DORMANT DEATH

Formed in the wake of World War I, a renegade secret society has never lost sight of its goal to eradicate the “lesser races” and restore a mythical paradise. This nightmare scenario becomes a terrifying possibility when the society discovers an ancient virus hidden in a Cold War–era military installation. Called in to avert the looming apocalypse, Mack Bolan must stop the white supremacists by any means necessary.

Bolan tracks the group to Alaska, enduring the harsh arctic conditions while dodging highly trained killers. But the clock is ticking down, and Bolan will need all his skills and resourcefulness to eliminate this threat. All that stands between millions of people and a sure death is one man. The Executioner.

“I have a gun,” Sparrow said

He kicked the air marshal, who was sitting on the floor, his face a mess of burns and blood. The man groaned. “And I have a hostage.”

“No, what you have is a problem,” Bolan said, edging closer. “You’re only going to get one shot, and I’m fairly certain you’re not good enough to hit me, even this close. And if you miss, one of four things will happen.” Bolan slid forward another few inches. “One, you’ll punch a hole in the plane itself. Not a big deal, really, despite what movies would have you believe.”

Sparrow was staring at him with wary fascination, like a rat watching an approaching snake.

“Two, you’ll pop a window, which is worse. Someone could get sucked out and the cabin will be filled with so much flying debris that a concussion will be the least of your worries. Three, your bullet clips some wiring. You might stop the in-flight entertainment or you could kill the radar or something worse. And four, your errant shot could puncture one of the fuel tanks. Which, if we’re lucky, just causes a fire, but if we’re not…” Bolan spread his hands. “Boom.”

Arctic Kill

Don Pendleton

There is nothing more inglorious than that glory that is gained by war.

—Thomas More, Utopia

I don’t fight for glory, power or wealth. My War Everlasting has only one goal: justice…by any means necessary.

—Mack Bolan

THE 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

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

Quotes

The Mack Bolan Legend

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

Copyright

Chapter 1

Reno, Nevada

The heat of a Nevada summer sun beat down on the forecourt of the Rancho Santo Motel with hammer-like intensity. The parking lot was practically sizzling, even in the few scraps of available shade, but Mack Bolan, aka the Executioner, felt the cool patience of a hunter.

Idly, he reached up to scratch at the stubble that coated his jaw. Three days ago, Bolan had agreed to take on a mission for Hal Brognola, and the soldier hadn’t shaved since. He was squatting between the motel trash bins, a mostly empty bottle of cheap liquor clutched in his grimy fingers, and his threadbare thrift store duds reeking of booze, sweat and an all-prevalent odor of urine. He’d gotten used to the smell by the second day. “Small favors,” he murmured. It was a good disguise. No one saw street people, not if they could help it.

He shifted his weight. The sound-suppressed Beretta 93R holstered at the small of his back was a comforting presence. More easily concealable than his normal sidearm, the Beretta could be set to fire a 3-round burst. It had a 20-round magazine, plus one in the chamber. Bolan swept the Rancho Santo with his keen gaze, scanning the peeling paint, the rust on the piping and the filthy windows. All in all, it was a depressing place. Perhaps that was the point. Who would look for one of the past century’s leading research scientists in a place like this?

Bolan had seen the man called E. E. Ackroyd only once since he’d begun his stakeout. Ackroyd was in his late sixties, if Bolan was any judge, but still fairly spry. He dressed like a stereotypical retiree and seemed to spend his days smoking, drinking and reading. At one time, he’d been one of the country’s leading microbiologists and could have easily won a Nobel Prize if his research hadn’t been part of some hush-hush, black-bag Cold War shenanigans. Or so Brognola had intimated.

Regardless, if his current residence was any indication, Ackroyd seemed to have fallen on hard times, and they were only going to get harder. Someone had set their sights on Ackroyd and targeted him for a snatch and grab. Sadly, who was behind it and why it was planned hadn’t been as easy to determine.

The big Fed had sounded worried on the phone. That wasn’t unusual; while Hal Brognola was one of the most unflappable men Bolan had ever met, he was also a man burdened by a weight of responsibility that would have crushed Atlas. Bolan wouldn’t trade places with his old ally for anything in the world. Brognola fought on fields far removed from Bolan’s experience, waging quiet wars in the back rooms of the Wonderland on the Potomac, his only weapons words and favors and influence.

Beneath his mask of grime and stubble, the Executioner smiled thinly. Brognola had been one of his most tenacious opponents once upon a time, in charge of the task force assigned to bring the Executioner to heel. Now they were brothers-in-arms. War makes for strange bedfellows, Bolan mused, especially a war like ours. His smile faded.

Brognola had been worried, but not for the usual reasons. There was something stirring, according to certain back-channel sources. There were ripples spreading in the ocean of information that the world’s intelligence agencies trawled, but they weren’t being caused by the usual suspects. Brognola wasn’t a man to sit on such a warning, and neither was Bolan. The information was too ephemeral for any organization or group to act on—even Brognola’s Sensitive Operations Group—but the Executioner could do as he damn well pleased. Bolan had haunted the motel like a ragged ghost for three days. He knew that Ackroyd paid by the week and had been there for a number of years. If Ackroyd was hiding from someone, he’d been doing it for a while. Most of the rooms in the motel were empty, and those that weren’t were occupied by nervous transients, drunken tourists, illegal immigrants, meth addicts and a transsexual prostitute named Sheena. Gunshots weren’t exactly background noise in this part of Reno but the police weren’t likely to be called with any alacrity, which meant he could do what he needed to do without fear of being interrupted. Bolan hoped for Brognola’s sake that it wouldn’t be too messy.

That hope died when a black SUV pulled into the parking lot. The men who got out were hard cases. Bolan could tell by the way they moved and the set of their faces and the telltale bulges beneath their off-the-rack sport coats. White, middle-aged, trained muscle, rather than the gym-rat variety. They wore muted colors and dressed business casual. They could have been salesmen or FBI agents or hit men. Everything about them spoke of innocuous care—a chameleon-like desire to blend in to the pastel and stucco of the motel. They were nobody and no one, and that alone would have pricked Bolan’s curiosity. He knew, with a certainty born of grim experience, that he was going to have to kill at least one of them.

Their voices lost to the wheezing roar of a dozen air conditioners, the three men climbed the outside stairs of the motel. They moved with purpose, but without hurry. Why rush, when their prey didn’t know they were coming?

Bolan had asked Brognola why Ackroyd hadn’t been taken into protective custody at Stony Man, given that they knew someone wanted him. The answer had been callous in its simplicity. They needed to know who wanted Ackroyd as much as why. Moreover, Brognola wanted to know why Ackroyd, who knew what he knew, whatever it was, was allowed to live out his days in a flea-trap motel in Reno. So the old man was bait, and Bolan the hunter.

