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  The gunner stood his ground

  His eyes were wide with a mix of anger and disbelief that his team had been taken down so swiftly.

  Bolan hit him with a savage volley that cut the man down like straw in the wind, dumping his tattered and bleeding body on the ground.

  The last echo of autofire drifted off into the trees. Wind rattled the brittle foliage, dislodging hard crusts of snow from the branches. Bolan’s boots crunched over the ground layer as he moved from man to man, checking for signs of life and moving weapons clear. He had counted his targets and they were all down.

  The Executioner’s shots had been delivered with total accuracy.

  MACK BOLAN®

  The Executioner

  #264 Iron Fist

  #265 Freedom Force

  #266 Ultimate Price

  #267 Invisible Invader

  #268 Shattered Trust

  #269 Shifting Shadows

  #270 Judgment Day

  #271 Cyberhunt

  #272 Stealth Striker

  #273 UForce

  #274 Rogue Target

  #275 Crossed Borders

  #276 Leviathan

  #277 Dirty Mission

  #278 Triple Reverse

  #279 Fire Wind

  #280 Fear Rally

  #281 Blood Stone

  #282 Jungle Conflict

  #283 Ring of Retaliation

  #284 Devil’s Army

  #285 Final Strike

  #286 Armageddon Exit

  #287 Rogue Warrior

  #288 Arctic Blast

  #289 Vendetta Force

  #290 Pursued

  #291 Blood Trade

  #292 Savage Game

  #293 Death Merchants

  #294 Scorpion Rising

  #295 Hostile Alliance

  #296 Nuclear Game

  #297 Deadly Pursuit

  #298 Final Play

  #299 Dangerous Encounter

  #300 Warrior’s Requiem

  #301 Blast Radius

  #302 Shadow Search

  #303 Sea of Terror

  #304 Soviet Specter

  #305 Point Position

  #306 Mercy Mission

  #307 Hard Pursuit

  #308 Into the Fire

  #309 Flames of Fury

  #310 Killing Heat

  #311 Night of the Knives

  #312 Death Gamble

  #313 Lockdown

  #314 Lethal Payload

  #315 Agent of Peril

  #316 Poison Justice

  #317 Hour of Judgment

  #318 Code of Resistance

  #319 Entry Point

  #320 Exit Code

  #321 Suicide Highway

  #322 Time Bomb

  #323 Soft Target

  #324 Terminal Zone

  #325 Edge of Hell

  #326 Blood Tide

  #327 Serpent’s Lair

  #328 Triangle of Terror

  #329 Hostile Crossing

  #330 Dual Action

  #331 Assault Force

  #332 Slaughter House

  #333 Aftershock

  #334 Jungle Justice

  #335 Blood Vector

  #336 Homeland Terror

  #337 Tropic Blast

  #338 Nuclear Reaction

  #339 Deadly Contact

  Don Pendleton’s

  The Executioner®

  DEADLY CONTACT

  Go into emptiness, strike voids, bypass what he defends, hit him where he does not expect you.

  —Ts’ao Ts’ao, 155–220 A.D.

  When I plan a mission I make sure my enemies will never know what hit them.

  —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

  Prologue

  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

  Prologue

  Bosnia, 1995

  The sharp light of morning was accompanied by a chill appropriate to the mood of the day. A fine mist rained over the wooded terrain, the cold drizzle building until it slipped from the green leaves of the trees. It dripped onto the bared heads of the tight group shuffling forward from the truck that had brought them to this place. Five men and a single woman. They walked with the heavy tread of individuals aware of their fate, unable to do anything to alter it, yet clinging to some vague hope there might be some last minute reprieve.

  They were surrounded by a three-man armed escort—men clad in better clothing than their captives. While the six wore ordinary dress, the escorts were comfortable in weatherproof coats and hats. No one spoke. There was no point. Anything that had been worth saying was in the past. It was time for closure.

  Within the group, only one of them allowed emotions to show. One of the men sobbed quietly, his head down so that his chin rested on his chest. His tears ran down his face and merged with the rain-soaked material of his shirt. His hands were thrust deep into the pockets of the crumpled, stained jacket he wore. Once that jacket had been an expensive item from his wardrobe. Now it showed the effects of his prolonged incarceration. It had a number of tears in the fine material, and some of the dark stains were from his own blood. He knew he was about to die. He wanted it to be different, but the line that prevented that had been crossed many days ago. He had chosen his side, as had the others in the group, and it had been the wrong side. He was about to pay the price for his decision, which in his heart he still defended. He knew the people controlling his destiny were evil. They were men who saw personal aggrandizement as their right, contrary to the responsibility they carried for the countries they served. A defiant resistance to those illegal activities had been the catalyst for the action taking place in this isolated landscape.

