Aftershock

Bolan pressed the hot muzzle against the Kurd’s cheek

“Captain Makal sends his regards,” he said.

Bolan nodded to Sengor, who grabbed two full bags of money. The Executioner leaned down and picked up the wounded man and hurled him through the doorway. Sengor had brought in a canister of gasoline with him, and left it behind when he evacuated, all part of Bolan’s plan.

Bolan tore off the cap and splashed the flammable liquid across the remaining money and corpses. He threw the container in the corner, pulled out a disposable lighter and fired it up.

The money-room was an inferno within thirty seconds, but by then, the Executioner was already en route to his next war zone.

MACK BOLAN ®

The Executioner

#258 Target Lock

#259 Nightfire

#260 Dayhunt

#261 Dawnkill

#262 Trigger Point

#263 Skysniper

#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

Aftershock

Don Pendleton

Profit is sweet, even if it comes from deception.

—Sophocles, 496–406 B.C.

Make your blood money and enjoy it while you can. The reckoning for your deceptions will be paid off, and I will collect.

—Mack Bolan

To the Red Cross for the lives they’ve saved around the world.

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

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Prologue

The Turkish morning sun burned down on the city of Van and the crowded streets full of frightened and shell-shocked citizens. The ceaseless battle between the Turkish military security forces, Jandarma, and the Kongra-Gel terrorists was hottest in the southeastern region where Van was located. Cops were on every corner, and a small command post was set up by the hotel. Officially it was to protect American relief workers, but the soldiers stationed there were more interested in keeping an eye on the foreigners. They were wary of the strangers, realizing that the relief workers, or tourists in the same hotel, could be in league with the Kongra-Gel revolutionary front.

Boz Arcuri looked both ways before he got out of the Peugeot. The 9 mm Llama in his waistband was uncocked, but he could thumb the hammer back in a heartbeat and put all nine shots from the sleek handgun into anyone who challenged him.

Still, his black, scraggly beard was trimmed, and his clothes were neat and clean, despite their loose fit, allowing his shirt to cover the trim outline of his pistol. He frowned. The hotel he’d parked in front of wasn’t one of the best in Van, but it was loaded with relief workers, and frugal tourists from a dozen nations. The presence of the military so close by provided the foreigners with a false sense of security.

Westerners were comforted by the sight of soldiers, regardless of how truly effective they were in protecting them. Arcuri thought of the time he’d gone to the United States, setting up a heroin deal with a New York Mob boss. Since that dark September day, it wasn’t unusual to find men and women carrying assault rifles, but to the Kongra-Gel lieutenant’s experienced eye, he realized that those National Guardsmen were holding empty weapons, no magazines in place. A calculating enough assassin could kill a half-dozen of the armed guards and get a supply of pristine, unfired automatic weapons to unleash a wave of devastation among them.

Though the Turkish army troops had magazines in their weapons, they suffered from the conceit of many Middle Eastern men. They refused to use their shoulder stocks, and many of them had folded their metal stocks, or sawn off the wooden units, making their rifles ineffective and useless farther than twenty feet out.

Arcuri felt secure as he walked away from the truck. Its covered bed was stuffed with four thousand pounds of mixed fertilizer, plastic explosives and small arms shells that had been damaged in transport, or didn’t fit Kongra-Gel’s arsenal of weapons, all packed in a flat cake that was neatly concealed by a simple tarpaulin. Mixing in the bullets was a stroke of genius. It disposed of useless ammunition and created simple, effective shrapnel that would only add to the mayhem.

The goal of the bombing wasn’t to strike any specific blow, but the detonation would provide a thundering distraction for the Turkish rebels’ true goals.

The Multinational Organization Relief Effort for Southeast Turkey—MOREST—had a storehouse of drugs, including painkillers, that Kongra-Gel could steal and sell for millions of dollars, keeping a small supply for their own forces to continue the fight against the western-poisoned government. Arcuri grinned and walked. A bomb going off at the hotel would draw the relief workers and guards hired to protect the medical supplies to the scene of the bombing. It would leave only a minor skeleton crew on hand to protect the golden egg that Kagan Trug wanted.

After that, it would be easy to swoop in. The Kongra-Gel team was organized, had its trucks in position and only needed one thing to make the heist come off cleanly.

Arcuri looked around. The lawman standing on the street corner, pistol in his belt holster, dark eyes scanning the faces of passersby, had only noticed Arcuri in passing. The rebel Turk pulled his Llama from under his shirt as he’d gotten within an arm’s length. A woman’s scream alerted the cop that there was danger, but it was too late for him. Arcuri pulled the trigger, emptying nine rounds into the doomed policeman’s skull. As the cop fell, the terrorist turned his attention back to the military forces by the hotel. They heard the shooting and grabbed their rifles, racing in a throng toward the sound of gunfire.

