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  Dead Man’s Switch

  Armed with weapons of mass destruction, three anti-American groups prepare to unleash a deadly war against the United States. Mack Bolan is sent in to stop the attack before the killing can begin. And he knows every second counts. There’s only one problem: the weapons are hidden in different locations around the world.

  With millions of innocent lives at stake, Bolan has no choice but to accept the help of an ex-Hezbollah member who claims to have insight into the terrorists’ plans. Keeping one eye on the informant and the other on disarming the threat, the Executioner knows it’s time for him to do some massive destruction of his own.

  The Executioner was a micro-second behind the bomber

  The terrorist squeezed the trigger, and Bolan heard the hammer fall on an empty pistol.

  Wasting no time, he sent a trio of rounds into the man’s face, knocking him against the shattered stained-glass windows like a spineless rag doll.

  All the terrorists at the back of the chapel were now dead. And yet the danger was far from over. Bolan watched as the detonator fell from the bomber’s lifeless fingers to the tiled floor, skidding several feet before hitting the wall and bouncing back a few inches.

  His Beretta in his right hand, he dove across the room, counting off the seconds as he flew through the air.

  One thousand one...

  Bolan hit the floor and snatched the detonator in one swift motion.

  One thousand two...

  He saw a series of buttons, but only one was illuminated. Did that mean it was the button that would halt the detonator or...? The Executioner had to make a lightning-fast decision. He had to take the chance.

  Mack Bolan: The Executioner

  #332 Slaughter House

  #333 Aftershock

  #334 Jungle Justice

  #335 Blood Vector

  #336 Homeland Terror

  #337 Tropic Blast

  #338 Nuclear Reaction

  #339 Deadly Contact

  #340 Splinter Cell

  #341 Rebel Force

  #342 Double Play

  #343 Border War

  #344 Primal Law

  #345 Orange Alert

  #346 Vigilante Run

  #347 Dragon’s Den

  #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

  Don Pendleton

  Throw Down

  Know thy self, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories.

  —Sun Tzu

  In every war, you must know your enemy, be cautious of your allies and never go against your gut—it is what will keep you alive.

  —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.

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jerry VanCook for his contribution to this work.

  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

  PROLOGUE

  February 20, 2003

  The Iraqi dictator stared at the screen of his computer as he waited for the security program to kick in. He knew he was about to experience the most important online conference he had ever had. In fact, it was probably the most important meeting of any sort he had ever taken part in.

  A moment later, the screen divided into thirds. First to come into focus was the left-hand side, where the Iraqi saw the face of Mohammed Parnian sitting at his desk in Damascus. Parnian was the Syrian president and, like the Iraqi, a Sunni Muslim. But he was of the Alawi sect, who approached the Creator directly rather than through angels or Muslim saints.

  The Iraqi president hated the man. But at least he was Sunni.

  The middle screen became clear and a similar picture emerged from Iran. The swarthy little man behind the desk wore a light colored suit with an open collar. Hamid Bartovi was, of course, a Shiite, and the Iraqi remembered the long war he had fought against this man’s country during the latter part of the twentieth century. Neither had won, and many lives had been lost on both sides. But even though he was Shiite, he, too, was Muslim.

  Finally, the right side of the screen came into focus. The man sitting behind this desk had huge jowls hanging from the sides of his jaws and black hair slicked back by a comb. He looked angry. But, the dictator reminded himself, Pancho Martinez always looked angry. His face couldn’t be used to judge his mood. Martinez, the president of Venezuela, was not a Muslim of any sort. He claimed to be Christian, but the Iraqi dictator knew that was primarily for political reasons.

  If truth be known, none the leaders who had gathered for this secured video conference were particularly religious. They used religion when it was practical and discarded it when it was not. They did, however, have two things in common.

  They all loved power.

  And they all hated the United States of America.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the Iraqi said in English—the only language all four of them spoke. “I trust things are going well for you.”

  “As well as can be expected,” Bartovi said. “Under the current circumstances.”

  “Things
are quiet at the moment,” Parnian said.

  “All is well here,” Martinez reported. “Particularly compared to you and your country.”

  The Iraqi sat back. “Yes,” he said. “These are dark times for us. The U.S. invasion is inevitable, I believe.”