“Try to keep one of them breathing,” Brognola had said. Bolan had made no promises, but he knew the value of information. They were boxing shadows, and getting some light—any light—would be helpful. Bolan wasn’t a fan of situations like these—too much could go wrong. There was too much they didn’t know. But when the situation warranted it, Bolan had little problem dealing himself in.

Bolan stood, still clutching the bottle. He’d poured most of it over his clothes, but there was still enough remaining to slosh softly. Wobbling slightly, the Executioner stumbled in the direction of the stairs, his eyes on the trio as they ascended. They hadn’t noticed him yet.

Bolan stumbled up the stairs, moving with deceptive speed. They had stopped in front of a room on the third floor. Two men stood to either side of the door and the third knocked politely. When Ackroyd didn’t answer he knocked again, a bit more forcefully. By the time Bolan had reached the third level, the knocker had stepped back and was readying himself to give the door a kick. He paused when one of the men gestured to the Executioner.

Bolan took his cue and broke into song. He swung the bottle back and forth for emphasis and weaved toward them. The closest man intercepted him. “Be off with you,” he said tersely. His accent was harsh and Teutonic-sounding. German, possibly, Bolan mused. “Pitch him down the damn stairs,” the knocker barked. He was American, probably Nebraskan, Bolan thought. The German reached for him, apparently intent on following the orders.

Bolan staggered back, forcing the German to pursue him. When the man reached for him, Bolan flipped the bottle around with a quick twist of his wrist, grabbed it by its neck and brought it up and across the German’s skull. Contrary to every bar brawl seen on film, a good bottle rarely broke when you hit someone with it. But it did the job well enough.

The German toppled onto the Executioner, who caught him, shoved him aside and snatched the Beretta from his holster even as the German fell. Bolan fired. The member of the trio who hadn’t yet spoken pitched backward with a yell. The Nebraskan, caught flat-footed, clawed for his own weapon. “No,” Bolan said. A minute and a half had elapsed.

The Nebraskan’s hand froze. “Back away from the door,” Bolan said and jerked his chin for emphasis. He stepped over the unconscious German and drew close to the door. The man backed away, hands spread.

“Police?” the Nebraskan asked.

“Not quite,” Bolan said.

“We’ve got money,” the Nebraskan said, licking his lips.

“Small world, so do I,” Bolan replied. “I want information.”

The Nebraskan’s eyes went flat. He said nothing. Bolan gestured with the Beretta. “Downstairs. We’re going for a ride.”

“No,” the Nebraskan said harshly.

Bolan hesitated. He was a good judge of character. Some men could be pushed and threatened. Bolan himself was not one of them, but from the tone of the Nebraskan’s voice, it seemed he wasn’t, either. Or at least, he hadn’t reached the point where he could be...yet. That was a problem. They needed information, but the man before him wasn’t likely to provide it. And Bolan couldn’t leave him or let him go, not without knowing what was going on. The door opened. Ackroyd’s eyes widened as he took in the scene. His mouth was half-open, a cigarette dangling from his bottom lip. The Nebraskan threw himself at the old man. Before Bolan could take him out, a pistol snarled, biting into the wall of the motel. Plaster and Sheetrock spattered his cheek.

The man Bolan had shot moments earlier had pulled his piece. The front of his shirt was red and his eyes were unfocused, but even a dying man could be dangerous. He fired again and Bolan lunged to the side, his hip connecting painfully with the rail of the walkway. The Beretta spoke eloquently and the wounded man fell back, his weapon clattering to the ground.

Bolan turned. The Nebraskan stepped out of the room, holding Ackroyd in front of him. He had his weapon pressed against the old man’s head. The Nebraskan said nothing. He didn’t even glance at the dead man. He simply backed away, dragging Ackroyd with him. Bolan began to follow, the Beretta extended. “Stop,” the Nebraskan said, “or I’ll paint the wall with his brain.”

“I don’t think so,” Bolan said, without stopping. “I think you need him and his brain intact. That sound about right, Mr. Ackroyd?”

Ackroyd cleared his throat. He looked frightened, but he was controlling himself. Bolan’s estimation of Ackroyd climbed a few notches. “I—and I want to be clear about this—have no idea what’s going on,” the old man said, his voice rusty from years of drink and cigarettes.

“Quiet,” the Nebraskan said.

“You’re being kidnapped, Mr. Ackroyd. Do you have any idea why that might be happening?” Bolan asked calmly. Sweat stung his eyes, but he didn’t blink. He concentrated on the Nebraskan.

“Who’s asking?” Ackroyd said. The old man had guts. Bolan was impressed.

“The man who’s trying to keep you alive,” Bolan replied. The Nebraskan took another step back. Bolan took another step forward.

“I was told this place was safe,” Ackroyd said. “I was told I’d be left alone.”

“Somebody lied,” Bolan said, “or made a mistake.”

“Probably both,” Ackroyd agreed.

“Shut up,” the Nebraskan snapped. His grip on Ackroyd tightened. The old man winced as the Nebraskan’s arm flexed against his throat. He had pluck, but he was still on the wrong side of sixty, and hadn’t been keeping himself in shape.

“I can keep this up all day, friend,” Bolan said, a note of menace creeping into his voice. “Let him go.”

Something in the Nebraskan’s eyes made Bolan tense. A shadow crossed the ground in front of him. Big arms snapped tight around him like the jaws of a trap and he was jerked from his feet even as the air was squeezed out of his lungs. Bolan gasped. The German had recovered, and far more quickly than Bolan had anticipated. The Nebraskan had been drawing him out, giving his compatriot time to recover.

The German shook him, and Bolan lost his grip on the Beretta. “Go, Sparrow!” the German shouted as he squeezed Bolan hard enough to make his ribs creak. “Take the old man and go. I will handle this fool! Vril-YA!”

Bolan grunted and drove his head back, into the German’s face. He heard bone crunch and the grip on him loosened. Bolan slithered free and dropped to the ground. He twisted around and drove a hard blow into the German’s belly. The man gasped and staggered, but didn’t fall. His fists smashed down on Bolan’s head and shoulders like hammers. The Executioner lunged forward, tackling his opponent. They crashed against the wall.

The German was strong and he knew how to fight. But Bolan knew how to win. Two swift, savage strikes to the German’s kidneys made him gasp in agony. He responded with a knee to Bolan’s groin. The Executioner caught the blow and sank his fingers into the meat of the man’s knee, twisting savagely as he rammed his palm into a momentarily vulnerable windpipe. The German fell back against the wall, gagging. Bolan didn’t let him recover. He unleashed a rapid salvo of precise hammerblows to the man’s belly and sides.

