Rogue Elements

  TREACHEROUS CARGO

  A freighter smuggling nuclear materials from North Korea to Iran should be an easy target for law enforcement. But then the ship drops off the map around the Horn of Africa, and another freighter with similar cargo disappears soon after. The only link between the vessels is a private security firm. With nukes floating around in the Indian Ocean, the race is on to prevent a horrific disaster…and Stony Man Farm has the perfect man for the job.

  Mack Bolan’s first move is to infiltrate the security company as an undercover guard. But when he forms an unlikely alliance with a Somali pirate, it becomes clear these ships aren’t just falling prey to high-seas holdups—and it’s up to Bolan to unravel the conspiracy. With enemies onboard his vessel and trawling nearby waters, Bolan must be sharper and more uncompromising than ever. But not even an ocean can douse The Executioner’s fiery crusade for justice.

  AK-47s stuttered into life from the approaching pirate boats.

  The Caprice’s harbor searchlights stabbed into the gloom as the ship’s collision alarm began to whoop. The deck hummed beneath Bolan’s boots as the freighter’s diesels went to full power.

  The captain shouted across Bolan’s com-link. “Fast boats coming alongside to starboard! Right in front of you! It’s the bloody Spanish Armada…”

  Ladder hooks clanked onto the rail, the ladder shifting and shaking as it took the weight of boarders. Bolan lit his firebomb and rose. He swung the sling overhead like a tennis serve and released it over the side.

  Men in the skiff below screamed as the flaming bottle shattered and fire engulfed the prow. The Executioner dropped just as bullets screamed past his head.

  A high-powered rifle cracked out on the water.

  “Sniper!” Bolan roared. “Hit the deck!”

  Then a grenade launcher blooped and the stern lit up in an orange, high-explosive flash.

  #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

  #442 Syrian Rescue

  #443 Uncut Terror

  #444 Dark Savior

  #445 Final Assault

  #446 Kill Squad

  #447 Missile Intercept

  #448 Terrorist Dispatch

  #449 Combat Machines

  #450 Omega Cult

  #451 Fatal Prescription

  #452 Death List

  #453 Rogue Elements

  Rogue Elements

  People who make no noise are dangerous.

  —Jean de La Fontaine

  A soldier has to remain calm and steadfast. Hatred and anger clouds judgment, and that can get you killed. When you face an enemy, you have to keep your head—or you’ll lose it.

  —Mack Bolan

  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 One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter One

  Salalah, Oman

  “We Viking guys get all the shit assignments.” Rafe Sifuentes scowled as he looked around the Café Américain. “And this place? Total latrine.”

  Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, nodded. The bar was in fact something of a dump. The name was a dim nod to the film Casablanca, and that was about all it had in common with Humphrey Bogart’s place. Café Américain was one of the few government-licensed bars in Oman not attached to an international hotel, and it catered to sailors and foreign dockworkers in the Port of Salalah, as well as locals who could afford the bribe and wished to drink illegally outside their homes. It sported several big-screen TVs tuned to FOX News and intern
ational football. Sifuentes, a former US Army Ranger, was Texan, in his early twenties and sported military and Mexican religious tattoos over much of his physique.

  “I’ve been in worse places,” Bolan admitted.

  “Is that even possible?”

  The Executioner took a long pull of his lager. “At least the beer is cold.”

  “Yeah, well, settle in then, pilgrim, ’cause this is where we R & R until further notice. I was talking to a Rampart asshole at the airport. You know where his team spent time off between ships? The Seychelles. You know where that is?”

  Bolan nodded.

  Sifuentes went on anyway. “I had to wiki that shit. Tropical island paradise. Before that? The guy was in Goa—girls, ganja and surfing. Me and you, amigo? We’re in Salalah. What the hell kind of name is that? Sounds like a kid made it up. What the hell are we supposed to do here?”

  “Tell you what, Sifuentes. If you stand up on the bar and sing Feliz Salalah, your drinks are free the rest of the night.”

  Sifuentes laughed despite himself.

  Bolan shrugged. “The locals will love you.”

  “Dude, you maintain what my XO in Afghanistan called an eternally sunny disposition.”

