one of them, but from the tone of the Nebraskan’s voice, it seemed he wasn’t, either. Or at least, he hadn’t reached the point where he could be...yet. That was a problem. They needed information, but the man before him wasn’t likely to provide it. And Bolan couldn’t leave him or let him go, not without knowing what was going on. The door opened. Ackroyd’s eyes widened as he took in the scene. His mouth was half-open, a cigarette dangling from his bottom lip. The Nebraskan threw himself at the old man. Before Bolan could take him out, a pistol snarled, biting into the wall of the motel. Plaster and Sheetrock spattered his cheek.

  The man Bolan had shot moments earlier had pulled his piece. The
front of his shirt was red and his eyes were unfocused, but even a dying man could be dangerous. He fired again and Bolan lunged to the side, his hip connecting painfully with the rail of the walkway. The Beretta spoke eloquently and the wounded man fell back, his weapon clattering to the ground.

  Bolan turned. The Nebraskan stepped out of the room, holding Ackroyd in front of him. He had his weapon pressed against the old man’s head. The Nebraskan said nothing. He didn’t even glance at the dead man. He simply backed away, dragging Ackroyd with him. Bolan began to follow, the Beretta extended. “Stop,” the Nebraskan said, “or I’ll paint the wall with his brain.”

  “I don’t think so,” Bolan said, without stopping. “I think you need him and his brain intact. That sound about right, Mr. Ackroyd?”

  Ackroyd cleared his throat. He looked frightened, but he was controlling himself. Bolan’s estimation of Ackroyd climbed a few notches. “I—and I want to be clear about this—have no idea what’s going on,” the old man said, his voice rusty from years of drink and cigarettes.

  “Quiet,” the Nebraskan said.

  “You’re being kidnapped, Mr. Ackroyd. Do you have any idea why that might be happening?” Bolan asked calmly. Sweat stung his eyes, but he didn’t blink. He concentrated on the Nebraskan.

  “Who’s asking?” Ackroyd said. The old man had guts. Bolan was impressed.

  “The man who’s trying to keep you alive,” Bolan replied. The Nebraskan took another step back. Bolan took another step forward.

  “I was told this place was safe,” Ackroyd said. “I was told I’d be left alone.”

  “Somebody lied,” Bolan said, “or made a mistake.”

  “Probably both,” Ackroyd agreed.

  “Shut up,” the Nebraskan snapped. His grip on Ackroyd tightened. The old man winced as the Nebraskan’s arm flexed against his throat. He had pluck, but he was still on the wrong side of sixty, and hadn’t been keeping himself in shape.

  “I can keep this up all day, friend,” Bolan said, a note of menace creeping into his voice. “Let him go.”

  Something in the Nebraskan’s eyes made Bolan tense. A shadow crossed the ground in front of him. Big arms snapped tight around him like the jaws of a trap and he was jerked from his feet even as the air was squeezed out of his lungs. Bolan gasped. The German had recovered, and far more quickly than Bolan had anticipated. The Nebraskan had been drawing him out, giving his compatriot time to recover.