The German stayed on his feet with a tenacity that was almost impressive. Wheezing, he lunged. His fingers clawed at Bolan’s face and throat, and the Executioner found himself forced back until his spine connected with the rail. Bolan shoved his arms up and swatted aside the German’s hands. The heel of Bolan’s palm struck his opponent’s already mangled nose, forcing fragments of splintered cartilage and bone up toward the man’s brain. Bolan spun as the German pitched backward with a gurgle.

The Nebraskan—Sparrow—hadn’t wasted any time. He’d dragged Ackroyd down the stairwell on the other side of the walkway and shoved the old man into the SUV. He was climbing in himself when he saw Bolan looking down at him. Sparrow cursed and raised his weapon. He fired, driving Bolan back from the rail. The SUV’s engine growled to life and gravel crunched beneath its tires. Bolan sprang to his feet, caught the rail and swung his legs over. He dropped onto the SUV as it backed out of its parking spot, the force of impact radiating upward through the soles of his boots to his skull. Unprepared, he was flung off his feet as Sparrow twisted the wheel, whipping the vehicle around. Bolan rolled off the roof and slid down the windshield, striking the hood. He scrambled desperately to keep from slipping off and falling beneath the vehicle’s wheels.

Then, in a squeal of rubber, the SUV cut a sharp turn and hurtled out of the parking lot, taking the Executioner with it.

Chapter 2

Anchorage, Alaska

Saul Mervin stubbed out his cigarette. On the television, the President was addressing Congress. Mervin looked at the digital timer on the television set that occupied one wall of his hotel room. Nevada was an hour ahead of Alaska, he recalled. That meant Sparrow’s call was only an hour late. He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to think. There could be many reasons for the delay.

Mervin was a spare man, lacking any excess flesh or muscle. He was a thing of narrow specifications, with a chin like a scoop and eyes the color of faded dollar bills. He lacked distinguishing features, the work of years and a careful attention to detail. No agency had his fingerprints or photos on file, and his DNA was sacrosanct.

Without opening his eyes, Mervin reached over and plucked a cigarette from the silver case on the nightstand, popped it between his thin lips and lit it with a cheap lighter. As soon as he’d arrived he’d pulled the smoke detector off the wall and opened a window. He needed nicotine more than warmth. The feeling of smoke slithering through his lungs helped him organize his thoughts.

If Sparrow were any other man, Mervin would suspect a distraction—a woman or an accident. But Sparrow was Sparrow. He was single-minded and utterly devoted to the Society. The others with him were equally dedicated, if not so single-minded. That left the possibility of interference. Mervin frowned. He had factored in sixteen possible points of interference for the Reno operation. Seventeen, if he counted betrayal. Immediately, he discarded the thought. Sparrow was Sparrow. He would continue with the mission regardless. The man was determined, if nothing else.

He mentally flicked through the remaining sixteen, weighing the variables and considering the likelihood of each. Interpol wasn’t likely—he had organized the Viennese operation specifically to distract them. The FBI was a leaky sieve; Mervin would have gotten word of their interference through the usual channels. On and on he went, rapidly considering, weighing and discarding the possibilities.

He had always possessed the ability to process and analyze with computer-like efficiency. Even as a child, numbers and calculations had proven no mystery to him. He saw the patterns that no one else could see. He saw the bigger picture. It was the only picture that mattered—his picture.

But now his plans were threatened. His cheek twitched and he inhaled carcinogens. Like a spider whose web was damaged, he could repair it, but only by acting quickly.

Someone knocked on the door. “It’s open, Kraft,” he called out. Only one person would bother to knock. The door opened to admit a heavy, long-limbed shape. Rolf Kraft was a big, dangerous-looking man, as befitted a former member of the Kommando Spezialkrafte. Kraft had been one of the best the German Special Forces had to offer. Now he was Mervin’s nursemaid.

Kraft’s nose wrinkled as he caught sight of the cigarette. With a grunt, he plucked it from between Mervin’s lips and stubbed it out. “You shouldn’t smoke. It’s bad for you,” he said. Kraft had barely the trace of an accent, making it easy for him to blend in in most Western countries. He spoke fluent English, French, German and Russian. And like Sparrow, he was utterly and completely dedicated to the aims and goals of the Society of Thylea.

Kraft had killed on behalf of the Society for a number of years. Academics, historians, explorers and government agents had died by his hands, or the hands of those he’d trained. He could pluck a fly from flight with a rifle, or plant an explosive device so cunningly that its presence would be overlooked, even in the aftermath. He also had little compunction about engaging in more close-up work; indeed, he preferred it. That preference had seen him drummed out of the Special Forces and into the waiting arms of the Society.

“Smoking helps me think,” Mervin said. His tone skirted petulance, and a flash of annoyance rippled across the surface of his amazing brain. Kraft could get under his skin simply by choosing the wrong moment to exhale.

“You think too much. Also bad for you,” Kraft said. Another flash of annoyance; Mervin looked at Kraft and calmed himself by calculating the six points of weakness by which Kraft could be disabled from their current relative positions.

“Probably, but that is why I am in charge,” Mervin said, sitting up. That was true, as far as it went. But he had no true authority. Kraft was the muscle, and if the muscle failed, not even the most efficient brain could make it work. He picked up another cigarette, caught sight of Kraft’s face and stuck it behind his ear. “Sparrow hasn’t called.”

Kraft’s face betrayed nothing, but his eyes slid to the satellite phone on the desk in the corner. “Interference,” he said. He knew the routine as well as Mervin did. Better, most likely, though he would never say so. Kraft’s loyalty was like iron. He appeared to regard Mervin as a sibling, someone to be protected or coddled. Whether that was due to the orders of their immediate superiors—who, Mervin knew, valued him—or because of some snag in Kraft’s emotional makeup, Mervin did not know, nor did he care.

“Possibly,” Mervin said. “We will act as if that is the case.” He pulled an old-fashioned pocket watch out of his coat pocket and opened it. It was his only memento, a gift from his mother. Or so he assumed. He had not known her well and barely recalled her voice. “We will give them an additional hour. If they haven’t called by then, we continue with the plan.” That, too, was part of the routine, a routine Mervin had spent years crafting. The servants of the Society of Thylea operated like well-oiled clockwork. If one gear slipped or was stripped, another took its place. Mervin appreciated clockwork. Besides nicotine, only the click of clockwork could soothe his mind when it skipped its track. The regular rhythm settled his heart rate and helped him slide his thoughts into their proper alignment.

