Blood Vortex Read online

  Bolan unclipped a frag grenade from his combat webbing.

  He judged the gap between his position and the enemy as roughly thirty feet, which placed him within the blast radius. If he took advantage of the alcove’s cover, there was a decent chance he’d survive.

  The Executioner made a sidearm pitch, then ducked back from the storm of bullets that followed, dropping to a crouch. Downrange, one of his SEBIN adversaries cried a panicked warning.

  Too late.

  The blast echoed with the screams of wounded men and the ripping sounds of shrapnel as it tore into stucco walls. Bolan swung out of hiding and loosed another high-explosive round.

  Two more SEBIN guards were down and out, wailing as another pair of soldiers beat feet to make their getaway.

  He could have let them go, but that would likely mean he’d have to face them yet again, and that struck Bolan as a sucker’s play. But before the Executioner could make a move, a more pressing issue drew his attention.

  Shouting voices told him reinforcements from SEBIN were closing in fast.

  #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

  #454 Enemies Within

  #455 Chicago Vendetta

  #456 Thunder Down Under

  #457 Dying Art

  #458 Killing Kings

  #459 Stealth Assassin

  #460 Lethal Vengeance

  #461 Cold Fury

  #462 Cyberthreat

  #463 Righteous Fear

  #464 Blood Vortex

  Blood Vortex

  We stand for organized terror—this should be frankly admitted. Terror is an absolute necessity during times of revolution.

  —Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, interviewed for Novaia Zhizn (New Life), July 14, 1918

  I stand against all kinds of terrorism and I always will, responding in the only language that terrorists understand.

  —Mack Bolan

  In memory of Master-at-Arms Second Class Michael A. Monsoor,

  US Navy, SEAL Team Three, Delta Platoon, Ramadi, Iraq, September 29, 2006. RIP.

  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 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

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Caracas, Venezuela

  “Is all in readiness?” El Presidente asked, speaking around his Cohiba Robusto cigar.

  “As you commanded, sir,” his stout visitor replied. “The delegates should be arriving on the day after tomorrow.”

  El Presidente’s guest, seated before a huge desk hand-carved from mahogany, was a major general with the National Army of the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela. Three ten-rayed golden sunbursts shone from his uniform’s epaulettes, each one emblazoned with a face that might be smiling or smirking, depending on the major general’s mood.

  “And the security arrangements? Are they all in place?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve arranged to have a unit of the FAES on patrol in the immediate vicinity.”

  The initials stood for Fuerza de acción especial, the Special Action Force of the National Army of the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela. Created by El Presidente himself, the unit comprised Venezuela’s elite commandos, existing in theory to protect the country against foreign spies and journalists who dared report on federal malfeasance.

  Within its first twelve months of operation, so-called “human rights” proponents had accused FAES soldiers of murdering at least two hundred peasants while illegally raiding homes of suspected radicals. Another eight thousand similar slayings committed since El Presidente’s inauguration rem
ained “under investigation” by the nation’s Ministry of Interior and Justice.

  No sane person thought indictments would result, much less substantive punishment.

  El Presidente puffed on his Cohiba Robusto, while an index finger stroked his mustache.

  “And the groups invited? How many shall be attending?”

  “Of the twenty-three, sir, twenty.”

  The general regarded 85 percent as a success, but he refrained from smiling as he saw El Presidente frown.

  “What of the other three?” his supreme commander inquired.

  The major general took time to clear his throat before responding. “Sir, the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam are busy fighting for their lives against Sri Lanka’s army. That preoccupation renders them of little value to us.”

  “And the other two?”

  “The Shining Path sends regrets, sir. As you are aware, its lawyers hope to reinvent the movement as a party they call MOVADEF—the Movement for Amnesty and Fundamental Rights. In my opinion we are better off without them since they have betrayed the people’s cause.”

  “Which still leaves one,” El Presidente answered back.