When the main pack of Turkish soldiers reached his Peugeot, Arcuri grinned and pressed the button on the radio detonator in his pocket. Even five blocks down the street from ground zero, the Kongra-Gel lieutenant was knocked off his feet by the blast wave. The fireball extended three hundred feet in every direction.

Anyone inside that dome of flame and pressure was instantly vaporized. Even the protection of walls and windows were useless as ripples of explosive force shattered brick and turned glass into clouds of high-velocity shrapnel. Arcuri crawled to the cover of a parked car and watched in awe as the hotel shook violently.

The vehicle he huddled against rattled as debris rained atop it. A moment later, the half of the hotel facing the pickup truck expelled jets of dust and smoke from its shattered windows, and slid to the ground in a choking cloud of gray.

Arcuri struggled to his feet. The world had been flipped onto its ear, and wails of pain and terror erupted from the thick blanket of swirling debris that grew, crawling ominously toward Arcuri. The Turk grinned and gave the cloud a small salute, racing off down the street. One cop fired three shots after him, a bullet clipping the sleeve of his jacket, but another Turkish officer dragged the gunman toward the carnage, the act of saving lives more important than bringing in the madman, for the time being.

Arcuri raced to freedom, knowing his brothers would be hard at work, looting the warehouse.

IN THE KANDILLI Observatory and Earthquake Research Institute, scientists registered the tremor in downtown Van. It drew attention, but not as much as it should have, as the radio and television displayed the news of the destruction of the hotel and the deaths of hundreds.

Vigo Pepis, however, was watching the sensors. The vibrations they picked up from the explosion in Van lasted longer. He tried to tell his coworkers about the aberration, but he was brushed off, told that the collapse of the building would have contributed to the odd readings.

Pepis looked at the graph. He could see on the scope the rhythm of the tremors caused by the explosion, and moments later, the collapse of the hotel. There was a definite beat, but a background vibration wave had started a moment before the detonation, hidden by the spike in pressure waves caused by the explosion. Pepis wished he could have seen the scope of the tremor. He was good at predicting earthquakes, but he needed clean, uninterrupted data. The bombing in Van had hit at just the wrong moment for Pepis to tell if the minor quake was a prelude to something worse, an initial breech of pent-up energy between fault lines crushed against each other, or just standard shakes as the earth flexed as part of its natural shifting.

The graph suddenly began going again.

“Vigo! Oh my God…Look!” Taira shouted.

Pepis glanced up momentarily from the graph to see the damaged hotel shake again. Another section collapsed, and he snapped back to the graph. The plates flexed against each other. Something had happened. He was certain a major earthquake was building up. The collapse of another section of building masked more of the seismic vibrations in Van, but nearby sensors, twenty and fifty miles from the city center, picked up sympathetic tremors.

“It’s going to be a disaster,” Pepis muttered weakly.

“What are you talking about?” Taira asked. “It already is! I can’t imagine how many people are trapped under the rubble.”

Pepis’s lips drew into a tight and bloodless line.

“It’s going to get worse,” he whispered. “Much, much worse.”

1

The Executioner whipped around and leveled the AK-47 at the midsection of the armed thug, stitching him from crotch to sternum with a line of .30-caliber holes. Belly blasted into a gory crater, the gunman’s corpse toppled off the back of the pickup truck and Mack Bolan turned to slide through the rear window of its cab. Gunfire chased after him, but bullets deflected off the sides of the truck.

The driver, his skull dented by a point-blank burst, blocked the Executioner from getting fully inside the pickup. The vehicle rolled out of control toward the gate of the Kongra-Gel facility. Bolan let the emptied AK drop to the pickup’s bed so he could use both hands to steer for the center of the wooden doors. He pushed hard against the corpse’s knee, using the lifeless leg to stomp on the accelerator. The truck raced faster and Bolan held on, white-knuckled, to the steering wheel.

The front fender met the barrier, and two tons of steel defeated the heavy wooden doors. The impact jolted Bolan farther into the cab, and he twisted like a serpent. His legs slipped through the rear window and he dropped into the leg well of the shotgun seat as a fresh storm of autofire tore through the cab. The lifeless driver jerked spasmodically as 7.62 mm ComBloc rounds burst gory exit wounds from his chest, the heavy-caliber bullets smashing the steering column into useless metal and plastic.