“Without Ackroyd, it’s going to be difficult,” Kraft said. He scraped his palm across his freshly shaved chin, thinking. Mervin hated the sound flesh on stubble made. It grated on his nerves. He snapped the watch closed.

“But not impossible.”

“No,” Kraft agreed. He smiled. “Nothing is impossible for us. It will be a great day, the day after it is done. It will be a new era for the pure peoples, Vril-YA!”

“Yes, yes, Vril-YA,” Mervin agreed. He wished, sometimes, that he had Kraft’s devotion to the Promise of Tomorrow. But the ruthless, implacable logic that made Mervin useful to the Society also prevented him from fully buying into the Nazi bedtime story that had propelled them for almost a century.

Facts shifted in the Rolodex of his mind. Where Kraft was an engine of destruction, Mervin was an engine of calculation, and as such, he collected facts and fancies with a glutton’s instinctive frenzy. The Society had first flown the banners of Thylea in 1918, envisioning a hyperborean mega-continent of ice-sculpture citadels and pure-blooded Nordic giants linked to the Vril, the life-blood of the cosmos. A Jotunheim Utopia, where gods and giants were one and the same, that ruled over the past and future of the Aryan Race. The Society of Thylea had been founded on the principles of that nonexistent continent, and was ruthless in seeking to bring about their particular melanin-based Ragnarok. They longed to create the Aryan utopia only dreamt of by frantic xenophobes, believing that it would bring a sacred peace to the world.

It was all rot, of course. In Mervin’s opinion, there was no more truth to these tales than to the stories of the Bible or the Koran. Stories told to justify and rationalize a campaign of murder and obfuscation that had been going on for almost a hundred years. Men like Kraft clung to the stories of Thylea with brutal naiveté. But Mervin was a man of logic. He saw little need to waste energy on self-justification. Not when there were more important matters at hand.

In the aftermath of World War II, the Society of Thylea had gone underground, as had so many groups and persons with ties to the Nazis. Unlike those groups, however, the Society had money, and lots of it. Even today it had its financial supporters. And using the resources of those supporters, the Society had, for decades, hunted for weapons it could employ in its battle against the lesser races. It had sought to find the singular spear of destiny it could thrust into the heart of sub-humanity.

And, eventually, it had found something, in a place called HYPERBOREA.

It was pure poetry, that name. And a fair amount of serendipity, too.

Mervin was growing tired of the Society. More, he was growing tired of Kraft. He looked at the big man, his expression bland, imagining Kraft broken, bloody and dead. There was no particular reason for his enmity. It was simply his nature. Familiarity bred contempt. He was good at hiding it, he thought. If any of them suspected, they said nothing.

“Are the others ready?” he asked.

Kraft frowned. “If not, I’ll have their hides.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

Kraft grinned. “So precise,” he said. “Yes, they are ready. The charter plane has been booked. We will deal with the pilot on the day, given that we don’t need her.” He made a face. “She is a native. Likely a bad pilot, anyway.”

“Given the reviews of her business, I doubt that,” Mervin said. He sighed as he caught Kraft’s deepening frown. “A bad pilot is statistically unlikely to care for his plane, or to have a reputation that guarantees noninterference. Neither of those things would be of help to us. I chose the best pilot available. Ergo, she is a good pilot.”

“I meant no insult,” Kraft said, smiling slightly. He patted Mervin’s shoulder. “And what if Sparrow calls?”

“Then we follow through with the current plan. We will meet the others at the airport and escort Dr. Ackroyd to the charter plane. You will dispose of the pilot in front of Ackroyd, as an object lesson, and then we will go to meet our destiny.”

“Object lesson, eh?”

“Waste not, want not,” Mervin said. Kraft laughed heartily. Mervin hated that laugh.

The Society thought HYPERBOREA would mean a new beginning.

And for Saul Mervin, it would.

Chapter 3

Reno, Nevada

Bolan’s fingers scrabbled at the hood of the SUV as he fought to hold on. The vibration of the engine thrummed through him and he felt as if his teeth might rattle loose from his jaw. Horns blared as the vehicle bulled through traffic, weaving back and forth across the median as it roared toward Reno’s commercial district. Bolan hooked his feet into the front grille and tried to shove himself up, but the SUV was simply moving too fast and his own weight was acting against him. He grabbed for the hood ornament and it snapped away in his hand. His arms and legs ached with tension and he knew it was only a matter of time until he lost his grip or was dislodged from his perch by a speed bump.

Traffic whipped around the Executioner in a blur of lights and sounds. The SUV jerked to the side and, caught by surprise, Bolan half swung off the front end, cursing, before he crashed back against the vehicle and regained his grip. He had to get off the SUV and soon. He could make out the thin squeal of distant sirens. The police weren’t far behind. The way Sparrow was driving, he wouldn’t be able to avoid their notice. Maybe he didn’t intend to. Bolan met Sparrow’s furious gaze through the cracked windshield. The kidnapper wasn’t happy about his stowaway. Bolan wasn’t exactly enthused himself. If he’d been thinking more clearly, he’d have let Sparrow go and simply followed. But there hadn’t been time to think. He’d been determined to bring down the last of the kidnappers, and now he was clinging to the front of an erratically driven SUV. If Bolan had his KA-BAR combat knife, he might’ve been able to punch a hole in the radiator, but as it was, he was at the mercy of gravity and physics and unless he acted—and soon—he was going to suffer the same fate as every unlucky insect ever to strike a windshield.

The SUV began to weave again. A four-door sedan was brushed aside in a scream of crumpled metal and shattered glass. Bolan hunched forward. The SUV drifted to the side and Bolan realized that Sparrow was trying to scrape him off. Twisting his head, he saw that they were approaching the Virginia Street Bridge. That would have to be his stop. Bolan felt a twinge of regret at having to leave Ackroyd in the hands of his captor, but there was nothing for it. He wouldn’t do Ackroyd much good smeared across downtown Reno. I won’t do anyone much good that way, he thought grimly. Too much was depending on him.

With a grunt of effort, Bolan began to make his way down the grille. Grit thrown up by the wheels stung his eyes and face. His shoulders and hips burned. Moving carefully, the Executioner lowered himself between the front wheels of the SUV. He was only going to get one shot at getting off this ride. Luckily, he’d been in similar situations before. He wedged his lean frame between the wheels and hooked his feet around the rear axle. Clutching the bottom of the SUV’s frame, Bolan began working himself toward the back of the speeding vehicle, his body mere inches from the street. Exhaust filled his mouth and lungs. His muscles were screaming by the time he reached the back end of the vehicle.