  “Yes, sir. That would be ISIL,” the general agreed, referring to the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant. “True to its name, the group has spread beyond Iraq and Syria to Libya, Algeria, Yemen, Sinai and Gaza, to Afghanistan and Pakistan, even Azerbaijan and the Philippines. Diffusion breeds dissent and brings new would-be leaders forward to contend with the leadership in Iraq. Disputes with other Muslim movements deemed ‘impure’ obsess the media but blunt ISIL’s effectiveness. Hardly a month goes by without another of its field commanders being killed by drones.”

  “Best to forget about them then, you think?” El Presidente asked.

  “Yes, sir. We can always open new communications with them later, separately. That is, if they manage to survive.”

  “All right, then,” said El Presidente after half a minute. “I expect daily reports as we proceed, more often as required by any circumstances that arise.”

  Rising from his chair, the major general said, “Now, with your permission...”

  “By all means. You are dismissed. And close the door behind you as you leave.”

  Chapter One

  Arlington National Cemetery, Virginia

  Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, trod upon America’s most hallowed ground, waiting to find out who would be the next to die.

  He came to Arlington, on average, four times a year as time allowed, still awed, despite all he had seen and done, by the memorials to soldiers who had sacrificed their lives during his homeland’s many wars. He reckoned they wouldn’t mind if he also conducted certain business of a pressing nature while they slept in peace.

  Arlington National Cemetery sprawled over 624 acres, including some four hundred thousand individual graves, but Bolan had never attempted to visit them all. He usually started with the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, a seventy-nine-ton Yule marble monument erected in 1932 at a cost of $48,000—a pittance by Washington’s standards today. Perpetually guarded by soldiers since 1937, the tomb had been expanded over time to house remains from World War II, Korea and Vietnam. Forensic science had identified the remains of the Vietnam Unknown in 1998, allowing his reburial in St. Louis, Missouri. The crypt at the Tomb of the Unknowns remains vacant.

  Other monuments at Arlington included the USS Maine Mast Memorial, lost in February 1898 with 266 seamen killed. Mausoleums for two exiled foreign presidents who died in the United States over the course of World War II. JFK’s eternal flame, burning since his assassination in November 1963. The Lao Veterans of America memorial dedicated to Lao and Hmong veterans who served with US Special Forces and CIA advisers during a not-so-secret sideline to the Vietnam War. The Space Shuttle Challenger Memorial from 1986, commemorating seven astronauts. The Lockerbie Cairn, honoring 270 passengers of Pan Am Flight 103, bombed over Scotland by Libyan terrorists in December 1988. A monument dedicated to 184 federal employees killed when Saudi terrorists crashed American Airlines Flight 77 into the Pentagon on September 11, 2001.

  This morning, summoned for an urgent briefing by his oldest living friend, Bolan stood watching uniformed guards at the Tomb of the Unknowns perform the ritual they observed regardless of weather conditions, hourly from dawn to sunset, scaled back to two-hour intervals after nightfall.

  Turning from the tomb, Bolan stared off across the rows of white grave markers and picked out a figure. The man was moving closer, walking with the same determination drill sergeants used to lecture new recruits in boot camp as a formalized alternative to running in a panic. And although they were two hundred yards apart, Bolan still recognized the man he’d traveled here to meet.

  * * *

  Harold Brognola—“Hal” to nearly everyone who knew him—had been working for the FBI when Bolan first encountered him during the initial week of his one-man war against the Mafia. Before that, Bolan later learned, Brognola had started off as a patrolman in DC. By the time they had glimpsed each other in Miami, the big Fed was heading up a Bureau task force created to catch or kill Bolan. At the time, he was a “Top Ten” fugitive charged with an ever-growing list of murders targeting the Mob’s “made men,” associates and anybody else who collaborated with them in the corruption of America and Europe.

  Brognola had barely glimpsed his quarry that first time, in the Magic City, during a chaotic firefight that had left another pile of bodies for the G-man to identify and add to Bolan’s tab of felonies.