  “Like I said, the beer is cold.” Bolan tipped his bottle at Sifuentes. “And we’re getting paid. I’ve been in situations where none of that was happening.”

  Sifuentes stared at Bolan as they toasted. “I bet you have. One of these days we need to talk.”

  “One of these days,” Bolan agreed, raising his bottle and his voice. “But in the meantime, here’s to the sultan! Long may he reign! Insha’Allah!”

  Several Omani men at the closest table smiled around the wads of khat in their mouths and raised their illegal beers in toast to their sultan.

  “Well, look at you, gaining friends and winning influence.”

  “Best to keep the locals happy,” Bolan observed. “Besides. We’ve got problems.”

  Sifuentes blinked. “What kind of problems?”

  “A guy walked in a minute ago and sat at a table in the corner with three other guys.”

  Sifuentes casually glanced at the four men, who looked local but were wearing Western clothing. “Yeah?”

  “He was one of the two guys who followed us from our room half an hour ago.”

  “I didn’t know we’d been followed.”

  “I wasn’t positive. Now I am.”

  “So, what do we do?”

  Bolan admitted to himself it was a good question. Sifuentes worked security for Viking Associates. The company hired ex-military men as security guards aboard major ships whose trade routes passed through known piracy corridors. Bolan was a paid employee of Viking as well, but he was undercover. The most pressing problem facing him and Sifuentes was that they were armed guards who weren’t currently armed. They were not licensed bodyguards, or anyone’s VIP security detail with diplomatic immunity. They could not carry guns in the Sultanate of Oman. They were issued arms only when they were out at sea in international waters, and Bolan had not been out yet.

  “Harsh language?” Sifuentes suggested.

  “Broken bottles and bar stools might be better. But at least two of those guys are packing, and I don’t like the odds.”

  “You’re an observant son of a bitch.”

  “Here’s what we do. We break out of here.”

  “Then what?”

  “We split up.”

  Sifuentes’s face fell. “Aww, shit, man. Don’t you pull a fade on me now! Just when I was starting to like you!”

  “No, escape and evade. They left one guy outside. They can’t chase us both. These guys can’t keep up with you, and despite what you might think about a guy my age, I can shake these guys.”

  Sifuentes began to see it. “So they got nothing left but to go back to staking out our room again.”

  “Right.”

  “Then what—we camp on the beach and call for extraction?”

  “No, their initial freak-out will give us some time. We lead them on a tour of the neighborhood and then go back to our room.”

  “Then what?”

  “You call Viking while I go shopping. Then we settle their hash.”

  Sifuentes smiled. “You sexy bastard.”

  “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

  “So?”

  “So, Sifuentes, one, two, three.” Bolan nodded. “Go!”

  They shot to their feet and hit the door running. The men at the back table shouted in consternation. Two pulled pistols while the other two pulled phones. Bolan heard a gunshot, and patrons began shouting and screaming as he and Sifuentes burst out onto the waterfront. The sun was just starting to go down. Bolan broke west for the suq, dodging longshoremen, motor carts and a surprising number of camels.

  “See ya!”

  * * *

  Viking Associates kept a couple of rooms in a crumbling Portuguese Colonial for employees in transition or on R & R in Salalah. Bolan did a perimeter check around the grounds and called Sifuentes. “Sitrep.”

  “Clear in here.”

  Bolan went around back and made a fairly risky rusty-drainpipe ascent to the third floor with his purchases from the suq. He spoke quietly at the open window. “Coming in.”

  “Clear.”

  Bolan rolled into the room.

  Sifuentes was visibly relieved. “Oh, man. Tell me you got guns.”

  “No, I couldn’t get any guns.”

  “Oh, shit...”

  “We’ll get guns.”

  “Yeah? From where?”

  Bolan reached into the doubled plastic bag he had brought from the suq. He drew a nine-inch, crescent-shaped blade of a khanjar dagger. He flipped the blade into his hand and held it out to Sifuentes. “From them.”

  “Dude.” Sifuentes took the wickedly curved dagger. “You are so hard-core.”

  “Did you call Viking?”

  “Yeah, they’re sending a boat from the arsenal ship.”

  “ETA?”