The SUV bumped as it drove onto the bridge. Bolan nearly lost his grip and he felt something in his shoulder pop. His legs struck the street and for a moment he was being dragged behind the SUV on his back. The road seemed to rise up to meet him like a hungry predator, and the hard, hot surface kissed his back. His shirt and pullover were shredded and his body armor seemed to provide no protection at all. With a hiss of pain, he flipped himself around. The throbbing in his shoulder grew and was joined by a dull ache between his shoulder blades. His eyes found the license tag and, acting on impulse, he reached out and hooked it with his fingers. He tore it free with a single, sharp jerk and then, after checking behind him for oncoming traffic, let go.

Bolan curled into a ball as he rolled across the bridge, tucking in his arms and legs. He struck the rail, hard, and all of the air whooshed out of his lungs as he uncoiled. He still held the SUV’s tag. Bolan grabbed the side of the bridge and hauled himself to his feet. Pain sparks burst and spun across his eyes and he felt like a water-balloon punctured by a stick. The bridge was two lanes wide, coming and going. The Truckee River was a placid, dark mirror running beneath it. Bolan spat blood. His lip was mashed and torn, and his body was bruised up one side and down the other. He’d made it off in one piece, but just barely. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of blue lights. He needed to move, and fast.

Ignoring his protesting muscles, and clutching the license tag, the Executioner grabbed the wrought iron railing that lined the bridge and jumped over it. He hit the water feet first, crossing his arms over his chest. The water wasn’t deep, but it was enough to cushion his landing. As he surfaced, he saw a low, ornate rock wall that lined the opposite bank. Above, on the bridge, horns honked and sirens wailed. The police were in pursuit, but it was too much to hope that they’d catch Sparrow. Spitting water, he headed for the rock wall.

It took him an hour to get back to his designated Reno safe house; it was a rare taxi that wanted to pick up a bedraggled, sopping-wet bum, much less one that was bleeding. When he’d finally caught one, it was already late afternoon.

The safe house—located in the Chisholm Trailer Park—was one of several Bolan had scattered over the state of Nevada. During his war against the Mafia, Bolan had been to Nevada more than once, hunting his prey through the neon jungles of Las Vegas and Reno. Bolan didn’t use this safe house much these days. It was registered under the name of Frank LaMancha, an old alias he used when posing as a Black Ace.

The mobile home was a Spartan affair—a rumpled bed, an unplugged fridge and, of course, the armory. After closing the door and pulling the blinds, he carefully moved the bed aside, folded up the carpet and opened the hidden hatch built into the floor. Inside was his gear from an earlier operation. Fatigues, a second set of body armor, web gear, the UMP and spare ammunition, his combat knife and a backup pistol. He extracted the Desert Eagle and checked the magazine. He wasn’t happy about losing the Beretta, but the motel was likely already a crime scene. It would end up in an evidence locker somewhere, unclaimed and forgotten. He could get another easily enough, but like all craftsmen, Bolan hated to lose a proven tool.

In truth, however, he preferred the Desert Eagle. For sheer stopping power, that particular gas-operated, semi-automatic pistol was hard to beat. It could quickly be converted to fire a wide range of ammunition, from .44 to .357 Magnum calibers.

He put the pistol aside and set about peeling off his stinking clothes. He grimaced as he took off the light armored vest he’d been wearing beneath his thrift store secondhands. The material had been scraped from the metal and the vest looked like it had lost a fight with a bobcat. He tossed it into the hatch and went to take a shower. Bolan spent longer under the thin spray of lukewarm water than he’d intended. The water stung the abrasions that marked his body, making him wince. But the pain helped him to organize his thoughts. The Executioner’s ability to observe and recall, even without consciously intending to do so, was second to none.

The kidnappers’ weapons had been store bought. That meant they weren’t working for the government, under contract or otherwise. Professionals picked up weapons wherever their target was, usually from a previously established contact. The clothes had been newly purchased, as well. They were off-the-rack—from a department store.

Everything about the men he’d fought screamed disposable—their clothes, weapons and transportation; all of it was cheap and easy to replace. Even their lives. The German had willingly sacrificed himself so that the Nebraskan—Sparrow—could escape with Ackroyd. That spoke to either personal loyalty or fanaticism. What had the German yelled as he’d attacked? Vril-YA... What did that mean? The phrase was somehow familiar.

He stepped out of the shower, dried off and wrapped the towel around his waist. Then, sitting on the edge of his bed, he used his satellite phone to make contact with Stony Man Farm.

Brognola answered after the first ring. Bolan smiled slightly, imagining the big Fed fretting near the phone. “Striker—what the hell happened?” Brognola asked. “It’s all over the local news—the shoot-out, the SUV, all of it.”

“I got careless,” Bolan said and his smile faded. That wasn’t strictly true, but he saw little reason to sugarcoat the failure.

Brognola snorted. “Bull. They just got lucky. It happens to the best of us, once in a while. What about Ackroyd?”

“They got him. Well—he got him. There was only one kidnapper left. We went for a bit of a drive and then I went for a quick swim. I don’t think they’re planning to kill him, though. Not after what they went through to get him,” Bolan said. He bent and picked up the license tag. “I have something that might be of use.” He rattled off the plate number. “I got it off the SUV they were using. It’s probably a rental, or stolen, but I’m betting on the former. I’m also betting that address is wherever they’re forting up. If you can find an address...”

“I can do better than that,” Brognola said. “I can pinpoint where they are and send backup. Lyons and Able Team—”

“No time for that,” Bolan said. “Just get me that address. I’ll handle it from there.”

“Striker—”

“Address,” Bolan said, cutting him short. “You dealt me in, don’t complain about how I play my hand. If I need help, I’ll call. You know that.”

“I know, Striker.” Brognola sounded tired. “Address in ten.”

“While we’re waiting, let me talk to Aaron,” Bolan said. Aaron Kurtzman was Stony Man’s burly computer expert. Brognola did as Bolan requested.

“Striker, you’re missing one excellent pot of coffee today,” Kurtzman said, and the phone vibrated with the sound of his subsequent slurp. Bolan winced at the thought of Kurtzman’s particular concept of coffee. Swill was a more accurate term, in Bolan’s opinion. It was a gut check to even get past the first mouthful.

“Sounds heavenly,” Bolan said. “Have you ever heard the phrase Vril-YA before?”

“Vril-YA, huh,” Kurtzman said, sounding amused. “Bulwer-Lytton replaced Cervantes as your favorite wordslinger?”