  The second time around, twenty-five-hundred miles to the west in Las Vegas, Brognola had seen and heard enough to view Bolan’s war as a public service rather than bloody anarchy.

  Eventually, in Manhattan, he staged a headline-grabbing “death” of sorts for Bolan, wiping out all traces of his prior existence from law enforcement files and Pentagon personnel records, while Bolan had enlisted in another kind of endless war against a world of human predators whose actions often made the Mafia look timid by comparison.

  With that shift, Brognola had left the Bureau but remained with the Justice Department, eventually becoming a high-ranking official answerable only to the President of the United States. Not only was the big Fed a trusted adviser, he was the leader of a covert, extralegal strike force based at supersecret Stony Man Farm, a combination nerve center and hardsite hidden in plain sight in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.

  A call from Brognola, requesting Bolan’s presence at the Farm or some other established point of contact such as Arlington, meant that he had another mission to offer Bolan with a tight deadline and hell to pay if it was not completed. In theory, Bolan could turn down any task that ran against his grain, although in practice he had never failed to carry out a do-or-die assignment when it came his way.

  In fact, the Executioner had only two rules that he doggedly refused to violate.

  First up, he fought for justice—small “J,” not to be confused with the politicized bullshit inflicted on federal agents whenever a regime change rolled around in Washington each four to eight years. Defending justice and democracy meant that and nothing more in Bolan’s mind. A self-styled “public servant” who betrayed the trust of his constituents was in no way immune to punishment if Bolan deemed it warranted.

  That being understood, Bolan ran head-on against his second ironclad rule.

  He would not drop the hammer on a cop—no matter how corrupt or even murderous the individual might prove to be. Bolan regarded law-enforcement officers as “soldiers of the same side” in his War Everlasting, and he would sacrifice himself rather than put one of them in a grave.

  That did not mean he couldn’t seek some other path to retribution, short of homicide. During his long campaign, a string of dirty cops had ended their careers in prison based on evidence Bolan collected and presented to Brognola. If incarceration put them in harm’s way with l
ethal consequences...well, that was somebody else’s problem. The thugs who’d soiled their badges had brought it on themselves.

  Now, striding out to meet Brognola halfway, Bolan wondered what had brought him here this day, what was at stake, and how much it would cost to put things right—assuming that were even possible.

  Sometimes, as Bolan knew too well from loss of family and friends along his hellfire trail, some problems offered no good choices. You could only pick the least evil alternative and purge the predators who would have done the world a favor if they’d died at birth.

  Grim thoughts, but he was used to them.

  They hardly ever gave him nightmares anymore.

  * * *

  Brognola’s handshake was as dry and strong as ever, but he had a harried look about him that recalled a recent incident in Texas, where he’d been abducted from a law-enforcement conference by clumsy narcotrafficanti who’d mistaken him for someone else. On realizing their mistake, they had turned the big Fed over to a psychopathic murderer in Ciudad Juárez, for slaughter at the monster’s leisure. But the freak of nature had stalled too long for his own good and Bolan had arrived in time to sort things out.

  At least, they had returned to normal on the surface—Brognola at work frustrating other plots with Bolan’s help—but years of combat in the vilest trenches had taught the Executioner that some scars never entirely healed.

  Instead of probing, he simply asked his oldest friend, “What’s up?”

  “Wish I could tell you it’s a social call,” the big Fed said by way of greeting, “but you know better, right? In fact, it doesn’t get much worse than this.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You’re up to speed on our relationship with Venezuela, I suppose?”

  Bolan let a short nod answer for him while his mind recapped current events. Historically, the US and the Land of Grace had enjoyed an amiable partnership of sorts. In fact, that meant the States got Venezuela’s oil and other exports—legit and illegal—while sending tourists to its southern neighbor in exchange. That balance had tipped dramatically in 1998 with the landslide election of President Hugo Chávez, an advocate of what he called “Bolivarianism” or “Socialism of the 21st Century.” Admirers dubbed it “Chavismo” in his honor.