Killpath Read online

  URBAN RETRIBUTION

  A powerful Colombian cartel goes too far when they torture and kill a DEA agent. Tasked with dismantling their operation and taking out their leader, Mack Bolan heads to Cali with an unlikely ally–a convicted murderer known as the Witch. The former cocaine dealer has an ax to grind with the cartel’s kingpin, and she’s willing to go along with Bolan’s plan as long as they avenge her sons’ deaths in the process.

  But sending the woman in as bait works too well. Outnumbered and outgunned, the two will need more than their combat skills to dodge the bullets. If they’re going to survive this Colombian street war, they’ll have to trust each other and work as a team, even when it seems the end is near. The cartel may fear the Witch’s revenge, but the Executioner will make them dread justice.

  Bolan charged down the hall with a snarl of bullets

  Some of his opponents wore body armor, but the M4’s deadly sputter struck with enough force to slow them down, allowing Bolan to adjust aim and send rounds into their exposed heads and throats.

  Between Rojas’s sniping, Bolan’s blitz and the gunmen’s agitated state, the Soldados de Cali Nuevos didn’t stand a chance in this tenement.

  It took all of a minute and two thirty-round magazines to completely clear the first story. The second story was alive with breaking glass and screaming. Rojas wasn’t allowing the Soldados a moment of respite.

  By the time Bolan reached the second-floor corridor, only a few men remained within sight. The Executioner shouldered his rifle and drilled one of them through the side of his head with a single round. The other Soldado let out a scream and waved his machine pistol wildly. In the dark hallway, Bolan was a wraith among the shadows.

  “On two,” Bolan told Rojas. “Don’t shoot me.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” she replied. “I’m saving all my ammo and hatred for the enemy.”

  MACK BOLAN ®

  The Executioner

  #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

  #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

  KILLPATH

  Wild animals never kill for sport. Man is the only one to whom the torture and death of his fellow creatures is amusing in itself.

  —James Anthony Froude,

  1818–1894

  I take no pleasure in ending a life, but I will not hesitate to deliver the ultimate punishment in the name of justice. Those who willfully inflict suffering on others must pay the price.

  —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

  1

  Mack Bolan, the Executioner, slipped into the shadows, gliding slowly through the night, scarcely disturbing the surrounding foliage.

  He was armed for a soft probe tonight. A Drug Enforcement Agency operative had gone missing, and he was searching for her on this small Texas estate. While more conventional law enforcement would take at least a couple of days to seek out the agent, Hal Brognola knew that the Executioner’s touch was exactly what was needed to dig her out of the fire.

  Bolan moved with the stealth of a black panther, despite the forty pounds of gear stashed in his combat harness and the pockets of his blacksuit.

  He did not merely blend in with the shadows; he was one, flowing across the property with fluid grace and silence until he was only a few feet from a guard. Behind the man, Bolan was in a good position to take stock of the rest of the estate’s security. From his approach, and from viewing the area with a night vision monocl
e, he could tell the place was mobbed up to the gills. The guard in front of him wore night vision goggles and was packing serious firepower, an M4 carbine equipped with various optics and grips. It was an impressive setup, but it was an obvious case of the guard putting everything he thought was cool onto his personal rifle. Even now, the guy was fidgeting with the unnecessary weight.

  Bolan wished he could have given this tyro a chance to learn from his mistakes, but the sentry was armed, and he was currently pulling guard duty on an estate where a kidnapped federal agent was held captive. This man was willing to kill, even if he was too heavily burdened to do it efficiently. With a swift movement, Bolan brought a loop of inelastic polymer wire down over the guard’s head and yanked on the handles. The wire sliced through skin as if it were butter, crushing down on the tough, fibrous tube of the man’s windpipe. The garrote would take a little more effort to cut into his trachea, but for now, the guard was unable to speak, which was a fine start in silently removing him from his post.

  Bolan dragged him back into the trees at the edge of the property. The man grasped at the wire and his hands came away covered in crimson liquid. The polymer dug deeper and was now embedded at least an inch into the guard’s throat. Bolan was not someone to let a man suffer, so he pulled down hard, breaking the mobster’s neck on the point of his Kevlar polymer knee guard.