  Someone rapped out a harsh command, and the group was herded to a stop in a clearing in the wooded terrain. A deep pit had been dug. The dark mounds of extracted earth edged three sides of the pit, glistening in the rain. Already a thin la
yer of water had pooled in the bottom of the pit. The armed escorts lined up behind the six, the one who had given the command glancing to his right at a shadowy gathering of men standing just within the tree line. One of these men stepped forward, into the light. A big man, with a hard-boned face wet with rain. He was bareheaded, his thick black hair lay tight against his skull. He exhibited no remorse as he faced the six.

  “This was not inevitable,” he said. “You chose your own fate by refusing to join us.”

  The woman turned to look him in the eye. One side of her attractive face still bore the discoloration that was the result of a severe beating.

  “Murderers always try to justify their crimes,” she said. “You are no different. In the end you are all no more than backstreet scum, criminals and thieves, and one day your actions will reach out and drag you down into the grave with us.” She spit in his direction. “Do your worst, you bastards.”

  A swift nod and the escorts raised the automatic weapons they were carrying. There was no preamble, no final words or comfort for the victims. The clearing echoed to the vicious crackle of autofire that riddled the six with 9 mm bullets. The writhing bodies tumbled forward into the pit, screaming out their final moments as they hit the rain-sodden earth. Torn flesh, shredded clothing, the final spurts of blood. A pink haze floated for seconds over the open pit, dissipating in the continuous rain.

  “Fill it in,” the big man said. “Then get out of here. Report to me in the morning.”

  He turned then, flicking a finger at the others standing with him and they merged with the dark trees, retracing the steps that had brought them to this place of slaughter. Minutes later they emerged from the trees and climbed into waiting SUVs. Powerful engines purred to life and the small convoy moved off, following the curve of the thin track, disappearing into the gray mist until there was no sign they had been there.

  At the pit site, the escort squad had exchanged their weapons for long-handled shovels. They worked quickly, scooping the wet earth back into the pit, covering the bodies, then dragging clumps of shorn foliage and leaf mold over the plot. The rain would soon reduce their boot prints to nothing, washing away evidence of their activities, and it would not take long for the forest to reclaim its disturbed ground. The grass would grow, and the foliage would weave and tangle its way back.

  AN HOUR LATER THE SITE WAS deserted. The distant rumble of the departing truck had long since faded, leaving only the sound of the rain to break the solitude.

  From the far side of the clearing a dark figure emerged from concealment. He was a lean, tight-featured man clad from head to foot in camouflage clothing that had allowed him to remain unseen until he stepped into the open. Even his face was striped with camo paint, so his eyes stared out from the mask, bright and feral. He carried an expensive, professional camcorder in his hands. The equipment was state-of-the-art and was fitted with a powerful variable-focus lens arrangement that allowed for tight, detailed closeups even from a distance. The man had been in place well before the events at the pit had taken place. He had recorded the whole episode, making certain that his tape logged every face, of victims as well as the killer escort. He had also focused in tightly on the group by the trees, recording their presence at the massacre. He stood and took a final pan of the area, ending by holding his camera on the camouflaged area of the burial site.

  He had just completed his filming when he felt the soft vibration of his cell phone in his pocket. He unzipped the flap and took out the phone, pressing the button to open the connection.

  “Are you finished?” the voice of his employer asked.

  “I was about to leave.”

  “You have it?”

  “Oh, yes. Everything. They are all identified. It is all on the tape.”

  “Excellent. You know what to do?”

  “As we discussed. Give me until the end of the week and it will all be documented.”

  “I will talk to you then. Now I have to go. They are ready to start the proceedings. We have the past to toast and our assured futures to celebrate.”

  The cell phone went silent and the man put it away. First he placed the camera in the soft, waterproof case he had tucked inside his zipped jacket. He slung the case over his shoulder by its webbing strap, then turned and began his long tramp back through the forest to where he had left his car. He had at least a half hour walk ahead of him, but he consoled himself with the anticipation of the warm apartment waiting for him. He would do what he needed to do with the video cassette and the material he had recorded over the past few weeks. He also thought of the money it would bring him, courtesy of his employer, and the payments in the future that would ensure he continued to enjoy his life of upcoming luxury. During his walk back to his concealed car, he never once gave any thought to the six people he had seen slaughtered. In his mind they had ceased to exist the moment the fiery 9 mm bullets had ripped into their bodies.

  1

  Present Day

  Throw a pebble in water, and the waves extend outward with a speed that reaches far beyond the moment of its creation.