  “And you can never win such a war,” Parnian said. “You must face that fact.”

  “That fact, as you put it,” the Iraqi admitted, “is exactly why I have called this meeting.” He paused to take in a long breath, scratching his clean-shaven chin as he did so. “I must go into hiding, I am afraid.”

  “A wise choice,” Bartovi said. “But for how long?”

  “I do not know,” the Iraqi said. “But if the United States is true to form, they will take over my country, claim victory, set up some puppet regime and then go home when their citizens grow tired of losing American lives. It could be a matter of months. Then again, it might be years.”

  “Vietnam taught them nothing,” Martinez said. “They are still quick to stick their nose into the business of other nations. But they lack the resolve to stay in place long enough to achieve their beloved democracy.” The Venezuelan curled his lips in distaste.

  “They believe democracy should be forced upon the entire world,” Bartovi proclaimed. “Even nations that have no desire for it. In that sense, they are as bad as the Soviet Union used to be in spreading communism.”

  “We can spend all day discussing politics if you like,” Parnian said. “But it will do nothing to help our friend in Iraq.” This time, it was the word friend that caught the dictator’s ear. It seemed forced from the Iranian’s lips. The Iraqi knew they were friends only in their opposition to the Western superpower.

  “So,” Martinez said. “How can we be of service to you during your last few days in office?”

  The dictator sat quietly for a moment, then said, “I would like to send each of you some presents.”

  “And they are...?” Bartovi asked.

  The dictator glanced at the side of his computer, assuring himself that the red security light was on and the meeting was being scrambled beyond anything the Americans might be able to piece together into coherence. “I must move out my weapons,” he said. “To Syria and Iran, I would like to send my biological and chemical supplies.” He paused again, taking in another breath. “For Venezuela, I have a very special gift.”

  “Special gift?” Martinez repeated.

  “I have one nuclear warhead,” the dictator said. “But no missiles that will reach the United States from Baghdad.” He paused yet again, this time for dramatic effect. “Launched from your country, however, Señor Martinez, it is another story.”

  “Let us make sure we are all on the same page, as the infidel Americans say,” Parnian murmured. “You are expecting us to enter into a protracted war with the United States?”

  “Of course not,” the Iraqi said quickly. “You would have no better chance of winning than I do.” A certain sense of satisfaction flowed through him as he spoke the words. His colleagues had reminded him that his forces could never defeat those of the U.S. It was gratifying to remind them in turn that they could be no more successful than he. “What I would like you to do,” he said, “is simply hide these weapons until it appears to the world that they never existed in the first place. When they have searched my country high and low and found nothing, the weapons of mass destruction, or WMDs, as their cowboy president loves to call them, will appear to have been nothing but a political ploy. Americans will believe their leader used them simply as an excuse to take over Iraq.”

  “And they will turn against him,” Bartovi said, nodding on the screen. “The Americans are quick to do that.”

  “Exactly,” the Iraqi said, and he found himself nodding, too. “And in the next election, they will vote for someone as different from their current president as possible.”

  All four men chuckled softly. “They always do,” Parnian said. “Republican, Democrat, liberal, conservative. They bounce from one extreme to another, never happy with anyone they have elected.”

  “Precisely,” the Iraqi leader said. “And I will wait them out. When they go home, I will emerge stronger than ever.”

  “If they do not find you first,” Martinez stated, staring out from the screen. “If they do, you will be tried in the World Court in Geneva. And with all due respect, my fellow president, you will be found guilty and probably hanged.”

  A surge of fear washed over the Iraqi, but he pushed it to the side. No one—not even the mighty Americans—would be able to ferret him out of hiding. Not here, in his own country.

  The fear left his soul. For a moment, the possibility that his ego had overtaken his common sense replaced it, but he pushed that thought aside, as well.

  “That will not happen,” he said, staring at Martinez. “But just in case the million-to-one shot comes through, I would like you all to pass my gifts on to some of our other friends. Friends who do not have obvious borders, or buildings and cities that could be bombed in retaliation.”

  “You are speaking of al Qaeda,” Parnian said.

  “And Hamas and Hezbollah,” Bartovi added.