  Fast. Silent. Relatively merciful. The warrior tucked the body beneath a patch of bushes, leaving the wire garrote around the dead man’s neck. There was no way he could untangle the weapon without spattering himself with blood, and the scent of gore was something that carried and could compromise this operation.

  Speed and stealth were the Executioner’s priorities tonight. Overwhelming firepower from the start would only endanger the captive agent and draw the law into this. Bolan hoped that this wouldn’t become a recovery instead of a rescue. Still, he was well-equipped for any situation that might arise. Aside from various means of silent death in the form of impact weapons, garrotes and knives, he packed his traditional sidearm, the Beretta 93R machine pistol.

  For backup and long-range engagements when stealth might no longer be a factor, he wore his Desert Eagle .44 Magnum on his hip in a fast-draw holster. This would be his last resort. Bolan decided to leave the dead guard’s rifle behind, though he swiftly removed the magazine and the bolt, rendering it useless.

  Along with his blacksuit, Bolan wore crepe-soled boots, which would make little sound as he crept along. He’d smeared his hands and face with black greasepaint, completing his transformation from soldier to shadowy wraith. This was as much for the intimidation factor as for blending in with the darkness.

  More than once, the Executioner’s jet-black mien had been sufficient to freeze a group of opponents in shock and horror long enough for him to outgun them. If he were going for pure camouflage, he would have donned multiple shades of gray, which would help him merge even more seamlessly with the shadows. But midnight-black would have a much stronger psychological impact on anyone crossing his path. So far, he hadn’t been detected. If someone did see him, Bolan would have a short window of opportunity in which his foe would be struggling to recover from the shock of the shadow man’s apparition.

  The disappearance of DEA operative Teresa Blanca would not have normally drawn the Executioner down to this part of the country within a day of her first failure to report in, but she had been undercover in an effort to break Los Soldados Nuevos de Cali, a rising force not only in Colombia, but also with tentacles stretching out across Central America and latching on to the soft underbelly of the United States. The New Soldiers of Cali had been little more than a blip on the radar five years before, but in the intervening time, they had proven themselves to be ruthless and powerful fighters.

  The details on SNC were sketchy at best, but as far as the Executioner could tell, the organization was using a combination of military planning, technology and unconventional warfare to enrich themselves and maintain an ironclad control over their territory and the products they trafficked.

  Blanca had found her way into the SNC and had been sending back some good intel before she popped up in Brownsville, Texas. That was a bad thing since she was supposed to be operating in Cali, Colombia, thousands of miles south. She’d sent off one message, and then nothing.

  That was ten hours ago. Her panicked support in Cali confirmed that she’d gone to America on a private flight. Border Control hadn’t seen any hint of her arrival on US soil.

  Bolan, already on the Texas Gulf Coast doing some pre-mission observation of a Zetas operation, had picked up a rumor that the Mexican cartel was working with the SNC. It made sense for the two paramilitary units to form an alliance rather than engage in warfare with each other. Granted, both parties would be looking out for themselves, but for now, there was cooperation.

  Cooperation, including the captivity of a woman trying to uphold the law.

  Keeping both hands free and moving in a low and easy crouch, the Executioner crept along in the darkness. He was confident he could avoid most of the opposition without a hint of trouble, now that he’d removed the sole sentry who would have noticed his chosen approach to the mansion. Still, shifts could be changing, and there was always the risk of a wandering eye picking up his movements. So far, his instincts had been solid, but he paused to double-check his surroundings.

  The Zetas security force still moved according to the pattern Bolan had observed earlier. Satisfied, Bolan continued his advance, and within a moment, he was at the small enclosure surrounding the garbage bins. Using the structure for cover, he did a quick eyeball of the camera trained on the kitchen entrance. He pulled out a small device, aimed and sent an electromagnetic pulse toward the surveillance equipment, turning the electronics inside of the camera housing into so much useless scrap. With the back of the house no longer under a live eye, Bolan took off for the kitchen door. Along the way, he traded the camera-killer for a SWAT-style pry-knife.