The Executioner realized that he didn’t have much longer and pried open the passenger-side door. His long legs extended fully, like steel coil springs, and launched him out the door and into a thicket of bushes as the bullet-riddled pickup truck tumbled onward. The Toyota’s grille collapsed as it hit a tree. Where the unbraced doors had proved vulnerable, the old, deep-rooted tree was an immovable object. The driver’s corpse vaulted through the windshield and slid down the hood, leaving a gory smear.

Bolan drew his Jericho pistol and checked its load, then headed deeper into the roadside foliage. The spectacular crash of the pickup truck had bought him a few precious moments to reach cover, and he took it. The Jericho was a stand-in for Bolan’s usual Desert Eagle. Getting across the border hadn’t given the soldier much of an opportunity to shop for weapons, but he was able to get the gun, in .40 S&W, and several hundred rounds of ammunition for it. Even though it wasn’t the full-sized .44 Magnum he was used to, the “baby Desert Eagle” would give any pursuer pause, and give the soldier an opportunity to acquire a longer range weapon. And if he couldn’t, he’d improvise.

The soft probe of the Kongra-Gel camp had proved disastrous, an example of bad luck as a guard had been able to get off a shot before the Executioner could silence him. Bolan hadn’t had an opportunity to lay the explosives he needed to destroy the training area and the barracks of the Turkish narcoterrorists responsible for the deaths of almost two hundred American and British relief workers, and more than three hundred Turkish citizens in the Van bombing.

He’d only just finished a mission in Azerbaijan, taking out a ring of arms smugglers when he’d heard about the brutal attack in Turkey. Bolan was too late to protect the victims of the Kongra-Gel, an amalgamation of various Turkish Communist insurgent groups. However, a quick conference call with Aaron Kurtzman and Hal Brognola at Stony Man Farm had indicated that the hellish murders were simply a diversion to cover the theft of millions of dollars’ worth of relief supplies, including medications and painkillers meant for the displaced refugees from the incessant civil war waged by these very thieves.

It was a small step up from heroin and opium dealing to flooding the black market with drugs meant for their own countrymen. Bolan hoped to find the missing drugs and supplies before the savage thugs sold them off, and perhaps get them back to work in helping the Turkish refugees. It was the least that the Executioner could do to further the cause of the MOREST lifesavers.

They had been slain in the course of their work to make the world a better place.

Bolan wasn’t going to let their murderers profit from their savagery.

The Executioner paused at the base of the hill and spotted a half-dozen gunmen making their way around the bend. They were out of breath from taking the road and had slowed down, eyes wide and wary against the lethal black shadow who had torn through twenty of their brethren. Rifle muzzles swept the roadside, bodies reacting to the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Bolan frowned as he recognized that they were maintaining their calm. They were alert, not panicked, and weren’t going to waste their ammunition on an uncertain target.

Bolan was running low on major gear and supplies. It had taken him six hours to smuggle himself into Turkey, pick up a couple of handguns along with a smattering of plastic explosives and a battle harness. He’d used up his grenades in a savage firefight against the Azerbaijani gunrunners. That was why he’d made the soft probe against the Kongra-Gel training camp, to scrounge for supplies and intel, and to give the organization’s leadership something to sweat over.

The Executioner knew he’d come in behind the eight ball, but he wouldn’t allow that to hobble him. He wadded up a cube of C-4 and rolled it in a stash of stones and pebbles that an ant colony had built up to secure their nest. The insects fled from the slowly rolling ball as their rocky pile was imbedded into the soft, pliant explosive. Bolan pressed a pencil-sized radio detonator into the round, rocky blob, and let fly with the improvised grenade.

The Turkish rebels spotted Bolan’s movement and one of them fired a short burst toward the tree that he’d been huddled against. Bark splintered as the incongruous bomb landed in the midst of the gunmen. They looked down at it, an ersatz, gray candy apple with a blinking stick poking out of it. Because it didn’t look like a grenade, they were confused by its presence. More of the riflemen opened up, but the Executioner thumbed the firing stud on his detonator.

The explosion tore one of the terrorist thugs in two, a sheet of force pushing a guillotine of rock through the centerline of his body. Another man died as a quarter-inch-wide pebble tore through his right eye and whipped through his brain like a bullet. Another one wailed as his left arm was stripped of flesh all the way to the bone.

It wasn’t much of an advantage, but it would have to do, Bolan figured as he burst from cover, the big Jericho bucking in his fist. The Executioner’s first shot caught a Turkish terrorist on the bridge of his nose and blew a flap of scalp and skull off the back of his head. A second killer leaped wildly for the cover of a ditch, but Bolan caught him with a bullet through his left thigh. Muscle and bone were mangled by the heavy-caliber slug and the rifleman disappeared out of sight, screaming in pain.