“Bulwer-Lytton,” Bolan said. Suddenly, it clicked. “Edward Bulwer-Lytton. I knew I’d heard that somewhere before.” An English author, Bulwer-Lytton had written a novel called The Coming Race, in 1871. The book was about a subterranean master race and their deadly energy weapon and had been one of the most badly written pieces of tripe Bolan had ever laid eyes on. “I need you to cross-reference that book with any sort of organization. Specifically ones that might want to kidnap a man like E. E. Ackroyd.”

“Seriously?” Kurtzman asked, his tone edged with disbelief.

“Have you ever known me not to be serious?” Bolan asked.

Brognola came back on the line. It had taken him less than ten minutes to roust his contacts for the address tied to the license plate. As Bolan had suspected, it was a rental. “We’re back-tracing the credit card that was used to rent it,” Brognola said. “It’s probably a fraudulent account, but we’ll put a trace on it, just in case they use it again.” He gave Bolan the address and added, “Are you sure you don’t want to wait for backup? According to the Reno PD, your playmate used that SUV to bull through a barricade. He nearly ran down several officers and ditched it in a parking garage.”

“Someone picked him up,” Bolan said. It wasn’t a question.

“Which means it wasn’t just those three,” Brognola said. “You’re looking at multiple hostiles who’ve already shown they don’t particularly care about starting a public ruckus.”

“Then the sooner they’re taken off the board, the better,” Bolan said firmly.

Brognola sighed. “Be careful, Striker.”

“Always am,” Bolan said and hung up.

Satisfied, he tossed the phone onto the bed. Then, without hurry, he began to dress for the battle to come.

Chapter 4

Sparrow stared at the phone as if it were a snake preparing to strike. He gnawed his bottom lip. Mervin wasn’t going to like hearing that his meticulously crafted plans had fallen through. At least Kraft was safely in Anchorage with the psychotic little android and not anywhere close enough to wring Sparrow’s neck.

To say that things had not gone well was an understatement. No one should have known about Ackroyd, save themselves. But someone had been there, and that someone had made quite an impression. Indeed, thanks to the nameless antagonist’s interference, Sparrow had almost been caught by the Reno police before he’d managed to abandon the SUV and meet with the others. He hoped that their unknown attacker—Ackroyd had sworn he didn’t recognize the man—was now just a greasy spot on the street.

Luckily, the license tag for the SUV had vanished during the chase. That meant they had some time before the police tracked the vehicle to the rental agency and then traced the credit card they’d used. The card would lead the authorities back here—to the SunCo warehouse they were using as a base—and to the company itself, one of a dozen Society fronts in the greater United States.

Mervin had assured Sparrow that even if the authorities discovered the credit card and the identities attached to it, they could always burn the warehouse. To Mervin’s way of thinking, most things could be solved by the proper application of bullets and/or gasoline. He was a straight-ahead thinker, Mervin.

It was all about speed with him, a speed and precision that escaped most of the soldiers the Society employed. Mervin was inhuman, and so was Kraft, come to think of it, but those who followed Mervin’s orders were only too mortal, Sparrow reflected sourly, and he included himself in that estimation.

Sparrow had joined the Society of Thylea as a young man. His father had been a member, and his father’s father. It was a tradition, and a good one, since the Society offered more than any church or political movement. It wasn’t just talk. The Society was determined to bring back the age of titans, free of the shackles imposed by lesser, weaker races.

Sparrow deeply, desperately wanted to be a hero. And he would be, if they succeeded. He and the others would be the heroes of a new age, venerated and immortalized in song and film. He comforted himself with the thought of what was to come.

“It’s not going to get better, the longer you hesitate,” Alexi said, leaning against the office door. “Just call him.”

Sparrow looked at Alexi and frowned. The big Russian was a bottle blond, with a face like a mattock and shoulders like a stretched coat hanger. There was more Eurasian in him than the Society normally liked, but between the hair dye and his ability to recite the Volsunga Saga, people made allowances. He’d been a member of some Moscow-based Neo-Nazi group before he’d joined the Society, and the tattoos that covered his arms told a story as brutal as any old Aryan saga.

Behind Alexi, out in the warehouse proper, Sparrow could see the others. They were packing up their gear and preparing for the exodus to come. Counting Alexi and himself, there were only eight men. There had been ten, but their mysterious attacker had seen to Horst and Bridges. Sparrow felt a flicker of guilt for abandoning Horst. The big German had been right, of course. The mission was the only important thing. Their lives meant nothing next to the resurrection of Thylea. Still, it nagged at him. He’d left a fellow paladin—a fellow servant of the holy cause—to die by an assassin’s hand. No man blamed him, but Sparrow still felt slightly sick thinking of it.

“Maybe you should call him,” Sparrow said acidly.

Alexi made shooing motions with his big, scarred hands. “Oh, no, you are in charge, my friend. Man in charge calls the Tick-Tock Man. Those are the rules.”

“Don’t call him that,” Sparrow said.

“Why? He isn’t here. He wouldn’t care even if he was.” Alexi shrugged. “He is—ah—‘tick tock,’ yes? Crazy,” he said.

Sparrow couldn’t argue. Mervin was crazy. Not crazy violent or crazy fanatical, but crazy all the same. At some point, Saul Mervin’s clockwork had sprung its track and now he bobbed along like a crippled toy. He wasn’t a person anymore, but a machine. An abacus with a two-pack-a-day habit.

Nonetheless, the Sun-Koh—ruling body of the Society of Thylea—had entrusted many of their operations to Mervin. It was through Mervin that their will was directed and accomplished. The Tick-Tock Man, as Alexi called him, was the Sword of Thylea, and his word was law. It was through him that the Coming World would be revealed. That was why they had come to Reno, in pursuit of the old man. That was why they had been searching for any word of HYPERBOREA, which Sparrow had been half convinced was just a myth concocted by conspiracy theorists.

But Mervin had believed. And now they had found it—the spear they would thrust into the belly of the fallen world, to spill an ocean of blood from which a new, stronger world would be born.

Nonetheless, Mervin was, as Alexi had so eloquently stated, crazy.

“Yes, Alexi, he’s crazy. Hence my hesitation,” Sparrow grunted. He expelled a shaky breath. Someone had to make a status report. And unfortunately, that someone was him. “Fine, give me the office.”

Alexi nodded and stepped out, closing the door behind him. Sparrow cursed softly and picked up the phone. Mervin answered on the first ring. Sparrow shivered, imagining Mervin’s pale eyes staring at the phone, waiting for it to ring. It really was like waiting for a snake to strike. “We got him,” he said.

“You’re late,” Mervin replied. His voice was a hollow chirp, high-pitched and mechanical, but not amusing. It stung Sparrow’s ears and pride.

“There was interference.”

“Inconsequential,” Mervin said.