  With one hand, Bolan tried the door handle. If it was unlocked, no problem. If it was locked, the chisel-like blade would punch out the latch in a second. The handle caught, so Bolan jammed the pry-knife between the door and the frame until he had sufficient leverage to burst the latch.

  There was a loud crack, and then the door swung open. Bolan stepped inside the mansion. The sound was likely to draw attention, but no one would have mistaken it for a gunshot. There would be no sudden, armed response.

  This conflict was still contained.

  Bolan slid into the shadows of a large pantry as a man entered the kitchen, his eyes on the fridge. The lights were off, and the refrigerator’s glow cast the man in silhouette. This wasn’t a casual homeowner. Not too many homeowners, even in Texas, went to get a midnight snack with a semiautomatic shotgun on a three point sling with a full bandolier of shells.

  Bolan moved quickly, clamping a blackened hand over the man’s nose and mouth, causing him to stiffen reflexively. He tried to grab Bolan’s forearm and wrist as the Executioner plunged the flat edge of the pry-knife into the base of the man’s skull. Flesh, tendon and cartilage parted under the force of his stab. Any attempt at struggle on the part of the guard was instantly over.

  Bolan lowered the body to the floor, pulling it behind the central counter island. For the moment, the lifeless hardman would be out of sight and out of mind.

  Bolan inched toward the kitchen doorway that led to the rest of the house, using a pocket mirror to check the hall in both directions before passing through it. He unholstered the suppressed Beretta and made for the closest staircase. Before he reached it, he heard the sounds of a soccer game and excited but hushed voices wafting from a television nearby.

  “Eh, Chuy! Donde estan los cervezas?” a man said in a stage whisper just before a figure filled the TV room doorway.

  The man asking for the beer froze, eyes wide at the sight of the Executioner, ebony from head to toe, bristling with weapons on his battle harness, and a handgun pointed right at hi
m. At once frightened and confused, the man was paralyzed, buying the warrior a precious second.

  Bolan stabbed the Beretta and its suppressor between the man’s lips, then grabbed the back of his neck and whisked him away from the TV room and into the empty hallway.

  “The girl,” Bolan said softly, his voice full of grim threat.

  The Zeta swiveled his eyes and shook his head in the direction of the stairs.

  Bolan delivered a powerful knuckle punch just under the Zeta’s ear. Pulling the trigger would have alerted the men watching futbol to the death of their friend, and stabbing the guy could lead to a struggle that would also draw his companions into the hall. A knockout punch, however, would be both silent and disabling. The man’s knees turned to rubber, and Bolan dragged him over to an empty closet at the foot of the stairs, tucking him inside. So far, so good.

  Bolan continued to the second floor, feet quiet on the steps and Beretta drawn. It was do-or-die time, and if he needed to pull the trigger, he’d have the high ground in case anyone heard the thump of a silenced 9mm slug erupting from the machine pistol. He’d do whatever it took to defend Blanca.

  Or avenge her.

  As much as Bolan wanted to dismiss that possibility, Blanca had been a prisoner of the Zetas, as well as the Soldados. These cartels weren’t known for their mercy. They might have tortured and executed her already, but there was a shred of hope. The guard he’d just knocked out hadn’t hesitated when Bolan had asked after the “girl.” Hopefully that meant Blanca was somewhere upstairs. Alive. Unless there was another girl in this house…

  A man wearing no shirt but with a gun holstered at his hip emerged from a bedroom and stepped smugly into Bolan’s path. Catching sight of the Executioner, the guy’s smirk faltered, but his reflexes were better than his colleague’s and his hand went to his pistol.

  Bolan was faster, though, and the Beretta chugged three times. The slugs penetrated the man’s bare chest, and he crashed into the door, knocking it open as he slithered lifelessly to the ground.

  Bolan heard a confused yelp from inside the bedroom and saw a shadow move across the floor.