The last able gunman, his right side bloodied, uniform torn by shrapnel, snarled angrily and milked the trigger of his AK-47 in an effort to avenge his injuries. Bolan pivoted and leaped forward beneath the stream of autofire, pumping out four shots. One missed, sailing into the distance over the wounded Turk’s shoulder, but his other shots connected with the Kongra-Gel killer’s torso, zipping him from throat to groin.

The wounded rifleman struggled to grab his AK’s pistol grip with his left hand, determined to protect himself when Bolan somersaulted onto the road. The Executioner lashed out with one of his stovepipe legs, his heel catching the rifle. The kick launched the weapon into the roadside ditch, and Bolan leveled his Jericho at the Turk.

“Don’t even try it,” the soldier warned.

The Kongra-Gel fighter froze as he looked down the hole in the end of the massive pistol.

“Run away,” Bolan said, jerking the muzzle slightly. “Live to fight another day.”

The Turk looked over his shoulder, then back at the huge handgun aimed at him.

If he didn’t understand Bolan’s words, he at least understood the intent of his gestures. The Turk cradled his mangled arm and raced off down the road, not looking back.

Bolan scrambled to his feet and dumped the partially empty magazine, reloading with a fully loaded stick of twelve more hollowpoint rounds. He pocketed the half-empty clip and slowly advanced toward the gunman cowering in the ditch.

A burst of automatic fire was the Executioner’s welcome, the swarm of bullets burning hotly, too close for comfort. Bolan dived to the bottom of the ditch and punched two more rounds into the hobbled rifleman before the Turk could adjust his aim. The rounds were fatal, one plowing through the gunman’s groin and smashing his spine, the second tearing into his heart.

The Executioner holstered his pistol and picked up the AK-47 and the dead man’s spare ammo. He walked into the road and pulled more ammunition off the other dead men, inspecting the banana-shaped magazines for damage before loading them into a borrowed bandolier bag. Five of the clips had been mangled by the explosion, and nothing could be retrieved from the torn corpse of Bolan’s first target.

It didn’t matter. He had twelve full magazines, and five more half-filled boxes that he could load to make it an even fifteen sticks for the confiscated AK. The rounds of rifle ammunition would be enough to keep Bolan solvent in his war against the Kongra-Gel and the recovery of the missing supplies.

Two-dozen dead, and one survivor who would take a message to the group’s leadership.

They were no longer the prime predators in southeast Turkey.

The Executioner had arrived, and there was going to be hell to pay. He was going to shake the country and see what rattled loose in the aftermath.

2

Catherine Abood grunted as she was hurled against the jeep’s fender by the Jandarma goon. She put the back of her hand to her mouth, and wasn’t surprised by the bright red seeping across her skin when it came away. She took a deep breath and spit out blood, and glared, dark eyed, at the thugs.

She’d taken pictures of what these creeps had done to a teenaged boy they suspected of knowing members of the Kongra-Gel. Her camera was torn open, its film exposed while another of the rifle-toting thugs crushed her remaining canisters of film.

“We can’t allow this to fall into the wrong hands,” the Jandarma commander, Captain Yuli Makal, told her.

“Since when do you care what the West thinks?” Abood asked as Makal snatched her wrist and pulled her close.

Abood realized that antagonizing these thugs was the worst possible choice she could have made, but her father had raised her to be an independent woman. He’d taught her how to shoot, how to fight, how to protect herself, and encouraged her to break the mold of a demure, soft-spoken Arab woman. She was born and raised an American, a fourth generation New Englander, but by the time she was fourteen, she’d seen most of the world. From Kudu hunts in South Africa to skiing in Switzerland, she’d avoided a sheltered life.

Makal smirked as he felt her waist, then pushed open her photographer’s vest. “You have a gun, young lady.”

“I have a permit for it,” Abood stated. Her cheek and lips felt thick, probably swollen from Makal’s punch. “Your government wants me to have it.”

Makal looked at the 9 mm Beretta Compact, admiring its balance and feel. “But you have the protection of the Jandarma, my sweet thing,” he said.

Makal’s smile split his homely face. His head rested on his broad shoulders like a fireplug topped with curly, thick, greasy hair. A bushy mustache flapped over that yellowed smile. They were eye to eye, and though Abood was tall, at five feet, seven inches, it only pointed out how her willowy frame made her stand out among the Turkish people.

Though her Syrian blood had given her an olive complexion, it was not as sun-and-wind darkened as the natives. She was relatively pale, and her long black hair flowed like silk. Her smile would have been much whiter had it not been for the blood smeared across her teeth from Makal’s punch.