“Decidedly not,” Sparrow answered. “Horst and Bridges are dead. Someone was watching Ackroyd—a bodyguard, maybe. Or someone’s rumbled us.”

“Inconceivable,” Mervin said. Then, “Describe them.”

“Him,” Sparrow corrected. “Just one man. He was lethal, fast, effective. Dressed like a bum, but moved like—well, like Kraft.”

“Identity?” Mervin asked. That was how he spoke to everyone who wasn’t Kraft—terse, wasting no words. With Kraft, he was practically loquacious. Sometimes Sparrow pitied Kraft.

“No clue—he didn’t identify himself. He just did his level best to kill us.”

Mervin was silent for a long moment. Then, “But you have Ackroyd?”

“I do.”

“Satisfactory. I wish to speak to him.”

Sparrow let out a slow breath. He put the phone down and called out, “Alexi? Send the old man in.”

The door opened and Ackroyd stumbled through, thanks to a none-too-gentle shove from the Russian. Ackroyd cursed and turned, but Sparrow caught him by the scruff of the neck and shoved him toward a chair. “Someone wants to talk to you, Doctor. Give him all due attention, if you value your fingers,” he snapped, switching the phone to speaker. Ackroyd was proving to be a less-than-docile victim. In fact, the old man had a mouth like a sailor and was steadily, if slowly, tap-dancing on Sparrow’s last nerve.

Ackroyd gave Sparrow a rheumy glare.

“Dr. Ackroyd,” Mervin said. Ackroyd’s glare transferred to the phone.

“I know who I am. Who the blazes are you?”

“I am no one, Dr. Ackroyd. I am a cog in a machine, even as you are.” Mervin rattled off an address. It meant nothing to Sparrow, but Ackroyd’s eyes widened. The old man slumped back in his chair, his face suddenly pale. For a moment, Sparrow feared he might be having a heart attack. “Do you recognize that address, Dr. Ackroyd?” Mervin asked.

“Yes,” Ackroyd said, closing his eyes. He rubbed his face with his hands.

“What is that address, Dr. Ackroyd?”

“How did you get it?” Ackroyd countered.

“Inconsequential. What is that address, Dr. Ackroyd?”

Ackroyd licked his lips. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he convulsively swallowed. “My granddaughter,” he said softly.

“Correct. It is the address of your granddaughter and her family, including your great-grandchildren. They do not know who you are. But you, via your remaining governmental contacts, know who they are. You watch them. You protect them by pretending to be dead. Now you will protect them by telling me what I want to know.”

“HYPERBOREA,” Ackroyd croaked.

“You have anticipated me, yes. HYPERBOREA, Dr. Ackroyd. I require your expertise regarding that installation and what it contains.” Sparrow thought Mervin sounded almost cheerful.

“If you know about it, you already know what it is,” Ackroyd said. Something in his voice gave Sparrow a slight chill. Ackroyd had the look of a man hang-gliding over hell.

“Yes,” Mervin said.

“You know it can’t be used for anything.”

“Incorrect,” Mervin said. “Its use is manifold. Especially for the organization we represent. In any event, your opinions are superfluous. All we require from you is your presence. You will help us enter HYPERBOREA, Dr. Ackroyd.”

“Why me?” Ackroyd asked.

“You are the only member of the project still breathing,” Mervin replied. “The others have passed on through a variety of ailments, accidents and simple age-related entropy. You are the last man standing, Dr. Ackroyd.”

“Just my luck,” Ackroyd muttered.

“Luck is hokum. Luck is for the weak-minded. You will help us, Dr. Ackroyd. You will play ball, or your family will be butchered in their beds.”

“And after I help you?”

“You will die. But your family will live, unaware and unharmed.” Mervin’s voice was flat.

Ackroyd stared at the phone. In that moment, Sparrow almost felt sorry for him. The old man had probably suspected he was living on borrowed time. In his place, Sparrow certainly would have. But to hear it stated so flatly, so baldly, was like a kick to the gut. Idly, he wondered whether Mervin did it on purpose. Maybe the abacus had a sadistic streak beneath the logic.

“Fine,” Ackroyd said.

“Good. You may leave. I wish to talk to Mr. Sparrow now.”

Sparrow gestured and Alexi stepped in, hooked the old man’s arm and jerked him to his feet. Once Sparrow had watched them go he said, “He’s gone.”

“You have the tickets?”

Annoyed, Sparrow bit back a retort. “Yes,” he said. “What’ll I do about Horst and Bridges? Their bodies...”

“They are dead and in no position to complain. Forget them. All that matters is getting Ackroyd to Anchorage on schedule. Can you do that, Mr. Sparrow?”

“Of course,” Sparrow said, harsher than he’d intended.

“Good. I would hate to see you meet the same fate as Horst and Bridges.”

Sparrow licked his lips, suddenly nervous, and asked, “What—ah—what about the interference?”

“What about him? If he tries again, kill him. If not, then it does not matter. All that matters is getting Ackroyd to Anchorage, Mr. Sparrow. That is all you should be concerned with.” There was a click. Sparrow stared at the phone for a moment.

“Vril-YA, motherfucker,” he grunted.

Chapter 5

The warehouse sat just outside the central business district of Reno. It was surrounded by several blocks of nothing in particular save more warehouses. Being a Sunday, those warehouses were empty and the surrounding area was quiet. From the Executioner’s point of view, that was perfect. No one around meant little in the way of potential collateral damage. He hefted the Heckler & Koch and examined it one last time. Such meticulous attention to his equipment had saved his life on more than one occasion.

The address Brognola had run down was gold. Bolan’s opponents were either lazy and overconfident, or they didn’t plan on staying long after grabbing Ackroyd. The warehouse was registered to SunCo Industries. Bolan had never heard of it. Nonetheless, as he examined the warehouse from the roof of its closest neighbor, he wondered if the address had been chosen at random, or whether there was a connection between these men and where they’d chosen to fort up. But that was a consideration for another time. Better to concentrate on the matter at hand.

A quick scouting foray had revealed a number of cars parked behind the warehouse. Bolan had efficiently disabled all of the vehicles, removing spark plugs or puncturing tires. After that, it had been a simple matter to break into a nearby warehouse and get up to the roof via the HVAC access hatch. Bolan looked up at the sky. It was getting dark, or as dark as it got in Reno.

The Executioner let the UMP dangle from its sling and hefted his Plumett AL-52. The air-launcher was capable of throwing a grappling hook attached to a rope around one hundred meters. Taking aim, he fired. The Plumett gave a soft pop, and the grappling hook sailed over the gap between the two warehouses. The hooks dug into the opposite roof. Bolan gave the rope an experimental tug and then set the Plumett down on its weighted stand. The line would bear his weight long enough for him to get across the gap.