  “Indeed I am,” the Iraqi said. “Not to mention the Taliban. In the unlikely event that I do die or am captured, I want millions of American lives taken in revenge.”

  For a moment, all four leaders were quiet. Then Martinez said quietly, “Send me your gift.”

  “And to us, ours,” Parnian stated.

  “We will comply with your wishes,” Bartovi said. “And even after you return to power, we can make good use of your gifts. Or rather, as you said, our freedom-fighting associates can.”

  “It is time that the Middle East rose again,” the Iraqi said. And quickly added, “With, of course, our South American friends.”

  “Then it is settled,” Bartovi said. “We are ready for delivery as soon as you are able.”

  The Iraqi dictator smiled into the split screen of his computer. “They are already on their way,” he said. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  “Good evening,” the other three men replied.

  The Iraqi dictator reached up and tapped the button that shut down his computer. Then he sat back in his chair and found himself chuckling again.

  The people of the United States were the smuggest human beings in the world, in his opinion. They would find that they were not as prepared to take over Iraq as they thought. He would disappear for the duration of the war—which would not last long, due to the Americans’ impatience. And when they had left again he would reemerge stronger than ever.

  The hunted dictator’s chuckling became full-blown laughter. His plan was perfect.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  1

  Mack Bolan had known it would be only a matter of time.

  After all, what softer target could Islamic terrorists find than small, unguarded Christian churches?

  The flutter of the helicopter blades above his head did little to drown out the gunfire Bolan heard below as Jack Grimaldi, Stony Man Farm’s top pilot, paused the chopper in midair above the tiny Catholic church standing out strangely in the middle-income residential area. Bolan recalled what he’d been told during the short helicopter “hop” from Chicago to Detroit.

  The Catholic chapel had been built with money, and on a vacant lot, donated by an elderly retired schoolteacher who had never married. Having no heirs, she had passed on what little there was of her estate to the Church, with the request that the chapel be built in the medieval style reminiscent of many small Catholic churches in Europe. Her specifications had been followed to the letter, according to Stony Man Farm’s source of information, and Bolan was slightly surprised that the city had been willing to rezone the lot for the unusual building.

  Looking down through the windshield of the w
hirlybird, Bolan counted an even dozen armed men hiding behind statues of saints and firing AK-47s. Others had entered the chapel and were shooting through broken stained glass windows.

  They all appeared to be on the ground floor of the three-story building.

  Atop the church, however, one side of the cross mounted on the steeple had been shot away. The sight caused Bolan, also known as the Executioner, to frown. Detroit Police cars and a pair of SWAT vans encircled the building. While some of the officers spoke into handheld walkie-talkies and cell phones, most were too busy returning fire toward the church. But surely none of them were such poor marksman that they had missed their targets by two stories.

  “Bring her down another twenty feet or so, Jack,” Bolan told his pilot and longtime friend. “If I’m going into this gunfight I’d just as soon not start it with a broken leg.”

  “You got it, big guy,” Grimaldi said, and reached for the control panel in front of him. Seconds later the helicopter began to drop through the air like a well-controlled butterfly. As they descended, Bolan saw the reason for the shot that had hit the cross on the steeple.

  It had not been poor marksmanship. From this new vantage point, he could see that two of the terrorists had climbed all the way to the roof. Rather than blasting away with assault weapons, they were taking their time with bolt-action sniper rifles.

  Bolan considered landing the chopper on the flat area of the church’s roof. So far, the enemies below hadn’t taken much interest in the helicopter. The cops, of course, wouldn’t shoot at him or Grimaldi. And the terrorists had probably surmised that the unmarked aircraft was from a news channel. They wouldn’t shoot, at least not until Bolan tipped his hand as an enemy combatant. Like all terrorists, they wanted all the news coverage they could get.

  “Hold it here,” the Executioner said as he strapped the bungee cord harness around his shoulders, waist, and up between his thighs. The sharp cracks of rifle fire were becoming even louder. As Grimaldi continued to hover over the church, Bolan reached into one of the pockets of his stretchy, skintight black battle suit—known simply as a blacksuit—and pulled out his satellite phone. A moment later, he had tapped in the number to Stony Man Farm, the top-secret counterterrorist organization with which he maintained an “arm’s length” working relationship.