  For Mack Bolan those ripples had already reached out to engulf someone he knew and had drawn him to this isolated, derelict farm in upstate Virginia on a rescue mission about to go hot.

  Armed and clad in blacksuit, he erupted out of the dark shadows and confronted the three-man crew holding Erika Dukas hostage. The crew had been waiting for their orders and were on less than full alert. They had been promised cash for their part in the operation. It had been good pay for a relatively easy job, and the men were congratulating themselves on the easy money.

  They were unprepared for the tall, blacksuited Executioner as he opened the abandoned farmhouse door with a powerful kick from a booted foot. As the door flew open, sagging from one hinge, Bolan appeared and lashed out with his Uzi at the closest of the three men before him. The man tumbled back, blood welling from the heavy gash in his head, stumbling to the floor. Bolan turned his attention to the other two as they produced automatic pistols, the suppressed Uzi spitting fire as he squeezed the trigger, tracking the muzzle from left to right, then back again, kicking the stunned kidnappers off their feet. As the last of the 9 mm shell cases clinked to the floor Bolan strode across the room, laying his Uzi on the wooden table he passed and used his Ka-bar fighting knife to cut through the bindings securing Erika Dukas to a wooden chair.

  She ripped the duct tape from across her mouth.

  “Another one outside…” she gasped before drawing breath.

  Bolan helped her to her feet.

  “There was,” he said quietly.

  It was his only reference to the man who had been standing guard outside. He slid the knife back into its sheath, but not before Dukas caught a glimpse of the blood smear on the blade.

  “Oh,” she whispered.

  Bolan’s concern over Dukas drew his attention, momentarily, from the men he had taken out. If he had to come up with any excuse as to his momentary lapse in concentration, it would have referred to the clubbing he had received back at Tira Malivik’s apartment. The slight concussion had not entirely cleared, and it had left him less than fully alert.

  Behind him a bloody figure rose awkwardly from the floor, turning to make a grab for the Uzi on the table.

  The woman’s gasp of surprise warned Bolan.

  He turned and powered himself across the room, his eye on the weapon too, aware of the end result if he failed to commandeer it. The kidnapper had less distance to cover and he moved fast, a near-triumphant smile on his bloody lips as he reached out for the submachine gun. His fingers closed over the metal, yanking the Uzi toward him. Bolan was still a couple of feet away. He made a last-ditch attempt, launching himself forward and across the table, sliding over the surface, and slammed bodily into the kidnapper.

  The impact sent the guy stumbling back, almost losing his grip on the SMG. He crooked a finger around the trigger and hauled the muzzle around to track on Bolan. The Executioner kept his f
orward motion. He rolled across the far side of the table, landing on his feet and swinging out his right arm, delivering a smashing fist that clouted the man across the side of his face. He reached for his holstered Beretta.

  The other man grunted, pain flaring. He swung the SMG in a vicious arc that cracked against Bolan’s shoulder and followed it with a brutal kick that caught the soldier in the side, spinning him away from the table. The kidnapper pulled the muzzle of the SMG on line, increasing pressure on the trigger.

  Bolan tried again for his holstered Beretta, aware he was competing with a man with his finger already on the trigger.

  The sound of the single shot made Bolan stiffen, expecting the impact of a bullet hitting home. When it did, it wasn’t Bolan who was the victim. He was looking directly at the kidnapper and saw the bloody exit hole that appeared in the man’s left shoulder. The bullet had entered to the right of his spine, coring its way through his body and blowing clear, taking bone fragments and fleshy debris with it. The man didn’t even have time to scream before he fell, letting go of the Uzi when he hit the floor.

  Bolan scooped up the weapon, ran a quick check, then turned to the shooter.

  It was Erika Dukas.

  The Stony Man Farm translator was still on her knees where she had made a grab for the pistol dropped by one of the other kidnappers. She still held the weapon in both hands and stared in stunned silence at the man she had shot.

  Bolan went straight to the woman, crouching in front of her. He gently pried the pistol from her trembling fingers, then placed a large and comforting hand on her cheek.

  “We need to get clear of this place, Erika. Before others come.”

  She looked at him and he saw her eyes were threatening to spill over with tears.

  “I…needed to stop him. He was going to kill you. Wasn’t he going to kill you?”

  “I’m a lucky guy to have you at my back. Now let’s get out of here. We can talk this over when we’re safe.” He took hold of her arm and helped her to stand, conscious she had transferred her gaze to the sprawled body. “He can’t hurt us now, Erika. Come on, we need to go.” His voice was low and gentle, his words soothing the turmoil she was undoubtedly experiencing.