Bolan gripped the line with his gloved hands and swung off the warehouse roof, quickly interlacing his ankles over the rope. He hung suspended over the gap, his back to the ground, his face pointed at the sky. Then, hand over hand, he pulled himself toward his destination.

When Bolan was halfway across, he heard the squeal of hinges from below. He froze, risking a swift, upside-down glance at the ground. A shape moved out of a side door and stepped into the alley between the two warehouses. Bolan’s keen gaze caught a spark of light and he smelled the tang of a newly lit cigarette. He waited for a moment. Then, certain the figure below wasn’t looking up, Bolan continued to pull himself across the line. When he reached the edge of the roof, he hauled himself over and dropped to his feet, UMP ready. Satisfied that his arrival hadn’t been noticed, Bolan located the access hatch and entered the warehouse.

Lowering himself onto the gantry, he scanned the warehouse below. Bolan was well above the fluorescent lights that illuminated the mostly empty building. He could see a delivery truck at the loading dock and the serpentine coil of a conveyer belt that stretched across the interior of the building from one set of loading docks to the other. A few picnic tables and benches were off to the side, near a pair of soda machines and an office. Several men sat or stood nearby, including Ackroyd, who was steadily adding to a small pyramid of smoked-down and stubbed-out cigarette butts on the concrete floor between his feet. Ackroyd looked frightened. Bolan couldn’t blame him.

The men were a hard-looking lot. All white, all dressed like tourists... But tourists didn’t carry AR-15s and what appeared to be SIG-Pro semi-automatic pistols. There were six of them. Seven, if he counted the one who’d gone outside. Carefully, Bolan picked his way across the gantry, trying to get a view of the office. He could hear a raised voice coming from within.

Bolan set the UMP on the gantry rail, bracing it. Then he slowly unclipped several smoke grenades and two M84 stun grenades and set them down beside him, in a line. Five grenades would help to even the odds, if used correctly. But his targets were too clumped together. Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem, but Ackroyd was in the line of fire. Bolan needed to separate Ackroyd from his watchdogs. The Executioner swept his gaze across the warehouse, hunting. When he found what he was looking for, he crouch-walked across the gantry and removed one of a trio of throwing knives sheathed on his combat harness.

The flat, balanced blades were heavy enough not to result in bounce-back, but light enough that a man of Bolan’s strength could send them hurtling a great distance. The knives had been crafted by Stony Man’s own weaponsmith, John “Cowboy” Kissinger, according to Bolan’s specifications. While Bolan preferred his KA-BAR combat knife, there were times the lighter knives came in handy.

He took aim at the control panel for the conveyor belt. Then, with a whip-crack motion of one arm, the Executioner sent the blade spinning at the panel. It struck a wide button and with a grinding squeal, the conveyer belt rumbled into motion. Bolan quickly made his way back to his grenades. He stuck earplugs into his ears and placed a mouth guard between his teeth. Then he pulled a pair of tinted safety glasses from a pocket and put them on. Between the plugs and the glasses, he would be protected from his own handiwork.

Down below, the sudden activation of the conveyer had startled Ackroyd’s guards into motion. Sparrow peered out of the office, a cell phone in one hand. The three men who headed for the belt held their weapons loosely. An overconfident bunch, they clearly weren’t expecting an attack. Bolan clucked his tongue and gently lobbed a smoke grenade at the far-loading dock. Pulling the pin on a second, he dropped it from the gantry onto the moving conveyer belt. A second later, he sent the last wobbling through the air straight for the picnic tables. Then, snatching up the stun grenades in one hand, he dropped from the gantry to the top of the conveyer belt. He landed hard and bent his knees, propelling himself forward onto his belly. Lying flat, Bolan slid down the incline of the conveyer belt as the warehouse filled with smoke.

It was a risky maneuver, but it was the best one available to him. As the old maxim said, “when in doubt, attack.”

Bolan rode the belt between the two spreading clouds of smoke, his UMP at the ready. As he caught sight of the confused guards hurrying away from the picnic tables, he popped the pin on one of the M84s and sent the bomb hurtling at the small group.

The stun grenade emitted a blinding flash and a bang of 170 decibels—loud enough to cause temporary deafness and ringing in the ears. Despite his safety glasses, Bolan kept his eyes shut and covered his ears as the grenade went off. He didn’t open them until he’d rolled off the conveyer belt and hit the floor. Bolan raised his UMP as he came to his feet. He let off a short burst and the three men did a deathly jitterbug as the rounds shredded their bodies. Bolan spun toward the picnic tables and let off another burst, taking out a fourth gunman, who’d been running forward when the grenade had gone off.

Slowly, the Executioner stalked through the warehouse. The stun grenade should have flattened everyone, or at least disorientated them. A shape staggered through the smoke, clutching a rifle. Bolan waited for it to draw closer. One of the guards, coughing, obviously deafened. He stared blurrily at Bolan, and comprehension crept sluggishly into his gaze. He began to raise his weapon and Bolan put him down.

He stepped over the body and headed for Ackroyd, who was crouching beneath one of the picnic tables. Nearby, a gunman had flipped over another table and was using it as cover. When he caught sight of Bolan, he let loose a burst from his AR-15. Bolan reacted with almost-feline agility, darting to the side as bullets chewed the concrete floor. He twisted midsprint, spraying the overturned table. As he did so, he saw Ackroyd mouth something. The old man’s eyes were wide and full of warning.

More shots cut toward him from the other side of the building, and Bolan saw the seventh man crouched behind the conveyer belt. He’d obviously heard the gunfire and cut his smoke break short. The Executioner thumbed the pin out of the remaining M84 and sent the grenade sailing right at the seventh man with an underhand lob. Bolan threw himself flat. The stun grenade went off with a burst of pyrotechnics, igniting the gasoline fumes on the loading dock and triggering a fiery explosion.

The seventh man disintegrated in the blast and Bolan was sent skidding across the floor. The UMP clattered from his grip as he rolled across the concrete with bone-bruising velocity. His back smashed against one of the soda machines and it fell on top of him, pinning him to the floor. A moment later, the second toppled across the first and the ember of pain that had begun to flicker in the back of Bolan’s skull exploded into blazing incandescence. Fire alarms began to blare and somewhere above, the warehouse’s sprinkler system activated. Water splashed down in sheets, stinging Bolan’s eyes and face. Black, oily smoke mingled with the lighter variety from the M84s and Bolan began to cough. He shoved at one of the pop machines, trying to shift it. It rocked slightly, and the pressure on his legs eased. If he could raise it high enough, he might be able to slide his legs out. A sound caused Bolan to look up from his exertions.

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