  “Dawn. Or maybe noon. And they can’t bring any guns. And they gotta go through customs.” Sifuentes was an Army Ranger veteran of Afghanistan. He’d eaten a shit sandwich or two in his life. He got that “Rangers lead the way” look in his eyes. “They’ll let us know and pick us up at the pier.”

  Bolan made his determination. “These guys are either going to hit us, or they’re not.”

  Sifuentes nodded. “Sounds legit.”

  “I think these guys are locals. I don’t think we got made for ship security, and the local chapter of the Arabian Sea Benevolent Pirate Association has a bounty on guys like us.”

  “And?”

  “They want to play pirate? Then quick’s the word and sharp’s the action. Repel all boarders.”

  Sifuentes held up his blade. “With Port Salalah souvenir daggers?”

  “It starts with that.” Bolan took out three more daggers and handed one more to Sifuentes. “Then it escalates.”

  Sifuentes held a dagger in each hand. He laughed aloud. “Fuckin’ ay, Bubba! We got catapults and boiling oil?”

  Bolan reached into his bag and took out four plastic squeeze bottles of French dish soap. “No, but this contains lanolin. Go pour one on both back windowsills and pour a bunch down the outside of the drainpipe I climbed up.”

  Sifuentes smiled like it was Christmas and ran to lubricate all methods of third-floor rear access. Bolan did not share the young ex-Ranger’s enthusiasm. This was going to happen very fast or go south even faster. He took several moments to spritz out the second two bottles in ever-widening concentric circles on the tiles in front of the door. Sifuentes returned and was inordinately pleased by what he saw. “We can take these assholes! We can take ’em!”

  Bolan tossed away the empty soap bottle. “With science.”

&
nbsp; “Dude—” Sifuentes gazed at Bolan in awe. “You’re, like, Bill Nye the Assassin Guy.” He sniffed at the French aromatherapy filling the foyer. “Unless their Spidey senses detect lavender.”

  “There is that. So I want you lurking in the door of the kitchenette. When they kick in the door, there’s going to be a puppy pile right here in front of me. It’s going to get all stabby. The first gun I reap I am kicking or throwing to you, and then it is all on you. If I still have a pulse, I’ll grab the next gun and we take them all down.” Bolan didn’t usually repeat himself, but he locked gazes with the young Ranger and held it. “This is going to happen real fast.”

  “I hear you, brother.” Sifuentes held a nine-inch Omani hand-scythe in each fist. “If the guns don’t come, then it’s you and me against them, bro. It gets all stabby. Real fast.”

  Bolan nodded his approval. “Let’s do it.”

  “Lights on or off?”

  “On, and put on some music. Something inviting.”

  Sifuentes’s thumb rapidly roamed the screen of his smartphone. “Here, dig this. It’s dope.” Angry, Mexican heavy metal thundered and snarled out of the phone’s surprisingly powerful speaker. Sifuentes made the horns with his other hand. “Zombie Bullfighters of Death.”

  “Well, if a couple of brother Vikings have to have theme music for a pirate ambush on the Arabian Peninsula...”

  “That’s what I’m saying!” Sifuentes enthused.

  “Take your position.”

  The former Ranger took his position in the kitchen doorway. Somewhere along the line Sifuentes had forgotten that he was the senior Viking associate in charge, but Bolan had that effect on people. The Executioner pushed an ottoman to the left of the door and proceeded to wait. Less than five minutes later he saw shadows beneath the door. Bolan pointed a dagger toward the floor. Sifuentes nodded that he had seen.

  Bolan estimated at least three targets in the hallway. Sifuentes’s head snapped back toward the kitchen. He rapidly pantomimed hand-over-hand.

  Someone was climbing the drainpipe.

  That someone screamed as his hands suddenly closed around the soaped pipe and he fell two stories to the cobblestones below. A fist punched through the door in front of Bolan. It was gloved and holding a hand grenade.

  The Executioner lashed out. The crescent moon of Arabian steel just about took off the assassin’s hand at the wrist. The grenadier screamed, and the bomb fell in a spray of blood as its cotter lever pinged away. Bolan snagged the falling grenade and went for the double play as he flung it at Sifuentes. “Hot potato!”